So Many Updates

So it's been a hot minute since I've written a post. I know you've all been anxiously waiting for an update on my life and, more importantly, the lives of my fluffy children. So here it is.

If you're following me on Instagram, you know that baby Jeph has begun having Service Dog Training outings.

As you can see, he is overjoyed to be following in his big sister's footsteps! When I take them places together, he copies her behavior. When he's by himself, he's not quite sure of what to do, but he still tries very hard. 

Check out those ridiculously adorable eyes!

Riley is enjoying her new job as the Good Example, as well as her time off for naps. She does not quite like to wake up from said naps...

My favorite thing is the look of utter betrayal on her usually sweet and happy face when she realizes that she's been woken up for a picture. She's like, "Human, why? Human stahp." 

I've been not writing posts because I got some news that I actually need a wheelchair permanently. I need a mechanical one. We're getting a manual wheelchair for travelling, but the doctor wants me to have an electric one to get around the house. It is a hard thing to wrap one's mind around, and I've written and discarded many a blog post about this news and my feelings on said news. I've come to the conclusion that it honestly really sucks to have mobility taken away, but a wheelchair is so that this declining mobility doesn't stop me from getting around. A wheelchair is a helper and a friend, even though the stigma of having one still exists. And what would I rather do: continue falling and crawling on the floor and having my husband have to walk me around the house or zip around on wheels and take the dogs on walks and get to see the world while sitting? I think I'm slowly making my peace with it. So watch for me yelling, "On your left!" while I zip by you Steve-Rogers-Style. 

I've been put on Seroquel for my mental health. It's main side effect is drowsiness. And boy, have I been drowsy! I take it at night, as I get super loopy about twenty minutes after taking it and then it puts me right out. I sleep all the way through the night and then into the morning. And I feel like I'm slightly drunk the entire day until about a couple hours before it's time to take it again. I'm hoping that my body will adjust to this medication, as it's the best one I've tried. I'm taking it in conjunction with my very high dose of Effexor. There are some symptoms that are getting worse, but others are definitely stabilizing or even getting better. And so it goes with treating any kind of illness. 

We bought a 2001 Red Corvette. I'm in love with it! It is so comfortable to ride in, and I'm loving working on it with my husband. I know nothing about cars, but I can follow directions well and I adore learning. It's been a long time since I've been able to work with my hands, and I get such a thrill from building and cleaning and unscrewing and all the things one can do with a tool chest. I've only ever built furniture and set pieces, but my husband has spent his life working on cars and is a very competent teacher.

Look at how proud he looks to be in our garage. This was the first day we brought him home, before we began to work on him to make him the best he can be.

Baby got back.

Currently, there is a really low-budget dubbed horror movie on TV. The "monster," if you can even call it that, is so ridiculous that I can't stop laughing every time it appears on the screen. What even was the Creature Designer thinking? Or Makeup Designer? I don't even know who or what is to blame for this atrocious attempt at scaring an audience. You'd think an Italian horror movie would be better than this, but nope. Oh, now we're visiting some creepy producer who has cameras everywhere and they're making it out to be like a cyber horror flick? I'm so confused. Oh, the creepy producer is in a wheelchair. Can't wait for him to get possessed and stand up or some other cliche. I've been loving these campy horror movies that have been on TV as well as some old favorites like Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot with David Suchet as the main character and The Great British Baking Show. All are excellent distractions from pain and loneliness. Oh, wait guys, there is a creepy repairman in the house of the main character. I'll bet he's possessed or something. Main character (woman, actress) is going upstairs to check on her baby. There is a stranger watching the baby, but the stranger claims to be related to the regular babysitter. And the main character doesn't seem disturbed by ALL THESE STRANGE PEOPLE IN HER HOUSE. Also, the director keeps blaring heavy metal music at weird moments to show that something out of the ordinary is happening. But enough about this terrible excuse for a movie. Did y'all know that old episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000 are on Hulu and Netflix? My husband and I really enjoy making fun of these silly movies, and MST3K adds in an excellent level of humor and entertainment to the wooden acting, bad camera angles, etc.

But now it's time to make some lunch. Hopefully I'll be able to write more consistent posts in the future. Love to you all!

Things Learned While Travelling Part 2

1. People do not know the rights Service Dogs have. Not even some legitimate Service Dog handlers.
2. My husband has a fantastic family whose love for each other is incredibly deep and will last lifetimes.
3. Travelling is one of the most exhausting things for a Spoonie to attempt to do.
4. It takes my husband being exhausted for four days in a row for him to start feeling the level of exhaustion I have after four hours of being awake.
5. Kennels are nice, but re-uniting with your puppy after a trip is better. (Jeph had a glorious time at his puppy summer camp.)
6. I will pay whoever I need to pay so that I never have to go to Texas ever again. Ugh. My apologies to anyone who loves Texas, but you're wrong.
7. Never admit to any American that you hate the song "God Bless the USA" (... and I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free...) (And I did just admit it here. Woops. That background track, though...Ew.)
8. There is actually not a site more inspiring and lovely than a bunch of families rushing to greet their loved ones they haven't seen in months.
9.  Jeph is a mix of Heeler and Alaskan Malamute. We saw a picture of those puppies and it was exactly him. Yes, this doesn't apply to anyone except us, but still. I learned this while travelling.
10. You're not drinking enough water. Go have a glass right now. You're welcome.

