Second-Hand Shopping is not Second-Rate

The hangers make that familiar metal-on-plastic clink as I sift through dozens of blouses and pants.  I’m blasting through someone else’s past in a tidy little second-hand clothing store in Okotoks and it’s the first of four my sisters and I will be visiting today. 

It’s a bit daunting, but worth the effort, I think.  I’ve become increasingly tired of spending $100 on one pair of jeans, (I know, even that is fairly cheap these days) or $65 for a simple t-shirt.  The buyer’s remorse coupled with the fact that I’m not even sure what I bought looks good on me or even goes together is frustrating.  In a mall, I wander around discouraged and overwhelmed.   To many choices is not always a good thing for me.  Usually, I give up within the first 30 minutes and head to the frozen yogurt stand to seek solace and comfort.

So after hearing a conversation from several co-workers about their amazing second-hand buys, I decide it’s time to take the plunge. 

But even after all my reasoning, I’m really not looking forward to spending my day indoors hunting for treasure like an apathetic pirate.  But I began to realize that I could treat this excursion like a mission, complete with a plan and a goal in mind.  So I come up with the idea of taking the $100 I would spend on one pair of pants at the yoga store and see how many gently used pieces of clothing I can buy with it.

So I adjust my attitude and stride into the first shop with a clear and determined mind.  I vow to go through every single shirt, blouse, vest and turtleneck one-by-one.  It doesn’t take long to find two blouses that actually fit and look half decent--and for $10 apiece, the thrifty side of me rejoices.

Feeling good about my finds, we drive to our next destination.  I picture a small shop like the one we were just in, but instead, we walk into one of the biggest second-hand shops I’ve ever seen.  Rows upon rows of every kind of shirt, pant, coat, dress, skirt and shoes line a space big enough to house a basketball court.  I feel myself deflate slightly.  I’ve had actual nightmares about this.  The air is thick with the scent of old refurbished clothing, and dozens of solemn-faced women peruse the racks with robotic-like focus.  I picture a pack of lions slowly circling their prey and then fighting over the carcass.  However, remembering my attitude adjustment, I begin the task.  After what feels like hours, I eventually find a pair of jeans that might work, trudge back to the dressing rooms and try them on.  No dice.  I give them to the harried sales lady and walk back into the fray.  The clothes are all color-coded, and so the isles look like an enormous color wheel—not a bad idea.  But still, it is too much for me, and I lose the small amount of determination I had when I walked in.  If only I had a personal shopper, I think, for the thousandth time.  Someone to just lead me around plying me with an armful of clothes and telling me what looks good. 

I am still at only $20, so we get back into the car and drive to our next location.  This one is a little more my style, tucked into an aging brick building in downtown Calgary.  It’s small, and we are the only people inside, so it begins to feel a little more intimate and casual.  The anxiety I had in the bigger store dissipates and I relax and go slowly through the racks.  I find a pair of tights, a yoga top and some sort of golden sparkly sleeveless number I wouldn’t normally buy.  But for $10, why not?   I soon realize that buying second hand clothing is actually making me a little bolder.  Or maybe it’s reckless.  Either way, it seems to be working.  I’m looking at dresses and other pieces I would never even consider at the mall.  I realize the reason is that my choices are limited, and the clothes are unique, a concept that appeals to me.

Our last destination is in the quaint Kensington area of Calgary.  The shop sits on the upper floor of a two-store building, overlooking a bustling street.  Inside, we find a similar vibe as our last shop and begin browsing.  I eventually find a great name brand short-sleeve pullover for a bargain.  I’m elated.  I end up with five pieces of clothing for just under $100.  Not bad for my first attempt.  I’m sure a more adept shopper would have squeezed a little more product out of their cash, but I’m satisfied.  I hear tell of a few more second-hand stores sprinkled around the city and I intend on going there soon.  Who knows what kind of treasure lies in wait for such unsuspecting (and sometimes unwilling) shoppers like me.

Laughter and Loud Music: A Mixed Bag

“I have tickets to go to a comedy club in a few weeks,” my husband announces one evening over dinner.  It should sound like a lot of fun, but instead, it fills my stomach with lead.

All week, I push the thought away, the same way I do on Sunday afternoons, when the idea of Monday morning work rears its ugly head.  I still haven’t figured out exactly why things like this are so hard for me.  Maybe a few hours with a psychologist would help, I think.  Ten-plus years of being a reporter, and the youngest of seven kids should have made a difference as well, but for some reason, large social outings only succeed in making me feel anxious.

