The house was filled with loud teenagers and balloons. The occasion was a sweet-sixteen party - birthday not basketball - to honor my daughter. One of the games the teens dreamed up, Balloon Burst, involved hugging a fully inflated balloon to your chest until it exploded, all the while doing your best to maintain your composure. The best part, they say, is watching everyone else try to keep a straight face knowing what was coming. Some fun!
Present at the party were about a dozen of my daughter's closest friends and a rat-cha (rat terrier/chihuahua mix), named Abigail. Abby, a.k.a., Little Dog, is about nine pounds of pure energy, the most athletic dog in history. I once decided to count how many times she would fetch a ball without stopping. I gave up counting after 130 tosses and a 15 day stint on the DL for an impinged elbow issue.
Bred to hunt rats and other rodents, the rat terrier is a fearless breed. Even though Abby has the size and some of the look of a chihuahua, her muscular build and personality show all the signs of being dominated by the aggressiveness of the terrier. She was a fearless little dog, unlike her predecessor, Sundance, a.k.a., The Weasel, so named because her best skill was looking guilty. Even when she had done nothing wrong, a simple, 'What did you do?' would send Sundance cowering away like a repentant sloth.
Sundance was our yellow lab, the Everett family mascot. She predated Abby by about eleven years and outweighed her by about sixty pounds. She was always a compliant, meek dog, but she became verifiably disturbed after living through a large scale house remodel. After that trauma, she was afraid of everything. Abby was an adjustment for Sundance too. We had to train the little dog to be submissive to the big dog. We did that out of respect for Sundance, of course, but I suspect, somewhere in the back of our minds was the thought that, should Abby show a little too much disrespect, it could prove fatal.
I said Abby was a fearless little dog. However, before Sundance passed away, she managed to train Abby to be afraid of just about everything. Be afraid of the sirens and thunder. Be afraid of the animals eating at the trash cans. Be afraid of the dogs walking past the house. Be afraid of cat birds. Be afraid of the tv if its too loud. Be afraid of trash bags if they are too quiet. Be afraid of trash bags if they move. Be afraid of the hose. Be afraid of wood chairs. Be afraid of all machines especially nail guns. Be afraid of trash blowing through the air. Be afraid of fans. And my favorite, be afraid of the child safety gate. In the end, Abby proved to be more chihuahua than we imagined. She is now almost as neurotic as Sundance and has more than earned her thunder storm title, Shiver Shake.
Imagine the heart palpitations of the little dog during the game of Balloon Burst. She learned fear of balloons at the sweet-sixteen party, even without help from the older and more emotionally troubled Sundance. Her eyes were bugging out, well, even more than usual as she backed out the door saying, 'Adios, muchachos y muchachas! I'm headed back to my gig at the Taco Bell."
Before you wonder if you clicked into the wrong blog site, let me make the connection for you. The bug-eyed look on that little dog's face during Balloon Burst that day was pretty similar to the look on Dad's face the day he came home after a week of being 'held captive' in the nursing facility. He looked frail and tired. He didn't want to eat or drink. He was disinterested in everything and everyone. And yes, he looked afraid. It was as if he was a small orphaned child, frightened and alone, uncertain where to turn for help.
As the week rolled on, Dad did not improve. He was totally turned in on himself. The nurses began talking as if the end was near. The trauma, they speculated, must have been too much, the transition had taken a huge toll. We wandered if our trip was worth it. Some thought out loud that he may have had a stroke. We watched and we waited. Like with the balloon game, as time passed, tension increased.
Just when we were seriously debating whether to call in distant family members for last goodbyes, he just woke up. Everything was suddenly normal again. He ate a bowl of cereal on his own. He drank a diet coke. He started giving orders and talking about the kids who mugged him on the elevated platform last week. (No, that didn't actual happen but that's normal talk for Dad!)
I called Audrey and told her the news. She gave me an unexpected reply.
"Roller coaster!"
I asked her to repeat herself. "A roller coaster," she said with understated emotion. I was a little confused and could only reply with, "Huh?" She said, "You know, I think we need a roller coaster in the living room. What do ya say? We can charge admission, invite the neighbors, it could be fun!"
It was her postcards from the edge way of saying life with Dad is a crazy unpredictable ride. It's the sometimes upside down, sideways, seasick world of caring for a dying loved one. It does get confusing.
Which way is up? Which way is down? Is it time to celebrate when the balloon bursts or is it time to celebrate when the balloon doesn't burst? Life seems so elastic sometimes. It's squeezed right up to its very limit and then suddenly, without warning, it squirts safely away and drifts quietly back to the carpet.
As we settle back into routine with Dad, he eats and drinks and sleeps as he always has. To be honest, we are so very tempted to feel a bit skittish. Like that little dog, we really dislike the presence of life's roller coasters and balloons. But then we read Psalm 31. In the midst of life and death turmoil, David pens these words, "my times are in your hands...be strong, and let your heart take courage, all you who wait for the Lord!"
And so we wait!
No comments:
Post a Comment