Things Learned While Travelling Part 1

Things I Have Learned By Travelling Part 1:

-People are mostly self-centered when in airports and will knock service dogs out of their way to get to their gates.

-McDonald's is good everywhere.

-I hate talking to people on planes.

-So many people refuse to read "Do Not Pet" signs.

-TSA agents are sweethearts who are usually dog lovers and who are doing a thankless job.

-DFW is the Devil. I have found Hell, and it is consistently located in the bowels of the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport.

-Any airport that claims to have services to accommodate disabilities really just means that they have an elevator somewhere and some dirty wheelchairs that don't actually function and maybe someone who doesn't communicate well to drive you to a random gate.

-Riley is one of the most well-behaved Service Dogs in an airport at any given time.

-People love Riley and will run me over to ask her how she is and if she is a good dog.

-People think that if someone has a Service Dog, it is okay to interrupt their private conversations to loudly inquire about said dog.

-My husband is still my hero and gets even more annoyed than I do with the stuff disabled travellers have to put up with.

-Chick-Fil-A will give you a plain grilled chicken patty for your dog if you ask (yes, you pay for it).

-We need more USO rooms in DFW. PLEASE.

-Travelling with people who know what they're doing or travelling by yourself are the best ways to travel. Unless you like stress and adults acting like tired toddlers. 

-Watching CNN while waiting to board does not help with travel stress (AAAAAAAAAAA).

-Always wear loose-fitting clothes and say "screw it" to bras and belts. Put a sweater or jacket on over that business and be comfy. You'll thank me later.

-Empty water bottles that can be filled up after security are invaluable unless you like paying outrageous amounts of money for airport water.

-Be prepared (Scar or Boy Scouts version).

-No one can pronounce my last name.

What Even Was This Week So Far?

Sorry for the delay in posting new things, but I've been incredibly busy. Of course if you're following my Instagram, you have an idea of some of the things that I've dealt with the past few days.

