Some days are harder than others. The black dog only nips most days. There are bad moments or hours or sometimes afternoons.
Today was ugh all day so far. Up too early. Caused wife to get up too. Shirt not ready which is no big deal but that made the wife feel bad which is a big deal. She does so much for me and works so hard and she takes it personally when she does not meet her standards. So while she made me go back to bed for an hour, she got up, made sure the shirt was properly dried and ironed it. At 4:30 in the morning. I do not deserve her.
And when i dozed off a little, I dreamed she died and I almost burst into tears. When she came back to bed, I just held on. She is the most important person in my life and I cannot live without her.
Get to work spot on time for the gym to open but so do about a dozen other people who also want to swim in the "I suck at swimming" end of the pool where my slowpoke self swims. Several had no business in there, should have been in the lanes. So I ended early after only 600 yards.
Then I find the Chronicle linked to another blogger about last night for their front page. So no fun there.
And then I have to do something that makes me feel small and it just makes the day a little harder. Had to call someone because a check went NSF. *Sigh* I suck.
And I have no idea how I will get through the next few months, let along Christmas. It's like I just swing on the trapeze and jump hoping the next one will show up. Then I get to enjoy free fall every few days. Whee!
So. Hopefully a better afternoon.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Churchill's Black Dog
I'm somewhat enamored of Churchill's reference to his depression as the "black dog."
Sometimes it feels like the dog has hold of me and I can't shake it. All the times when I lack the ability to meet the responsibilities of this life...bills, work, love, kindness...I keep wondering when the sham cover of my inadequacies will be blown and when I'll be found out for being the incredibly weak, sad and terrified man I sometimes am in my head. Every day I feel like I just don't have it...I want to turn to my wife and collapse or pray for help and then I know that is not what she or the family needs from me. I need to give them strength and comfort, to never be rattled, to be the tent pole in a family that has been deprived of support for a long time. When I crack, it rattles them because they need me to be the one they can count on.
I want so badly to be the man they need and deserve, but they have chosen so poorly. Most men soldier on under the burdens of their duty and I feel like all I do is whine and feel sorry for myself. I don't know what to do somedays or who to turn to because everyone needs me to be tough and I'm barely up to pretending that is who I am. From my childhood on, when the going got tough, I looked for excuses to quit.
And today, I am always overriding that thought - that it would be so much easier to give up. I can't because people depend on me, because it is my role to be the one who does the jobs I've sought, who is the husband and father, who is, finally, the grown man who takes care of things.
But I fight that voice every day that wants to quit.
And then everyone at work seems to need a father figure, someone to handle basic complexities of work or personal life and I feel buffeted by explosion after explosion.
And I listen to "Carry That Weight" and "Man's Job" and other songs to remind me that I am not alone or unique. That it is my job to deal with this and we all have the fear of our own inadequacies in us.
And then I sit down with Quicken and I want to quit somehow and run away.
And of course I never would, that life is too full and wondrous and I cannot and would not ever do anything so infantile and selfish...but I wish sometimes there was someone who would take the cup from me. And then I am ashamed to even use that term for passing on a sacrifice when that was so complete a sacrifice and I am just being sad and weak.
And last weekend I saw some black dogs like the ones I used to have and love. And my heart broke and I knew i was near tears but once again I had to be better than I am because that weakness is too much to share.
So sometimes, I sit out here by myself and listen to sad music until the black dog's grip subsides and even I get sick of my weakness and I feel the strength come back.
I suppose we all have these moments or days or weeks when we feel weak or lacking. I just wish I was the man my family deserves.
Sometimes it feels like the dog has hold of me and I can't shake it. All the times when I lack the ability to meet the responsibilities of this life...bills, work, love, kindness...I keep wondering when the sham cover of my inadequacies will be blown and when I'll be found out for being the incredibly weak, sad and terrified man I sometimes am in my head. Every day I feel like I just don't have it...I want to turn to my wife and collapse or pray for help and then I know that is not what she or the family needs from me. I need to give them strength and comfort, to never be rattled, to be the tent pole in a family that has been deprived of support for a long time. When I crack, it rattles them because they need me to be the one they can count on.
I want so badly to be the man they need and deserve, but they have chosen so poorly. Most men soldier on under the burdens of their duty and I feel like all I do is whine and feel sorry for myself. I don't know what to do somedays or who to turn to because everyone needs me to be tough and I'm barely up to pretending that is who I am. From my childhood on, when the going got tough, I looked for excuses to quit.
And today, I am always overriding that thought - that it would be so much easier to give up. I can't because people depend on me, because it is my role to be the one who does the jobs I've sought, who is the husband and father, who is, finally, the grown man who takes care of things.
But I fight that voice every day that wants to quit.
