Dogs and Stress

Let's get down to brass tacks here. Truth be told, I merely tolerate most people on my very best days. Somehow, my dog has always calmed me and helped me to be at least more patient, if not friendly.

Without him, I am a jerk.

Since he passed last week, I'm finding it harder and harder to deal with life's little tasks. I had no idea how much Dee Oh Jee really did reduce my stress levels.

I am a normally high stress/worrier anyways. I stress over money, my kids, what my boyfriend thinks of me, work, cleaning the house, why friends don't call, that weird mole on my back... You name it.

I am a Libra, which means I have the capacity to think something to death, then start over and think about it again. Once a negative thought pops into my head, no matter how warranted it may or may not be, I can't unthink it. Sometimes I think I'm crazy because I can't get thoughts out of my head. It's hard to let go.

Knowing this, I try really hard to just get past it and not say a word about it to anyone. No point in starting some crazy situation over some trick my brain is playing.

Since the loss of my pet, however, I have found the negative thoughts getting louder and more frequent. I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut and am hurting people that I care about over stupid tricks that my mind is playing. I can't seem to control it.

So, you may ask... why not just get another dog? Problem solved, right?

Because I don't want another dog. My last one was irreplaceable. He understood me. We had a long history. Cancer, my divorce, depression, moving over state lines, camping & hiking, car rides....

Any other animal would be just that. Something else. Can you just replace a friend with another person? Of course not. Same with dogs.

Somehow, I am going to have to learn to deal with life on my own. I need to figure out this whole tolerance thing without his help. I haven't got a plan for that yet. Meanwhile, I may need to duct tape my mouth shut in public, and lock me in the bathroom like a bad pet while at home.

The worst part... other than this blog, I have no one to talk to. To everyone else in the world, it was "just a dog," so they think I should be ok by now. People close to me just expect me to resume life as usual. My boyfriend is tired of hearing about it. He hasn't said as much, but you know how people act.

So here I am. In my hateful little bubble with a black cloud floating over my head. Alone. Without my best friend. Heartbroken and angry....

RIP Dee Oh Jee

I had to put my beautiful dog to sleep the other night. He had cancer, and he was at the point where they couldn't save him.

I am heartbroken. I'm learning how nearly every aspect of my day at the house revolved around him. Getting out of bed to let him out in the mornings, I am careful of where I step, so I don't step on him.... and then realize he is no longer there.
Leaving for work, we close the bedroom door, move the blanket off the couch, make sure there is food and water for him, and open the door to let him outside.... all without even thinking about it.
I walk into the kitchen and glance down, expecting him to be there with his big brown eyes, floppy lopsided ears up, and an expectant look on his face.... but he isn't there.

I feel hollow, empty inside.

He was 12 years old, and was my best friend.
He listened intently and hung on my every word no matter what was happening in my life.
He let me hug him close when I had a bad day, never minding if my tears landed on his soft fur, letting me plant kisses right between his eyes.
He followed me around the house like a shadow, and nudged the bathroom door open to make sure the hair dryer never won our morning battle.
He snuggled when I didn't feel well, barked for treats when I was too slow, and played mediator when people got too noisy in the house.
He was a gentle soul who never hurt anyone. I've even seen him allow a toddler to pull on handfuls of his fur at the park, and he just looked at the child with love.
He loved hiking in the woods (peeing on everything he could get close to), and camping (because he always got food scraps).
He did not like being in water. The beach, baths, rain, or any other reason to get wet.... He just never understood the need for it!

He loved belly rubs, ear scratches, and always managed to give you a kiss for it.

He slept on a Dora the Explorer blanket, snuggled my flip flops, and sneaked onto the couch when we weren't at home.

And he loved the kids. I can't tell you how many times I have argued with the 2 year old about whose dog he really was.

Now we have to break this terrible news to the children. I don't even know where to begin...

My favorite story is how people would ask what kind of dog he was. I would look them in the eye and say, "a Miniature Retriever."
Of course, there is no such thing... but people are funny. Either you hear someone honestly confess that they had never heard of one, or suddenly they have some distant friend or relative that also has one....

But really... he was Mine. He came from Spain, and managed to push his way into my heart when I didn't want a dog, and didn't think I needed one. Turns out, I needed him more that I thought...

Someday, my heart will stop hurting, but I will always love him for what he brought into my life.... compassion, patience, and love....

Tough Mudder!

**{I wrote this after running my 2nd Tough Mudder with my boyfriend. We will be doing his 2nd and my 3rd one in November!}}*

I'm a terrible runner. I tell people that, and they're all like, "yeah, me too."
No. You don't get it.
I could TRY running every single day for a year, and still only be able to kill 3 miles, tops.
But, I don't run every day.
So the Tough Mudder kicked my butt!
BUT... I am beyond proud of myself! I did an awesome job. I finished.
I have been fighting an ingrown toenail for 3 days. It wasn't stopping me.
My sciatic nerve decided to act up and send shooting pain down the back of my thigh, starting in the second mile. I kept going.
I despise cold water, and not only was every pond, stream, and mudhole cold, plus the rain and the Artic Enema... I still went on.
I faced my fears of jumping from heights by jumping off a platform into more cold water.
So, maybe I didn't RUN the whole thing. I don't care.
What I care about is that I finished... I didn't skip any obstacles, and shaved 45 minutes off of last year's time!
I frigging rock! — feeling accomplished.