On February 13, I woke up to the doorbell ringing and my dogs losing their furry minds. When I opened the door, there was a florist with an arrangement of a dozen roses and baby's breath! I was so shocked! The florist didn't want to just leave the flowers outside because there was what qualifies as a Winter storm in New Mexico going on, so he just kept ringing the doorbell until I got to the door. And as you all know, EDS means I move extremely slowly. My poor dogs. But anyways, the flowers were from my husband and they were gorgeous! They remain gorgeous, sitting proudly on the middle of our dining table. I really don't like sharing romantic things my husband does with the public as they happen, as I feel those things are between us and meant to remain private. So I'm sorry, but there was no Instagram post of the flowers. I do enjoy everyone else's posts about the things they do with their significant others (it's one of my favorite things), but personally I don't feel comfortable posting those types of things until after the fact. When I went to put the flowers on the table on Tuesday, I realized just how incredibly dirty my house was. I couldn't have those flowers in a dirty house. No, sirree.
Fun fact about me: I often have manic episodes that result in crazy amounts of things getting done. They usually last a few hours. This particular one came on suddenly and lasted for five hours. Riley recognizes the look in my eye and will hide to avoid getting a bath. Jeph's soft and shiny coat and freshly-trimmed nails tell the tale (tail haha...I'll see myself out) of how he did not heed his sister's advice and failed to hide in time. Poor little guy hates baths. I have done every trick in the book, but to no avail. On Tuesday, I drained the tub and got in with him. He hid between my legs and was okay with getting the soap rinsed off as long as he didn't get dragged from his hiding place. I mentioned before that he likes showers, but he is simply too big now for me to hold him and clean him and not drop him, especially if he wiggles.
The house enjoyed a deep clean. The living room, garage, kitchen, dining room, laundry room, and bedroom were all taken care of. I had to shower three separate times, as I am allergic to all dust and my manic cleaning kicked up quite a lot of it. By the time my husband came home from work, I was exhausted on the couch, hardly able to move.
I was vaguely aware that a year prior, my husband had got down on one knee and asked me to be his. But I assumed we would just be happy about it and save our celebrations for Valentine's Day. I assumed wrong.
My husband told me that we had dinner reservations for 7:30 and that the flowers were indeed meant for February 13, not 14. I was completely flabbergasted and excited, but so very tired. Husband let me take a nap to gain a few more "spoons" (the way the chronic illness community refers to energy*). I had a beautiful time dressing up and doing my hair and makeup extra fancy. Husband kept the destination a secret until we were there. It was this gorgeous restaurant, in our city's preserved antique section of town. It was candle-lit, the food was open-fire-cooked, and the waiters were all obviously professionals who were proud to make this their career. As they should be. What a meal! Steak, crab legs, fresh salads, soups, bread, mousse, and more! It was honestly magical. As was our server's impressive beard. I could go on and on about the merits of this hidden restaurant jewel, but I think I'll keep the rest of this particular memory between my husband and I.
Then came Valentine's Day. Oh, what a day. It began with getting up disgustingly early to drive my husband to work so that I could have the car for the day. What I thought was going to be only a fifteen minute drive to a new Internal Medicine Specialist turned into a forty-five minute evil hell ride, as I had the address wrong when I had looked it up the day before. I'm not even supposed to drive more than ten minutes at a time, as my head and neck end up in an extreme amount of pain. And here we were, having gone forty-five minutes one way. Riley was carsick by the time I finally pulled into what appeared to be a dilapidated old hospital.
Again, if you know me you know that one of my Traumas that fuels my PTSD stems from a terrible hospital/surgery experience. Walking into a converted hospital was not a good idea, but with Riley gently tugging me along, I opened the door and headed in.
I'm sure I've been in a more confusing lobby, but I don't remember it. I had no idea what to do, and there were no signs to tell me. Finally, I found a box of stickers where I was to fill out my personal info. Think "Hello My Name Is" stickers with a few more lines and a place to put your doctor's name. I filled out a sticker, then just stared around the lobby until I caught a passing nurse and begged for instructions. It turns out "everyone knows" that you put this sticker with your personal info in this unmarked box and then just sort of hope that the admitting staff looks in the box and calls you over and also hope that this sticker gets shredded or something. Fun. Eventually, I was called over to a desk where I was "admitted," which was confusing to me and upsetting to my Trauma Brain. I was here to see a specialist, not to get admitted into a system. I ended up getting a yellow band, as I was at risk of falling at any time. The one thing that was good about this whole admitting fiasco was that they had a separate form that asked for my preferences. What name would I liked to be called, what gender I identified as, my birth gender and name, my preferred language, my sexuality, my religion, and other questions. The admitting woman then immediately switched to referring to me as "Abby" instead of "Abigail." And didn't slip up once. And neither did the nurse who called me to the back. It was a bright spot, as I felt that they would for sure honor and respect the requests of individuals whose names and genders were different than they were at birth.
Then it was time for the actual appointment. The nurse who took me to the back obviously had not been briefed on any of my conditions, as she asked me to put my belongings on a shelf high above my head while she took my height and weight. There was no secondary option, so I put my things on the floor. She was very confused, and seemed thrown off her game. Apparently everyone she knows can lift heavy things above their heads. I mean, you'd think the giant Black Lab with "Service Dog" and "Mobility Assistance" and "Medical Alert" stickers all over her vest would be a clue. And I was right about it being an old hospital. I was led right past a place that looked exactly like the nurses' station in the cardiac unit in a hospital I had been in. I kept myself firmly focused on Riley, having asked her to "follow" the nurse to our room. I had been told to bring my medical records and had a huge stack of just the last few years (my whole medical record would fill up several cabinets). But the nurse did not want the medical records. The admitting woman had not wanted them. I had no idea why I brought them. The nurse mentioned that "Ms. Guttman" would maybe want to flip through it. I was confused as to why the nurse wasn't saying "doctor," but then just brushed it off thinking that this was a workplace that encouraged familiarity.  The nurse finally confessed to me that she was terrified of dogs, and I immediately apologized and asked Riley, who was guarding the front of me, to go and sit on my left side. The nurse took my pulse incorrectly, spelled all my allergies incorrectly, and didn't want to write down any of my medications in my file. I chalked this up to being terrified of my dog. I never blame anyone who is afraid of Riley, because if someone came in to my place of business with a tarantula, you better believe I wouldn't be able to do my job!
Then came the specialist I had been waiting two months to see. I was almost out of medications, and was eager to speak to a specialist about managing my meds and getting re-fills/re-prescriptions. I've also been sick to my stomach and bleeding rectally for two weeks now, and was wanting to ask what the hell was going on with that (TMI, I know. But this is what you read my blog for, so...).
The door opens. This small woman walks in. She asks me if I am Abby. I say yes. I say, "Hello, Dr. Guttman." She says, "Oh, I'm not a doctor. I'm a registered nurse practitioner, so I hope that's okay." I was stunned. She sauntered over to the doctor's chair and began to glance over my file. I managed to say that my Special Needs Coordinator had made this appointment for me with the impression that she was an Internal Medicine Specialist and that it even said so on my referral letter from my insurance company. She nonchalantly responded with, "Oh, I misrepresented myself. But I've been a nurse for so many years I'm practically qualified to be an Internal Medicine Specialist." I wanted to run away, but my life-saving medications were running low, so I sat through an agonizing, frustrating, terrible appointment in order to get prescriptions for my meds. It included, but was not limited to: the stethoscope getting stuck in my clothes three separate times, her not being able to hear my heart and lungs because her "hearing is failing," her demanding to know why I'm on so many medications, her confessing that she had no idea what I'm diagnosed with, her looking at labs from four years ago and saying that she's sure nothing has changed since then, her telling me to go to a different health system because she used to work for them before they fired her for wanting to retire (suuuure), and her taking a full half an hour to type up four prescriptions.  
When the appointment was over, I gave Riley an emergency command. Her normal "let's leave" command is "Lead Me Out." Don't judge me, but her emergency command is "Let's Get The Fuck Out Of Here." She also responds to "Let's GTFO." She pulled me all the way through the run-down old hospital, through several doors, and out to the car and didn't let me stop or cry until I was firmly inside the car.
I sat in the car shaking and crying. When I finally calmed down, I realized I was going to have a forty-five minute drive home. Cue the crying all over again. Riley licked me from the backseat and grounded me until I could get a hold of myself.
My poor husband got a torrent of furious texts. He took time out of his work day to respond, as he was also horribly angry at what had happened. I decided I was going to get McDonald's for lunch. I had planned to stop by the BX (like an Air Force version of Target) when I got back to the base and pick up a surprise V-Day gift for my husband, but after that particular "adventure," I decided to grab some Valentine's Day chocolates as well.
After picking up cheeseburgers, fries, and a Shamrock Shake (my guilty pleasure that I wait for all year), we sat in the BX Mini-Mall parking lot, took deep breaths, ate, and fully put the horrible morning behind us.
Riley and I dropped my prescriptions off at the base pharmacy and headed to the BX. We took a slight detour on our way to the chocolates because Riley was alerting me to the danger of a mannequin that she thought was standing suspiciously still for just too long to be harmless. We picked up a cologne Husband has wanted for months, a sweet Valentine's Day card, and many chocolates. Usually I wait until February 15-17 to get the chocolate on sale, but this was an emergency situation.
My Care Coordinator was incensed when I told her what had happened. She told me that they had told her over the phone that this woman was an Internal Medicine Doctor, and that there was no excuse for them lying like that. She is now working on finding me an actual Internal Medicine Specialist.
Jeph was more than happy to see us when we got home, but Riley was so tired that the little guy ended up playing by himself while she slept.
When Husband got home from work, we shared leftovers from our romantic dinner. I then took an aromatherapy bath for pain, as my body was over-exhausted by the events of the day. After the bath, which was absolutely amazing, I was re-energized and we went to a Mexican sports bar for dinner. We enjoyed drinks, wings, tacos, nachos, and yelling at a UFC fight, a basketball game, and several horse races. It was exactly the kind of thing that was needed after the day we had both had. We left Riley at home because the poor girl was exhausted and would have hated the loud environment of the sports bar. I do need her 24/7, but when Husband and I go out we occasionally leave her at home to rest, as he is very good at recognizing my symptoms and signs and sometimes parents just need Date Night.
This morning, my neck is horribly stiff. I can't look to the right. Jeph is enjoying this, and continually waits until my back is turned before jumping up on the trash can. I will take a bath later, enjoying some amazingly potent oils that I got from this amazing little herbal and natural medicine shop Husband and I discovered in downtown Albuquerque. I am also wearing an Aromatherapy necklace I got from that shop, and it has been invaluable.
I'm not sure when my next blog post will be. Today, I am resting. Tomorrow morning I have a two hour Psychiatry evaluation and intake appointment and tomorrow afternoon I have a one hour Psychology evaluation and initial appointment. Tomorrow will be so tiring. Friday I see my current Primary Care Manager (aka regular doctor) and will ask about the infection in my belly button, the bleeding from my butt, and my extra nausea. Saturday, Riley has a grooming appointment at a new groomer's. We have a few days of rest and then it's off to Texas for Husband's brother's graduation with the In-Laws. Wish me luck and spoons, friends. And follow me on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram for pictures and stories in-between blog posts.    