And then everyone at work seems to need a father figure, someone to handle basic complexities of work or personal life and I feel buffeted by explosion after explosion.
And I listen to "Carry That Weight" and "Man's Job" and other songs to remind me that I am not alone or unique. That it is my job to deal with this and we all have the fear of our own inadequacies in us.
And then I sit down with Quicken and I want to quit somehow and run away.
And of course I never would, that life is too full and wondrous and I cannot and would not ever do anything so infantile and selfish...but I wish sometimes there was someone who would take the cup from me. And then I am ashamed to even use that term for passing on a sacrifice when that was so complete a sacrifice and I am just being sad and weak.
And last weekend I saw some black dogs like the ones I used to have and love. And my heart broke and I knew i was near tears but once again I had to be better than I am because that weakness is too much to share.
So sometimes, I sit out here by myself and listen to sad music until the black dog's grip subsides and even I get sick of my weakness and I feel the strength come back.
I suppose we all have these moments or days or weeks when we feel weak or lacking. I just wish I was the man my family deserves.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
My Last Dane
The death of my last Dane haunts me.
It keeps looping in my head. I know she was in pain and it hurts me that she died in pain.
I know logically that there is truly nothing more I could have done. I keep thinking, "what if I had a bloat kit" or "what if I had just punctured the stomach from her side with a needle" as though my lack of veterinary skill is responsible for her death. In the 10 minutes or so from when we realized something was wrong to when she died, I doubt there was much that an experienced veterinarian could have done for her and I suspect any strategy I would have used would have just caused her more pain and made things even worse.
But still, I feel guilty that I could not save my girl dog. Even though I know she was already doomed from the moment she made that awful retching noise.
Most of the emergencies I have experienced in my life did not have this kind of awful, brutal ending. In fact, most of the emergencies did not really amount to emergencies in the end. No amount of speeding or driving faster would have saved her, but still I wonder if there was some error, some nuance, I missed. I want to find the facts that prove I failed her because I feel I failed her. Should I have driven on sidewalks? Gone further up the freeway and made an exit where I needed it. Honked at people in front of me? Known to throw her in the car before she signaled her distress? I know she died a full five minutes before I got her there. I know even if I had magically gotten her there the second I know there was a problem, precious time would have elapsed getting her from car to door, waiting to be buzzed in, convincing the front desk person to act rather than ask, etc. I know it would have taken a dozen miracles to save her. But it was still my job to save her and I failed.
As I drove to the clinic with her, I had my hand on her and was talking to her in the back seat. I felt her sag and when her bowels evacuated I knew she was gone. But still I hoped, until I pulled her, dead and limp, from the car and laid her out next to the car on the parking lot. I was hoping, I guess, that she might be revived...that there was some last act of heroic veterinary treatment that could be performed...but I knew.
I keep seeing her lying there. I keep seeing the vet tech carrying her off. I keep thinking she cannot possibly be gone.
I failed her somehow. I just have this big empty hole and no dog.
It keeps looping in my head. I know she was in pain and it hurts me that she died in pain.
I know logically that there is truly nothing more I could have done. I keep thinking, "what if I had a bloat kit" or "what if I had just punctured the stomach from her side with a needle" as though my lack of veterinary skill is responsible for her death. In the 10 minutes or so from when we realized something was wrong to when she died, I doubt there was much that an experienced veterinarian could have done for her and I suspect any strategy I would have used would have just caused her more pain and made things even worse.
But still, I feel guilty that I could not save my girl dog. Even though I know she was already doomed from the moment she made that awful retching noise.
Most of the emergencies I have experienced in my life did not have this kind of awful, brutal ending. In fact, most of the emergencies did not really amount to emergencies in the end. No amount of speeding or driving faster would have saved her, but still I wonder if there was some error, some nuance, I missed. I want to find the facts that prove I failed her because I feel I failed her. Should I have driven on sidewalks? Gone further up the freeway and made an exit where I needed it. Honked at people in front of me? Known to throw her in the car before she signaled her distress? I know she died a full five minutes before I got her there. I know even if I had magically gotten her there the second I know there was a problem, precious time would have elapsed getting her from car to door, waiting to be buzzed in, convincing the front desk person to act rather than ask, etc. I know it would have taken a dozen miracles to save her. But it was still my job to save her and I failed.
As I drove to the clinic with her, I had my hand on her and was talking to her in the back seat. I felt her sag and when her bowels evacuated I knew she was gone. But still I hoped, until I pulled her, dead and limp, from the car and laid her out next to the car on the parking lot. I was hoping, I guess, that she might be revived...that there was some last act of heroic veterinary treatment that could be performed...but I knew.
I keep seeing her lying there. I keep seeing the vet tech carrying her off. I keep thinking she cannot possibly be gone.
I failed her somehow. I just have this big empty hole and no dog.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)