Nevertheless, I persevere, telling myself it’s not like I am going to be the one on stage.  I just have to sit there in the dark and laugh.  Simple. 

The night arrives, and I put off getting dressed up until the last possible moment.   I stare at my closet and draw in a large tired breath.  My wardrobe looks like a gym teacher clashed with a librarian.  I have no idea what looks good on me.  So I grab some jeans and a top, throw on some mascara and try and forget about it.

Our friends arrive to pick us up and we crawl into their suburban.  I am comfortable with them and soon, I start to relax.  Their presence insolates me and makes me feel at ease.  This won’t be so bad.  Most of the new things I’ve tried have turned out great, so this should too. 

We arrive at the club and are ushered into a darkened room and squeeze around a table.  I am struck suddenly with the horrified thought that one of my friends will be that one person in the crowd everybody hates.  The heckler.  For someone who shies away from any kind of attention, this would be horrendously embarrassing.  I inwardly beg for silence from my table, and I am rewarded.  My friends are not inconsiderate big mouths with the maniacal desire to make others squirm. 

The comedians are hilarious.  The laughter calms me even further and I wonder what I was so worried about.  Exposure to these types of situations is exactly what I need—I do it to remind myself that the world is not a scary place to live and without a little risk, it seems dull somehow.

After the show, I am relieved to get out of the stuffy room and begin to think about pajamas and a movie.  Instead, my friends suggest we go out.  I cringe.  The little baby in me has a silent fit, and wants to scream.  Go out?  I think, we just did! I’ve done my duty for at least the next month.  Instead, I gather my remaining patience and go along with the group. 

They decide a pub would be a good idea.  That seems reasonable I think.  I like pubs—the casual atmosphere is unlike the bars I went to as a college student.  Just up my alley.  I’m okay with that.

We get to the doors and are stopped by two beefy men in black and a young man who looks like he couldn’t be much older than my teenage son.  I’m confused for a second, until I realize they are doormen, this young man’s enforcers.  Why would there be doormen at a pub?  My experiences with doormen was a long, long time ago, on a street we called Electric Ave.  Back then, there was a need for this kind of enforcement, because we were all young, with brains that had not quite developed the ability to think and act rationally.  What could they possibly need to do to a bunch of 40-somethings who would probably be in bed at this time of night, any other day of the week? 

The young man flashes a smile and asks to see our identification.  This instantly becomes the highlight of my night.  We whoop and holler like a pack of hooligans going to a soccer game.  We oblige and I pull my driver’s license out of my wallet basking in the glow of such a wonderful compliment.  But instead of looking at it, the youngster scans it into a hand held device that looks like a debit card machine.  A trickle of disappointment runs through me as I realize he would probably do this to my great grandma.

We file in and find a table.  The place is crowded and as I scan the room, I realize we are probably the oldest people in here by at least ten years.  I assume rather enviously, that the rest of our demographic is doing the rational thing and sticking to the solace and comfort of their homes.

I also notice that there is a dance floor.  Then it all comes into focus.  This is not a traditional pub in any sense of the word, where the tired, weather-beaten blue collar workers come to blow off steam in front of a large crackling open fire.  There are no dartboards or pool tables to speak of.  There are some antique-ish looking trinkets sprinkled throughout the place, but nothing is authentic, and it doesn’t match the vision I have in my mind. Instead of the grizzled old bartender, there are several young men and women slinging the drinks.  They probably don’t even have the double-barreled shotgun hidden within arm’s reach beneath the bar, I think with disappointment.

Looking around, I realize this is a place my 18-year-old self would have loved.  Now though, I feel like a teenager at a toddler’s birthday party.

We try to talk, but the music is so loud I have to lean over and yell into my husband’s ear and gesticulate wildly to communicate.  We sit around the table and occasionally try to say something.  But mostly, we just stare around the room.  My friend does try to say something, but I can’t hear and I’m too tired and lazy to figure it out, so I just nod my head and smile in what I hope are the right places.

We try to dance, but the music is just the same long, never ending pounding beat, like somewhere in the building, there is a drumming circle I’m not aware of.

I’m getting sensory overload and need some quiet.  After an hour, I convince my friends to leave.  Outside in the parking lot, we get odd stares from strangers, as we talk on our way to the vehicle.  I realize it’s because we are speaking at a volume way beyond what is normal and sound like a bunch of workers at a construction site.