*https://butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/ 
If you're wondering why the heck spoons refer to energy...

If Dogs Wrote Movies

If Dogs Wrote Movies:

A Walk To Remember: On a lovely Spring day, a dog goes for a walk with its owner and sees three new dog friends, four squirrels, a sprinkler, and gets a treat from a stranger!

Pride and Prejudice: A dog does not want to pee where the owner wants it to. It finally gives in to peeing after a mighty struggle and realizes it never wants to pee anywhere else!

Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close: A dog attempts to wake up his owner by barking in their face.

The Notebook: A dog enjoys its new toy, savoring the ripping out of each page. Several of the pages have dried food stains!

The Avengers: A squirrel once did harm to a dog. It's up to all the Dog Friends to get it and all its friends and neighbors and relatives and anything that looks or sounds like it for all of time forever.

The Devil Wears Prada: That one lady who never has treats and doesn't like dogs on the furniture is coming over and our hero must decide between hiding in its kennel, ripping her stockings with its teeth, or trying to win her over with sloppy wet kisses.

Spy Vs. Spy: The humans are eating pizza. At any moment, they might leave some unattended. Our hero must wait minute after agonizing minute just out of sight behind the couch. He cannot close his eyes or get distracted by the nearby tempting toys, or the pizza may get eaten by...THE CAT.

Octopussy: A doggy horror movie. The new neighbor has eight cats. And none of them are declawed.

Pulp Fiction: A dog finds its humans library book and chews some of the pages into a giant spitball and throws the rest up onto the carpet.

Django Unchained: A dog helps a chained puppy (Django) by biting through its collar. The two go on an epic adventure to the neighbor's yard. Based on a true story.