**Post from my boyfriend**
Alright everyone, this is a VERY rough edit of our experience at Tough Mudder. First time ever using the software so I have a lot to learn, but I wanted to get something together as quickly as possible cause I know a few people have been dying to see it. Should be good for a few laughs!
Tough Mudder South Florida 13 April 2014: http://youtu.be/qepeKiUmz_0 

Surviving Life

Due to Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I have a lot on my mind....

I am nearing my five-year anniversary of being diagnosed with breast cancer. I am extremely proud of this achievement. I can't say I almost died, because I honestly can't ever remember thinking that it was an option. I have two beautiful daughters that need a Mom, so I wasn't going anywhere. I was too stubborn to consider it a possibility. I probably would've gone ballistic on a doctor if they tried to tell me something like, "You have 3 months to live." This leads me to my first point:

Why do doctors think it’s alright to tell someone how long they think they'll live?
They don't know.
There is no possible way another human being, even a doctor, could know such a thing.
I could get hit by a bus tomorrow.

I firmly believe that many people have died because a doctor was arrogant enough to give a timeline to that person. If someone says to a sick person that they are expected to be dead in 3 months, then the odds of that person being dead in 3 months just went up 25% (ok, I am making up these figures, but you totally get my point). It makes me mad.

Of course, on the other end of the spectrum, someone like me would have stuck it out just to prove that arrogant bastard wrong. Ha!

The next thing on my mind is that I firmly believe that how you live your life has a lot to do with illness. I’m not talking about smoking and lung cancer or anything like that. This goes deeper.
Something I can’t actually prove.

I often wonder if people that are diagnosed at a similar age as I was, can look back on their life and say, "This was the cause." I believe I can. I was in a bad marriage; it was stressful from day-one. We weren't good to each other, and then, in an effort to get away, I left for a year and a half.

I don't know what was worse... living in that unhealthy marriage, or being an unemployed, single parent, stressing constantly about money, a place to live, trying to fix my marriage for my children's sake, and so on.

Finally, we reached an agreement and the girls and I moved back to Spain with him. Of course, things did not get any better as long as we were living there. I was there for my kids and that was it. But, once we moved back to the states, things were great for a year. My 30th year was honestly the best year of my life. We had a house, our marriage seemed to have improved, and it was like starting brand new. The pressure was off. The stress had left the building.

One year later, I was diagnosed with cancer.

All of that stress in my life over the course of several years had built up, and once the stress was gone, my body reacted with cancer.

Before you think I'm completely off my rocker, let me try to explain in a different way.

When I was in the Navy, we often heard that when a Chief runs Maintenance Control (high-stress position) for several years, then retires, they very often die within 5 years, from either a heart attack or stroke. This is because their body has lived and dealt with such a high-stress environment for so long, that once the stress was no longer there, their body couldn't adjust and it is what ultimately kills them. I believe that my cancer was caused by a similar situation. My body dealt with stress and negativity for so long, that when life became less stressful, then that is how my body reacted.

This is just my theory.

Finally, this leads me to my next point.
This is for all you religious people.

I do believe in God. I am not at all good about going to church, but I do have my own beliefs. I don't know about what God really thinks about divorce because I've never had the opportunity to ask him (I have a whole list of questions for that interview, if it ever comes up!).

I do believe that God gave us our lives to live as well as we can, with the time we have. I also believe that as his children, God loves us unconditionally. Because of this love, even if he does not agree with divorce, he still wants us to be happy with ourselves.

That being said, my other theory is that because my marriage was so unhealthy to both myself and my ex, and ultimately, our children, then God gave me cancer to force me to finally have the courage to take the final step and leave for good. For ten years, we were bad for each other. I was on anti-depressants for a lot of the marriage.

I went from being an outgoing person, that was usually the center of attention without even trying, to being told to shut up in front of my friends and told that I was always wrong, to becoming an introvert that actually goes out of her way to avoid being in the limelight.

But, I thought that being there would be best for my kids. They needed a Mom and a Dad. I thought they needed us to be in the same house, with the dog and the white picket fence. Cancer arrived, and the way that each of us reacted to the news said a lot about our personalities. I won’t go into detail, but it didn’t go well for our marriage.

The fighting, the arguments, the hurt feelings…
It became much worse that it was when we lived in Spain.

So, one day, I woke up and refused to continue. I never would’ve had the courage to walk away if I had never been diagnosed with cancer. Just like an addict, I had to hit “rock bottom” before I would make the necessary changes. It was hard to do. I was so afraid. I had no idea where I would go or what I would do. The only thing I knew was that I might survive cancer, but there was no way I was going to survive this marriage. I had to leave.

I’m grateful for the new life that I’ve found, and since he is now remarried, I can only assume he’s grateful as well. If God had not loved me enough to give me cancer, and the will to fight it… and the courage to walk away… who knows where I would be today.

I guess that makes me a survivor in more than one way.