I sigh in relief as we pile into the truck and make our way home.  We talk and have some good laughs at our own expense.  I’m not upset that I didn’t enjoy my first bar experience in a long time.  I just get more enjoyment out of other things, like a darkened comedy club, or sitting on the top of a mountain.  

I can happily say it’s just not for me. 

Wrestling, the Ultimate Spectator Sport

It’s Saturday night and I’m huddled on an unlit side of the Royal Canadian Legion in southeast Calgary.  Groups of people murmur in the darkness, our only illumination coming from a few dim streetlights hidden behind two tall, creaky pine trees.

I’m feeling a little uncomfortable in this situation, but this time, I’ve taken my son, sister, nephew and my mom with me.  We have come to watch my nephew wrestle in a Real Canadian Wrestling event.  His stage name is Evan Adams.  But I’ve known him for the past 24 years as Adam.   

 He has chosen a somewhat off beat passion and I want to see him perform…or compete.  I think it’s a combination of the two.  I am well aware of this type of wrestling, because as a kid, I grew up watching Hulk Hogan, Randy Macho Man Savage and Andre the Giant.  I’m pretty sure I know what to expect, and I’m curious to find out if things have changed since the WWF days.

I shift my feet on the icy sidewalk and hunker down into my jacket.  We wait for almost half an hour outside until the line starts moving. 

I’m surprised at how many people have come to see this.  We enter the building, and it’s packed with standing room only.  What I thought would be more like a gym, is actually a ballroom-style venue.  But instead of a dance floor, a wrestling ring has been set up in the middle.  There are chairs, but not enough for the couple hundred spectators.  We squeeze down an isle and find seats for my mom and sister.  My son and I find a fold-up table that seems to have been randomly stuffed in a back corner and we gingerly make it our perch.  Then we wait.  I really struggle with patience, and this situation is definitely testing it.  I look around and realize though, that the opportunity to do some prime people watching has presented itself.  This place is a gold mine. 

People in all shapes, sizes and demographics are here. A tired looking older woman wearing black skateboard shoes, tight black jeans and a T-shirt that is too small sits at the front.  I notice her because her shoulder-length hair is stripped in bright shades of pink, blue and green.  Behind her, a rather large pair of senior citizens sit sipping Big Gulps and beside me, a man with a Bill Cosby sweater, faded jeans and running shoes sips on a rum and coke.  Across the room, a group of young boys sit in wiggly anticipation; all of them are wearing wrestling masks of various designs.  A couple people have even brought their newborn babies. 

A half hour later, the show begins.  A woman, who I deduce is the MC, strolls into the ring to announce the first competitors.  In her black and white stripped pants, stiletto heals and black leather jacket, she reminds me of a female Beetlejuice.  

A middle-aged man in a red and blue Speedo emerges from a back room and strolls around the ring.  I think he is the “bad guy” in this match, because suddenly from all around the room, people are screaming and calling him names.  Soon after, his opponent enters and the crowd’s volume increases.  It feels like I’m in the middle of an authorized street fight.  The match begins as the two men take turns throwing, slapping and jumping on each other.  This lasts for 20 minutes until a winner is declared. 

I’ve been to a lot of competitive sporting events in my life, but this has got to be by far one of the most unique if not entertaining experiences I’ve had.  Watching this kind of wrestling on television is nothing like being here in person.  Unlike most sports, in wrestling, yelling insults and giving the finger to the competitors appears to be encouraged.  Likewise, the wrestlers have no problem throwing out aspersions of their own. 

During the next several matches, endearing phrases such as “pecker head” are uttered with great frequency.  At one point, someone from behind me yells out something to do with having bigger man parts than the wrestler.  The wrestler seems to have no problem with returning these witty insults with sharp comebacks like:  “Suck my sweaty balls you big, fat bastard!”

A group of people sitting beside me starts chanting, “shave your back!” to one fellow who has a rather thick layer of hair all over his body.  Another, more rotund wrestler comes out wearing a singlet, which basically looks like a one-piece bathing suit for men.  Unfortunately for him, it appears to be too small—a detail that doesn’t escape the crowd’s notice.  A chant of “fix your wedgie!” starts up and doesn’t diminish until the match is over. 

Despite the yelling and general chaos, the competitors put on a fairly impressive athletic display.  They jump from the top of the ropes, and land with precision on each other with practiced skill.  It is a red neck Cirque de Soleil.