If I Stay: A dog attempts to get as many treats in one training session as possible. If it gets five Cheerios for sitting, what will happen if it stays?

The Great Wall: The humans have put up a baby gate between the kitchen and the living room and the humans are cooking dinner. How will our hero deal with such an obstacle?

Resident Evil: The humans have brought home a cat.

Fences: A story of star-crossed lovers who bark at each other every single day but are kept apart by the chain link fences between their yards.

Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them: A service dog tells of its visit to the zoo.

The Graduate: A puppy finally makes it to the end of Obedience Class and shows off its new skills to its jealous friends.

Take Your Feel-Good Illness Movies And Shove Them

Long-term illness is not like you see in the movies. It is not the quiet, pretty, good little girl who it turns out is secretly suffering from a life-threatening illness. It is not a reclusive billionaire who is really hot if he just shaved and who decides not to live because what is the point of living if you are in a wheelchair. It is not a gorgeous, pale woman with subtle makeup lying tragically in a bed, staring out a window and living only so someone can be her savior. It is not the optimistic, sweet yet sometimes sassy little girl who helps you discover the how to live again before she tragically passes away from cancer without showing any outward signs at all ever. It is not the invalid who just needs a little fresh air to suddenly be completely healed. It is not two kids trashing a town because that's how one learns to "live" and they're going to die so they might as well "live" as much as possible.
When I was younger, I used to cry that I was not "pretty" sick. I wasn't a beautifully thin child in a warmly lit room, surrounded by toys and cards and balloons and other gifts. I was constantly yo-yo-ing up and down fifty pounds, as medication side effects played with my body shape. I swelled up to three clothing sizes larger in the afternoon, then woke up back down those three sizes. I was eleven the first time a stranger asked me when I was due. I wasn't tragically weak and sitting outside in a wheelchair, taking in the sunlight that would magically heal me. I was told time and time again by school counselors that I was sick only for attention. I was horribly harassed and traumatized every day by my peers at school, and while that for sure played a part in my mental health and mental health does affect one's body physically, it had absolutely nothing to do with my underlying actual physical issues. I was compared to the Secret Garden boy and the Heidi girl over and over again. Maybe I should try yoga, go out in the sun more, try a sport, etc. And then there was the "why aren't you dead yet?" question that I got time and time again from peers, teachers, strangers, and well-meaning family friends. I began to wonder when my illnesses would finally kill me. Everyone else seemed to think that being sick for a long time inevitably led to death or it wasn't real. And everyone couldn't be wrong, right? When my stomach pain got so bad it led to dizziness, sweating, vomiting, and fainting, I hid how bad it was for two years. Two whole years I let my family believe that I was just doing regular pre-teen girl things like makeup or dancing or whatever in the bathroom when really I was having spasms in whatever dark corner I could find because either I would die tragically soon or I was really making it up and didn't realize it and it would go away soon. Watching movies that portrayed illness just made me feel so incredibly inadequate. Something was super wrong with me that I wasn't like what I saw.
Long-term illness is greasy hair, smelly bodies, dried vomit on toilet seats. It is realizing in the late afternoon that you haven't brushed your teeth all day so many days in a row that your teeth ache. It is doing your hair and being too exhausted to do makeup or get dressed. It is looking around at the house and realizing that while you've done the dishes, every other room in the house remains a disaster and you simply cannot get up to clean them. It is applauding yourself every time you manage to get from the bed to the couch. It is realizing you've already watched every episode of every show you want to see on Netflix and Hulu and resorting to watching things like Divorce Court because at least you haven't seen every episode twelve times.  It is suddenly realizing that you've got an infection starting near one of your surgery scars and being terrified that you'll end up in the hospital with a blood infection and then calling the doctor's office and getting an appointment for a week from now and being terrified that this appointment isn't soon enough. It's managing to feed the dogs, let them out, and that's about it. It's sitting on the couch extremely hungry, but being too exhausted to get up and make yourself something to eat. It's getting dehydrated because your legs decide to not let you walk to the faucet and you've run out of water in the pitcher by your bed. It's keeping a notebook with you with all the important information you need to remember because you can't remember any of it by yourself. It's being dependent on other people for your care. It's being dependent on a dog for your care, sometimes. It's holding a degree from a top liberal arts college and not being able to use it because you can't work for one hour a week, let alone forty without ending up in the hospital for a week. It's having to have so many reminders and systems in place for medications and still forgetting to take the right pills at the right time. It's having your service dog annoy you until you realize, "Oh! It's pill time!" It is people telling you that you are so brave for continuing to live. It is people telling your significant other that they are so brave and good and pure for staying with a horrible medical mess monster like you. It is strangers offering you advice. It is strangers glaring at you for parking in handicapped spaces because you're too young to be ill. It's fighting hard to be heard by doctors. It is crying with relief when you find medical professionals who help you. It is crying in despair because you've woken up in pain yet again just like you have for the last twenty or thirty or forty years. It is seeing spots when you bend down to pick up a towel you've dropped. It is falling down stairs, falling in bathrooms, falling in kitchens, falling at friends' houses, falling in grocery stores, falling in movie theatres, throwing up in every single public bathroom in your surrounding area, passing out at an event that was supposed to be about a friend or family member but now is about you because you've passed out. It is waking up on the floor of the bedroom unaware of how you got there or when or if you've hit your head or broken bones. It is knowing the EMS personnel by name (Oh, hey, Len. How was your kid's dance concert?). It is comparing and contrasting hospitals in the area in casual conversations. It is trying desperately to not bring up your health in regular conversations. It is a constant struggle. It is ugly, it is brutal, it is exhausting, and it is gross. Depending on what you've been diagnosed with, you might be on the highway to death or you might be trapped in a debilitated body for years upon years.
Yes, it makes you stronger, but it's because you have no choice. You have no choice but to fight every single day. You are literally fighting for every breath you take and every tiny task you complete is a reason for rejoicing. I would pay so much money to go see a movie that portrayed long-term chronic illness or terminal illness like that.

