At 4:45 this morning, I was woken up by what sounded like the dog trying to get a mouse from under the bed.  I wish that was what it was, but the reality was that our two year old chocolate lab, Chica, was having a seizure.  It seemed to last for five minutes, but was probably just about one to two minutes and was quite violent.  I’ve never experienced this, so didn’t know what would happen when she came out of it.  I was trying to calm her down, but she came out quick and violent, snapping at Steve and I with a growl and ready to bite anyone nearby.

Immediately I thought she must have rabies.  We got out of her way, luckily with no teeth marks, and she slunk out of the room, on alert.  It was so unlike her, like she’d been possessed by something.  We put her out of the bedroom until she seemed more like herself and then Steve took her to the garage so that we could all try to rest a bit before the day started.  The entire episode was about 15 minutes, but I could literally feel the adrenaline and fear flowing through my veins.  

When I jumped out of her way, I was so frightened, I could hear myself making a weird sound that felt very reminiscent to the evening that I found Tommy in his room.  It was like an out of body experience.  As if I was watching the scenario from some other plane as an observer rather than a participant.  Getting back to sleep took a while because my mind was racing.  What if she’s not ok?  What if we have to put her down?  What if? What if? What if?

Many years ago, when Peter was just a baby, I lost Rocky, a two year old chocolate lab.  That loss was hard and it tore my heart out.  He got heat exhaustion and after surgeries and blood transfusions, he died just minutes before I arrived at the animal hospital with Peter in the Baby Bjorn, about two months old.  I sobbed over Rocky’s body that day and can’t imagine losing Chica at the same age.

A couple of days before I left Montana to drive to California a few weeks ago for my mom’s memorial service, Chica disappeared for a couple of hours.  She generally stays quite close, at least close enough that when we call her, she comes.  This afternoon, she didn’t come.  We thought the worst.  Maybe she’d crossed the river and come upon a den of wolves.  Definitely there was a sense that she may be gone.  I wandered around the road and the properties, calling for her, knowing that this could be the final straw for me.  So much loss this past year, how much more can a person withstand.

That was my thought process this morning as well.  I just lost my mom two months ago, Tommy’s been gone just over a year, how much more can I take.  I’m ready to get back to some sort of schedule, some normalcy, but at every turn, my brain seems to shut down, saying ‘not yet, you’re not ready yet.’  It’s still hard for me to focus, to concentrate on a task.  I’m constantly reminded that I’m no longer the person that I used to be.  I try, I really do try, but some things are still just too much for me.  Losing Chica would be too much.  I think it would put me over the edge.  I don’t know how much more I can trust my heart to love, if loss just feels inevitable.  And of course, I know that loss is inevitable, but I hope to be on more solid ground before it happens again.  

These days, Steve is my grounding point, as well as a couple of close friends who just let me be, without feeling watched.  I say weird things, I prioritize things that don’t really matter, and they just listen, without judgment.  The things that don’t really matter are my way of escaping the horrible reality of dealing with all of this sorrow that holds so heavy in my body.  I am aware of the conscious way that I’ve been in denial recently. I also know that this denial is there to protect me until I’m ready to feel the grief.  

Chica is ok this morning.  I took her to the vet and since she’s so young, we just have to watch her.  It could’ve been a one off but if it starts to happen more frequently, it could be epilepsy.  No way to know this early.  Today I’m thankful that she’s ok.