My nephew’s fight is an all-out war, with three or four teams of two battling it out for the tag team title.  To my surprise, Adam is one of the bad guys.  I like it.  He breaks all kinds of “rules” during the match, sneaking into the ring when he shouldn’t to land a hard punch to an unsuspecting competitor’s back, while the referee’s back is turned.  I try to catch his eye during the fight, but he is completely immersed in character and I think, would probably shout something nasty at me if I yelled at him.  Eventually, they end up winning the fight and claiming the title.  I’m impressed by his passion and skill.  It’s hard enough being an athlete and competing at a high level.  In this kind of wrestling, to be “in character” is one more thing to think about while balanced precariously on top of the ropes preparing to thunder to the mat on top of someone else without really hurting them.

I’m an athlete, but the introvert in me would rather pull my nails out than be up in the middle of that ring. 

Although, I have to admit there is a certain allure to being allowed to punch someone in the neck and not get arrested for it.  Maybe I should start practicing.

This is 40: Rocking It Out or Rocking Chair?

“Whoa, I think it’s the lead singer from Whitesnake!” I say to my sister.  We watch as a skinny guy with long flowing blond hair hops up onto the stage and prepares for his band’s performance.  He is wearing skin-tight jeans, a black t-shirt and a white leather jacket. His band mates have followed suit but have opted for black leather jackets.  I’m not sure, but I also suspect the lead guitarist is Slash from Guns N Roses fame.  He has the long, black curly hair; but the top hat is missing.

I am at a local pub waiting to see my nephew perform with his new band.  But first, we get to hear two other bands playing an assortment of heavy metal and not so heavy rock.

The David Coverdale look-a-like starts into their first song, and I can’t help but wonder if they are any good.  Because I’m not sure what constitutes good rock and roll these days.  I ask my nephew and he gives me a funny look and a sarcastic reply.  I’m still not sure what to think, so I watch him watching the band.  He seems to enjoy them, so I sit back and try to do the same.  But man do I feel old tonight.  The music is difficult to appreciate and is so loud I am on sensory overload.  I find myself thinking of my cozy bed and a good book.  What has become of me?  I’m not that old.  Or is this what 40 looks like?  Twenty years ago going out at 10 p.m. would have been too early.  But now, I’m wishing for my over-sized fleece pajama pants and the tattered t-shirt that sometimes doubles as my paint shirt.

I’m tired but no one could fall asleep in this place.  It’s packed with an assortment of people who are almost more entertaining to watch than the band.  I notice as a young guy with layered, poker-straight red hair stands at the bar with a beer in one hand.  Actually, I would call his hair “feathered”.  Anybody who grew up in the 1970’s and 80’s knows what that looks like.  It was cool.  Thirty years ago.

My sister nudges me and tells me to keep watching.  Sure enough, every few minutes, he bows his head like he has found something really interesting on the floor to look at and then, without missing a beat, flips his long locks out of his eyes in a sweeping, super-model fashion.  I deduce that his other hand, hanging limply at his side, is too heavy to lift and move the hair out of his eyes. 

The ear piercings and tattoos are on full parade tonight, and I find myself staring at a tattoo of a snake entwined on a flower running up a woman’s beefy arm.  It disappears under her shirtsleeve, and I can’t help but wonder what the rest looks like.  Not that I want to find out.  She looks like she could hang a licking on me.

There is also enough old Levi denim, white socks and tennis shoes to fill a thrift store.  It looks like the 1990’s all over again.  And ironically, most of the people in here are much younger than I am.  Except for the old man and his wife, who sit at the bar and look as out of place as a football player in a tutu.

Eventually, my nephew’s band begins their set up and they start to play.  I’m impressed with my nephew’s creativity and guitar prowess.  His fingers fly over the strings.  In his hands, the instrument looks like it is an extension of him.  I’m proud of him.  It takes a lot of hard work and guts to get up on a stage and play in front of strangers. 

They finish their set and we wait around to give our compliments before leaving.  I look at my watch and realize it’s almost 1:30 IN THE MORNING.  I’m usually a few hours into my REM at this point.  How did I ever do this, almost every weekend, back in the day?  It’s been twenty years, and two kids later, but it’s still not hard to remember how.  And why.  I had nothing to lose, and a heck of a lot more time and energy on my hands.  And of course, it was a lot of fun.

Then it hits me:  I’m thinking like a senior citizen.  I’m not 80.  I can still enjoy a fun night out, just maybe not in this particular way.   As we drive home through the frozen morning, I wonder if my husband and I could learn to salsa.  The thought soon passes from my mind as exhaustion sets in and earlier thoughts of a warm bed take over.  There will be plenty of time for dancing.  After I get some sleep.