A Doggy Update

Small One (Jeph) is asleep right now, with no idea that he is getting shots this evening. I don't know who will cry more: him or me. Our vet is the actual best vet, though. Absolutely wonderful woman who really knows her job and puts the animals first and her own thoughts, feelings, etc. second. She answers any questions we have clearly and concisely. It's something I don't think I could ever do without. Our older dog goes to the base vet right now, who is also the most amazing guy. Super knowledgeable, never over-diagnoses and definitely never brushes off our concerns. Between the two of them, our dogs have an excellent care team here. 

Jeph is nearly completely potty-trained! So far, no accidents today. The only problem now is he pees when he wants attention. If I'm on the phone or haven't played with him for a bit, he will bark at me and stare at me and pee very intentionally. We're working on that behavior. 

Riley is beginning to listen to me again. And when she doesn't, I use my "mom" voice and she knows right away that she messed up. Down go her ears and her tail. Poor girl has such a huge sense of guilt. The good news is that she is adjusting well to Jeph and listening to me and having a lot of fun playing with her little brother. She is absolutely exhausted at the end of every day, having worked all day for me and played hard for hours with Jeph. She is more focused at work now, as her extra energy is completely depleted by the tiny alive fur squeaky toy. He keeps her on her doggy toes. 

Jeph also appreciates that Riley has taught him how to open sliding closet doors. It is not uncommon to hear a rustling noise from the pantry after I've closed the suspiciously open door. Riley also helpfully opens other doors for Jeph. She can't understand why I'm not thrilled that she lets Jeph in the laundry room, bathroom, extra bedrooms, etc. when he asks her to. She doesn't get punished for it, as she is trying to be a helpful big sister. 

They both got reprimanded, however, when they discovered the weak points in the dirt under the fence and dug several holes just big enough for baby Jeph to wiggle through. Thankfully, Jeph is terrified of the neighbors' dogs. Every time he starts under the fence, they bark and he goes running back into the house. He only made it entirely out once, and thankfully I caught him right away. He has gone through a growth spurt in the last week and cannot get out of those holes anymore. I found them inspecting the holes together yesterday, as though they were little architects planning a renovation. I sprayed the holes and fence with bitter apple spray, and they decided to take their hole-digging operation to the other side of the yard. 

We are also working on the chewing of the furniture. We got a new table and chairs and benches for our dining room and already there are visible teeth marks on the legs of one of the benches. We got Jeph some new toys to help with this, as the poor baby is teething and isn't entirely responsible for his natural need to chew. We got the toys yesterday, and today Mr. Jeph has not chewed the bench legs, opting to try to destroy a tough toy instead. 

Dogs are awake and laundry is beeping, so I've got to be done with this post. Until next time, friends!

Check out my Instagram (thegrandadventuresofabby) for daily pictures of baby Jeph and Ms. Riley!

Also follow me on Twitter (@TheGAofAbby) for updates and some lovely stream-of-consciousness.

It's Back

Riley is refusing to listen inside the house, and Jeph for sure is at the right age for some intense training. Because of this, the dreaded (for me) and much-anticipated (for the dogs) FANNY PACK is back! That's right, folks! The treat-filled fashion accessory from hell is firmly around my waist, waiting to treat well-behaved dogs. So far, the little puppy has "sit" down alright, but his "leave it" and "come" commands are really shaky. And Riley is suddenly realizing that I'm preoccupied with Jeph and just looks at me with her tail wagging like, "I don't have to do what you just said and you won't reprimand me because you have your hands full of wriggling puppy." It makes me annoyed. You are a fully-trained service dog, but you think you don't have to listen inside the house because there's a little one who knows nothing? No. Not gonna fly in my house. Of course, she is well-behaved outside of the house. She does her job extremely well when there is no little brother casually chewing on furniture. Hence, the fanny pack.

I have my work cut out for me. Especially with Jeph. He needs the basics down before we can do any sort of special training for my needs. And he might not be well-suited for service dog work, but I won't know until I get the basics down with him. The issues I get to work on with Jeph are: biting, chewing inappropriate things, talking back, barking at meal times, sitting, lying down, leaving things when told, coming when I call, scratching, and understanding the word "no," and what it means. Also, he keeps eating clumps of grass and dirt and running away from me when I try to get it out of his mouth. He's being a typical puppy, but it is time for training so he can become a happy dog. Riley just needs to understand that it is time to grow up and be a good listener. She is not a puppy, and cannot act as such. Certainly, she can enjoy play times with her brother, but she needs to be available to do her job in the house.