Experiencing the (almost) unexpected: Twenty four hours of high water in High River

I'm getting ready for work when I get an anxious call from my sister.  She wants to know if it’s okay to come to High River because she heard that the water levels in the Highwood River are rising.  I sigh and shake my head at her needless worrying.  "You have nothing to worry about," I reply.  "The water gets high every year.”

I don't give it another thought.  Mostly because this happens every June and also because the last time it flooded eight years ago, the water didn't come close to our home.  And that was a bad one.  Back then; relentless sandbagging saved a lot of the affected homes.  

I glance out my window into the green space.  It’s about three acres of emerald colored grass with a small playground at one end.  Young trees have started to grow making it feel like a tiny oasis in our bustling little town.  Although it rained hard all night, I don’t see any water there.

At work, people have begun showing pictures of the Sheep River sent to them by friends living in Black Diamond.  They are incredible. The river has morphed into a raging wall of muddy water.  I decide to check my phone and open up a text Phil sends.  It's a picture of the green space filling with water.  The water had already pooled in the east corner and was rapidly snaking its way west, towards our home.  I'm surprised but still not very worried.  Until I hear that one of our two bridges in town has been closed.  I get the okay to leave work and drive home to check on our house. I pass the river on my way and I'm shocked at how high it has come up in the two hours since I last saw it.  It is angry.  Its as if it has decided to take revenge on everything around it.  Huge pieces of wood, and other large chunks of debris are being hurtled down the muddy water like tiny, insignificant twigs.  Trees, still intact from root to tip, have fallen victim to the strength of the water.

I'm home for only a few minutes when there is a knock on my door.  It's a policeman who informs us that there is a mandatory evacuation and we must leave. Emma and I go downstairs and move everything up off the basement floor. Despite seeing the river and the water behind our home, I'm not really worried about my stuff getting wet. The water would have to do something unprecedented to do that, I think. 

We wait for Phil to come back with some sandbags, but he doesn't come, and my cell phone isn’t working. When the power goes out, my anxiety rises. We decide to hop in the car and take a look at our community.  My mouth hangs open when I see that the little creek that hugs the outside of our community has risen at least four feet and has overtaken the walking path that runs beside it and has begun to creep up into backyards. 

At the other end of our neighborhood, a pond connects to the creek that runs under the road through a concrete culvert. This culvert was built after the 2005 flood to protect our homes.  But I can't see it anymore.  I can't see the road either because the pond and the creek have blended into one raging body of water.  I’m stunned at the little time it has taken for the water to find its way to the road.  It's the only way out of our area by vehicle.  I swallow hard and my hands start to sweat.  On the east side of the road, the water drops a couple of feet, and has formed into a mini waterfall. I turn the car around and head back to the house, not sure what to do. My neighbors seem to be thinking the same thing.  Some are walking down the streets, checking out the water and where it has come to.  Other have started to sandbag.

I have to do something, and waiting doesn’t feel like an option anymore.  So, gripping the steering wheel tight, I drive up to the water.  My heart is pounding in my ears as I nudge my car through the water.  If I go to fast, the water will fill my engine and it will stall.  If I go to slow, I'm afraid it might push the car into the waterfall.  Emma touches my arm and murmurs encouraging words.  We can feel the water rocking the car as we slowly make our way across. I look straight ahead and pray that this was the right decision. Seconds pass as the water slowly recedes and we find higher ground. I lift my shaking hands from the steering wheel and stare blankly out the windshield.

What just happened?  What is happening?  I take a moment to look around.  It's chaos.  The streets are jammed with vehicles.  Some people are pulled over and stare at the water.  Others have gotten out to help direct traffic.  Fire trucks and police cars are trying to squeeze through the clogged streets.  Everyone is trying to leave. I realize it’s not just my community that was evacuated.  It looks like the entire northwest side of town has the same order.

I drive to my friend’s house, where we had agreed to meet.  Phil had left to get sandbags but didn't return and I hope he is there.  He is.  

Jared comes running out of the house and throws his arms around me.  I hug him tight.  My sluggish brain is still trying to understand what is happening.  I'm supposed to be at work right now.  Should I go back?  Do people need help? I decide to wait it out, but sitting around does nothing for my nervous energy so we get in the car to take a look around.  I need to know what is going on, I need to get a sense of what is happening to my little town.  We drive a few blocks before we are stopped by a blockade.  Which isn’t actually necessary, because the street has disappeared and the river has overtaken it.  Boats are now going up and down the streets in an effort to reach people who are stranded inside their homes.  Helicopters are running constantly trying to find those who have had to find safety on their roofs.  The only vehicles are huge loaders that push through the water. But instead of dirt, the buckets carry people. 

“It’s like a scene from one of those disaster movies,” my friend remarks.  She’s right.  All we can hear over the roar of the water are helicopters, machines and sirens.  Dozens of other people stand with us dumbfounded at the complete and total havoc Mother Nature is reeking over our little town.  The river has not simply spilled over its banks.  It has spread in almost every direction and is running through homes like water through a sieve.  It looks like an inland tsunami.

I stand there feeling completely and utterly helpless.  The need to connect with other residents keeps me there for a long time, exchanging stories and sharing information.   

Eventually, we go back to my friend’s house and eat supper.  The food tastes like cardboard in my mouth, and I eat mechanically.  My friends and I talk and joke, but there is an underlying feeling of anxiety among all of us.  I wonder if this is what shock feels like.

After supper, we decide to check out our home.  I am hesitant to go back through the water, but the rain has stopped and the water has receded a bit and we go through.

It’s too quiet here, I think.  There isn’t even any wind.  It feels like we are inside a glass dome and every last breath of fresh air has been sucked out.  Then I understand why.  While the front of our street looks relatively normal, behind our home, the transformation is shocking.  The green space is gone.  In it’s place, there is a muddy, brown lake.  The water has filled our little oasis with dirty bath water.  About four to six feet of water is now sitting in the space, and has found its way into our homes.  A rock begins to form in my stomach as I go into my home.  I can smell dankness from the front door.  And I’m not prepared for what I find. Our main floor is untouched, and remains as we left it.  But the basement has been transformed.  I walk down only a few steps before I see the water.  A large storage unit, along with a desk and toys, are floating. Another cupboard lies on an angle against the wall.  I can’t see any further without going right into the water. It’s so quiet in here I think again, over the haze of my shock.  The water has destroyed a lifetime of memories and possessions we worked hard for and now it all sits there, marinating in sewage and other filth.  It’s like watching someone you love being assaulted but not being able to stop it.  There is nothing I can do. 

Regret pours over me as I think about the time I had to move everything upstairs and out of harms way.  How foolish and arrogant I was to assume my basement would be untouched.  I walk out onto the street and blink hard in the bright sunlight.  I try and remind myself that it’s just stuff, things that can be replaced and that most importantly, my family is safe.  But the feeling that the worst kind of invasion of our privacy has just occurred presses down on me like weight.  The water is an intruder that continues to assault, even after it’s been discovered.

That night, sleep comes fitfully as I toss and turn and run the events of the day over and over in my head. 

The next morning, I awake feeling like I’m at the beginning of a long journey and this is day one.  At least we are all in this together I tell myself, as I walk down the road in front of my home.  Others have come back to, and we stand on the street and talk.  Their presence is like a balm and I feel comfort in coming together. I am encouraged and my faith like a match just struck springs to life.  I am not alone.

The most difficult decision

I awake to the sounds of birds singing on a warm and sunny spring day.  I have the day off, so I snuggle deeper into the blankets and turn to look out my bedroom window.  

I'm relishing the lie-in when reality strikes like an unexpected balloon pop.  We are taking our dog Nelson into the vet today.  And it will be his last visit.  

I squeeze my eyes tight but the tears find their way out anyway. Although I have had dogs my entire life, I have never been through this particular experience before.  My husband offers to take him in alone, but I feel an obligation to be there with Nelson during his final moments.

Nelson was not a young dog when he came to live with us.  No one is certain of exactly how old he is, but we gage it to be somewhere around 16, which makes him a very elderly, senior citizen.  Most people can’t help but smile when they see him.  He is a mixed breed, half boarder collie and black lab.  His genetics have endowed him with long black hair a shaggy tail and a rather rotund body, which make his legs appear small and stumpy.

His arrival in our home was unexpected. A good friend was moving back to England and asked if we could keep him and then send him over after the necessary arrangements were made.  Unfortunately for my friend, Nelson grew on us and in the end we agreed it would be easier for him to stay with us as he was already moving into his senior years.

Thinking that he would probably only live for another two or three years, we thought his time with us would be short.  He proved us wrong and almost six years later, he is still with us. 

Nelson became famous in our neighborhood for being the dog that could eat anything and wake up the next morning alive and well. 