I will begin by doing short training sessions multiple times a day. I am currently needing a lot of rest, but the best way to train a dog is during commercial breaks of TV shows. That way they have 3-4 minutes of training and 10-15 minutes of running around and playing. This keeps them engaged and doesn't exhaust you as much as a whole hour of training would. Dogs have short attention spans, and they will get easily bored and tired if you try to do intensive training for a long time.

A cute moment: the other day, I put Jeph in his kennel. I then couldn't find Riley! I was terrified, running around the house and looking outside and in closets and then I heard it. A large sigh that has become Riley's trademark response to when I am doing something she thinks is silly. And it was coming from Jeph's kennel. I thought perhaps she had taught the little one to sigh! But then, as I checked in on my little fur son, I saw it. Check out the photo below:

How cute is that? Very cute. Extremely cute. And if you think Riley looks a little annoyed in this photo, it is because I woke her up with the camera's flash.

Rock Bottom?

(Because I know many of my readers suffer from things similar to what I am writing about today...TW: Trauma, Medical things, Mental health. Read safely, loves.)

There was no post yesterday because my body decided it was done. I had a full physical breakdown. I slept for fourteen hours and when I finally awakened, it was because my angel of a husband physically shook me awake. He knew I was dehydrated and hungry, even though I could feel nothing but the severe pain. He helped me sit up and forced my reluctant body to take pills and drink water and eat food. He helped me to walk to the couch where he could keep an eye on me. I had a few good hours where I was awake and coherent. Then, suddenly, I collapsed again. Apparently, Husband spent an hour warming me up with blankets and heating pads and tea while massaging my convulsing limbs to get my blood flowing properly. I remember hardly any of it. I am so incredibly grateful for him. He is amazing.

I'm going to be brutally honest here. I know I have a lot of young people who I have taught in past years who look up to me and who will read this and be shocked, as they think of me as upbeat and a positive person. And the number of people who know I have mental illnesses is very low. I'm sorry, guys. I'm human. And I'm scared.

I'm terrified. My mental health is severely slipping. I've begun losing hours of my day as a routine thing now. Instances like suddenly realizing I am at the grocery store with my husband and having no memory of the day prior to that is a normal occurrence. The voice inside my head that tells me to die is getting louder and more insistent. The panic I fight is becoming an overwhelming tidal wave that is rendering me incapable of going a single day without hysterics. The medication that I am on is helping me hold on to my mind by the fingernails. I've begun dissociating very noticeably. And just the other day, I realized that the voices I have been hearing are not going to go away. They've been getting louder. There are three of them, and so far they just say my name or "Hey," but my word, it is terrifying. If I had a dime for every time I have broken down sobbing in front of my husband, saying, "what is happening to me?" or, "you're not real. This is a dream," I could pay for mental health reform in America. And the flashbacks? Let's just say that my service dog Riley is definitely earning her treats. I finally called my EFMP (the program the military has for disabled family members) sponsor and told her I need to see a psychiatrist ASAP to get a proper diagnosis and proper treatment. The asshole who "treated" me before (in 2014) literally sat down with me for three minutes, didn't let me talk, and then laughed at me outright when I told him I was having flashbacks. He told me that doesn't happen and young women like myself are usually prone to anxiety. He then called my therapist in (who was in the same building) and, laughing, told him that I was having flashbacks. The two of them openly giggled together. And I still had to go see that therapist, as he was my only hope at not killing myself. When I told him that I could never trust him after seeing him laugh with my "psychiatrist," he was shocked and told me he didn't realize that would offend me. I should probably pray about that, I was told. He himself did not believe me that I actually was ill until he witnessed a flashback. When I came to, I told him I wanted to die. He suddenly realized I wasn't a "hysterical female" and demanded I be on medication and possibly permanently institutionalized if it got worse. From 0-100 in less than 60 seconds. Impressive. He hadn't ever seen anyone actually go through something like my episodes, and was completely at a loss as to what to do for me. He also was not aware that people could go through more than one trauma in their lifetime. Worst. My only experiences with mental health professionals before that was countless (at least 10) psychologists and therapists who were hired by my insurance company to get me to say that the physical illnesses I had were all psychosomatic (i.e. I was doing it to myself because I was an attention whore. One counselor's words, not mine) so they wouldn't have to pay for any of my medications or treatment. Spoilers: I have three debilitating chronic illnesses that are worse than they would be because I wasn't treated properly for 25 years. Here's hoping that this upcoming experience with mental health professionals is better.

I don't know how much longer I will have my mobility. My next doctor appointment, I'm going to be talking with a physician about getting a wheelchair. I haven't danced in months. I haven't been able to drive a car for any distance by myself for two years now. And yesterday, the pain was unlike any I have ever had (with the exception of the pain from surgeries, because holy shit that hurt). My body is telling me that I am doing too much. And I'm upset and terrified, because all I am doing is sitting on couches or sleeping on beds and yes, I'm cleaning and taking care of a small pup but my goodness, that's nothing compared to what some people do and here I am completely unable to even do the smallest of tasks? It's upsetting.