One day, he disappeared and came back hours later with bright eyes and what could pass as a huge dog-like smile.  But it didn’t take long before the barfing began.  We rushed him to the vet where he was put through a battery of tests, which revealed nothing. The next day, we received a worried phone call from the vet saying we should come quick as it looked like the end was near.  My daughter and I rushed over and found him lying listlessly in his kennel.  When he saw us however, he jumped up, wagged his tail and would not stop trying to lick us.  To our relief, he was just depressed, and didn’t understand why we had abandoned him.  His official diagnosis was garbage guts.  After some discussion and investigation, we could only assume that he had found the grease bin over at the golf course restaurant and indulged himself to his hearts desire.

Nelson loved food.  Anything passed the edible test in Nelson’s mind.  On another occasion, we went for a walk out in the woods near our home.  We had gotten used to Nelson’s way of walking, which tended to be very slow and with complete disregard to our repeated calls.  We would often lose track of him but never really worried about it because Nelson would usually trail along behind us pausing here and there to sniff and then pee.  This time however, he had stopped completely.  We were up ahead quite a ways, so we stopped to locate him.  He was hunched over something, and it looked like he was jerking his head forwards and backwards, like a chicken. With dawning dread, I realized he was trying to swallow something large and bulky.  Remembering the garbage guts fiasco, I turned and ran screaming his name, across the field. (His grease bin binge had cost us over $800 in vet bills).  When I got to him, I saw that he had a chunk of fur protruding from his mouth and he was desperately trying to swallow it.  “It” being something like a dead rabbit or some other poor fury creature.  I hesitated at first, because like most normal people, I didn’t want to play tug of war with my dog over an animal carcass.  But he wouldn’t stop.  Eyes wide, looking at me, he continued his attempt at swallowing it whole, like a big black furry boa constrictor.  Knowing that I had to do it, I took hold of the fur and pulled it out. If a dog could look disappointed, I think Nelson gave that impression that day. 

I’m assuming his undiscriminating diet was one of the reasons behind his rather distinct aroma.  Nelson stunk.  This stench followed him around like smoke from a burning stick.  We tried everything we could to curb the smell:  Home baths, trips to the river.  Even professional grooming only kept the smell away for a week or so.  This and his penchant for eating everything and anything garnered him many nicknames including Smelly Nelly, Big Belly Nelly, and Smelson to name a few. 

There were other quirky sides to him as well.  Like the way he would back out of a room instead of turning around.  Or, his on-again, off-again fear of our tile floors.  He would emerge from the garage and stand paralyzed with fear on the area rug, looking out at the tile like it was a sea of ice, ready to consume him.  These actions were all very bizarre to us but for reasons known only to him, they made sense.

He never quite seemed to appreciate all we did for him, and in fact, once ran off to the neighbors at 3 a.m.  They were awakened to scratches and desperate barks from the front door.  When they opened it, Nelson walked right in and settled in for the night.

Despite all of his idiosyncrasies, or maybe because of them, I loved him.  He was my friend.  He was the crazy grandpa who came to live with us. 

Last year, he began to slow down, and the fur around his mouth and ears began to turn white.  He developed a harsh, raspy breath and we took to calling him Darth Vader.  His back legs became stiff and it became harder and harder for him to get up and walk.  We also suspected that he was having seizures and experiencing some dog-like dementia, where he would often just stop and stare off into space. 

My husband tried to start conversations about ending his pain, but I didn’t want to listen.  I didn’t want to think that he was nearing the end of his life.  Despite all my sarcastic jokes about Nelson being immortal and out-living us all, I wanted him to stay with us.

A trip to the vet confirmed that his health was failing, and that he had developed numerous teeth infections and probably had many other issues going on.  He was suffering.

It takes me two weeks, but I finally agree to set the date.

The appointment isn’t until later in the afternoon so I spend the day with a heavy heart and a lump in my throat.  I try to stay busy but it stays with me all day.

Finally its time and we load him into the truck and take him in.  He comes willingly, and I feel like the worst person in the world.  A Judas.  I am the ultimate betrayer.  We bring him into the room and the veterinarian speaks kindly to us about the process: They will give him a sedative that will relax him. After he settles they will administer the cocktail of drugs that will slowly shut down his organs and he will drift off peacefully.  I cannot control myself and the tears come unabashed.  I stroke his fur and whisper into his ear as he takes his final breaths.

The world is a blur as we spend a few more minutes alone with him.  I rush out of the room and crawl into the truck like a zombie.  Regret pours over me and I wish. I wish with all my heart that Nelson could have spoken to me.  I wish he could have said that it was all right, that he was ready to go.  But I will never know, and that will stay with me forever.

At home, the silence of his absence is deafening. I ask myself why I put myself through this.  Why I always find a reason to have a pet when I know I will out live it.  My conclusion is rather selfish.  The happiness a pet brings into our lives is worth the pain we feel when they are gone.  Thanks Nelson.  You were an exceptional dog.

Say Goodbye to the Sidecar

The reality of what I am about to do doesn’t really truly sink in until the nurse leads me into the operating room. Here, an anesthesiologist asks me a few cursory questions before directing me to the operating table.

My entire body is shaking, until he gently slides the needle into my wrist and the sedative begins to take effect.

I am here for a bunionectomy, hammertoe correction and the repair of my dislocated second toe.  I am not under a general anesthetic so I am awake as two surgeons go to work on my beleaguered right foot.

I am saying goodbye to my “sidecar” as one of my friends so lovingly puts it.  She’s right though.  It’s a bigger bunion than most I have seen.  A lot of people don’t believe me until I strip my sock off and reveal the abnormal bone growth that protrudes from just under my big toe.  My hammertoe doesn’t help in the aesthetics department either.  A corn sits on the top of it like an ugly, fleshy crown.  Their eyes grow wide and their expressions often change from surprise to barely hidden disgust.

My foot probably belongs in a sideshow carnival.

So, a week ago, when the foot doc said he had a cancelation, I took it.  Now, lying on a sterile operating table I wonder what I was thinking. 

The anesthetic works similar to getting a filling at the dentist.  I can hear and “feel” tugging on my foot, but nothing else. 

It’s quiet for some time.  Until they go to work on my bunion.  Suddenly, I hear the most gruesome sound.  Through my drug-saturated mind, I think I hear the neighbor’s power tools.  Hmm.  He must be building that shed, I think.  Then I realize it’s not the neighbor, it’s my doctor, and he does have some kind of power tool, but one made for sawing off bone.  My foot is moving, and the high-pitched whine of the tool fills the room.  I close my eyes and try to think of something else, but it doesn’t work.  The awful sound fills my head like a gigantic bumblebee.

I’m desperate for some reassurance.  So I try and turn my head to make eye contact with the nurse or the anesthesiologist (who looks like, out of my peripheral vision, is reading a magazine and drinking a coffee).  To my relief, and after what feels like hours, the room goes quiet again.  What are they doing to my foot now? I think.  That’s when I feel the most dreadful pain above my calf muscle.  I communicate this to the nurse, who tells me it’s the tourniquet they tie there to reduce blood flow to the foot.  It’s excruciating.  She says the surgery went longer than expected, (almost 45 minutes longer), and the pain will disappear soon. Eventually, it does subside.

When they are done, the doctor asks me to look at his handy work.  I lift my head off the table and peer, bleary-eyed, down at my foot.  It looks like some sort of Frankenstein creation.  Three lines of stitching run length-wise from my toes down to the middle of my foot.  I lean my head back down and try and absorb this while they wrap it up. 

I won’t see my foot again for six to eight weeks.  Nor will I be able to put any weight on it. 

In recovery, the nurse brings out a large, black walking boot and sets my foot inside it. I smirk inwardly thinking of Anakin Skywalker and his Darth Vader transformation operation. 

She is giving me instructions, but I barely remember who I am, let alone what I should and should not be doing with my foot. 

The doctor comes in and shows me a picture of the inside of my foot and is telling me something about the surgery.  I try to focus on the image, but it keeps looking like raw roast beef. 

Later, I am transported to my husband’s truck and loaded into the back like a sack of potatoes.  There I lay for an hour while he tries to avoid potholes and sudden stops and starts.

Finally, we arrive home and he helps me up the stairs and into bed.  I’m still a little stunned by the events of the day, and stare blankly at the TV.  I can only hope that this was a good decision and that regret will not surface.  So I remind myself that long-term, I will reap the benefits of taking care of myself in my (mostly) younger years.  I think of my plan to celebrate my 40^th birthday standing on top of a mountain, and suddenly I feel that all the pain I know I’m going to have in the next few days and weeks is going to be worth it. The benefits will outweigh the short-term pain and mobility issues.

My family is flitting in and out of the room, asking if I need this or if they can do that. It is a foreign feeling to be doted on and I am so thankful to have them in my life. I settle my head back onto the pillow and close my eyes.  Let the healing begin.