I get these urges to just do stupid things to my body because who the hell cares, right? What is it going to matter if I drink myself to death or smoke until I have cancer? Or eat until I throw up? Or go walking in a bad neighborhood by myself at 3 AM? Or smack my head into a wall until I see blood? The self-harming voices are getting loud. Thankfully, I haven't done anything yet. I have a service dog who recognizes the spiraling thoughts and comes to jar me out of them. And she's teaching little Jeph to do the same. Human hasn't spoken or moved in a bit? Time to lick her. She's already taught Jeph to climb on my lap and lick my tears while she licks my hand. And my husband refuses to let me get away with saying everything is "fine" when he knows damn well it isn't. If I didn't have them, I would have been dead by now.

So here I am, on a Sunday morning, having not showered in days. I'm completely exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally. My service dog has "grounded" me at least six times while I was writing this. I know I might lose people. I know I might only have three views. But I have to be honest.

Stay safe until tomorrow, friends. And I will try to do the same.

Time Out

Today, I am exhausted. There is pee on every blanket we own except for two that are currently on the bed. These two are totally inadequate for sleeping under, but you do what you have to when you're hopelessly behind on laundry. Thank God for my husband who spent three hours cleaning our house with me tonight. All that is left to do is the mountain of laundry before we have friends over this weekend. Jeph had no accidents on the floor today. But the bed...oh, the poor bed. He had a shower today (he prefers them to baths) and was so upset by how cold the world outside the shower was that he just couldn't keep control of his bladder. So while I was getting a new towel for the shivering pup, he cried and walked slowly around the entire bed, peeing a trail of sadness. I of course did not blame him. Showering is a pretty big deal for the little guy. And he watched his poor sister get subjected to a bath before his shower. Tonight, he learned the command, "Quiet," with copious amounts of treats. After that, he was just so exhausted that as we were cuddling he looked at me with pure guilt and whimpered as drops of pee spurted onto the new bed covers. So now here we are. Late at night with all the blankets and sheets in the laundry with some form of dog pee on them.

Sometimes, Jeph or Riley will get too wild or too demanding or just plain too wolf-like and they get a brief time out. But they are not the only ones. I've noticed that when I take my own time outs, I can handle the stress of puppy parenting a lot better. My husband has been insisting that I take my baths that I am told by doctors are essential to my healing. So every day this week, he has taken Jeph to another room and I have sat in a muscle-relaxing, toxin-sucking bath. Riley is my service dog and she stays with me during baths in case I need her, but she is very quiet when she is working and it is easy to relax and to try to calm my nerves. I also have been relying on Riley's older sister skills. I have been letting Jeph and Riley outside and actually closing the door behind them and only glancing occasionally through the window to make sure they have not tunneled under the fence. Riley is taking pride in taking care of Jeph and teaching him how to play and investigate outside. She also has been using him as her own personal itch-reacher. When she cannot reach a spot, she indicates it and he bites into the spot until she licks his head. It's adorable and weird all at the same time. But I digress. Anyways, when she takes Jeph on an outdoor or indoor adventure, I get a few minutes to breathe and re-focus my mind. These "time out" moments are heavenly, and I hope to continue to find them.

Videos Of My Dogs!

Would you like to see my cute dogs doing cute things? Don't be silly, of course you would.

Here is my channel:
The Grand Adventures of Abby

Just have time for one cute video? Here is the latest:
Riley and Jeph have a Pillow Fight

And in case you really cannot watch a video at the moment (you're supposed to be working, aren't you?), here are a few pictures of my pups to get you by:

                                           Bae caught me sleeping. No, seriously. I was asleep.

                                  Rare photo of Jeph and Riley sleeping together on the couch.

                                           Not so rare photo of Jeph sleeping on the couch.

                     Seriously, why is he so tired? Is being adorable all the time really that hard?

Small Battles Won

This morning, Jeph and I had a little battle of who could be more stubborn. I wanted him to pee outside, and he wanted to play inside the house with his older fur sister. After an exceptionally long time of picking him up, turning him around, and setting him back on the grass, he finally took care of his business. He glared at me the whole time. Now he's asleep, the horror of realizing that his mummy can be more stubborn than he can having taken its toll.

Ms. Riley likes to pretend she can't hear me when she wants to play with Jeph. She has discovered that I am very quick and can catch her and scold her faster than she can say, "I was going to listen eventually."

Today, I enjoyed a morning free of bites. Jeph has stopped biting me altogether. I also have no new scratches. It seems my methods of yelping like a tiny puppy when he bites have been effective.

Jeph sits upon command now. I've only had the little fella for a week and a half and already he knows his name, "sit," and "come."

I feel accomplished. And my little baby boy still lets me scratch his tiny tummy to put him to sleep. And Ms. Riley still cuddles up to me every afternoon and demands I hold her like I did when we first met. I am loved by two dogs and my husband. I have won, and will return again to fight tomorrow.