Now I see

What's the most difficult challenge you've faced in a relationship?

I've only ever had one relationship that was serious enough to have challenges beyond "we're all wrong for each other and we should break up now before things get too serious".  If we're talking about romantic relationships anyway.  Of course I could talk about my family some more, but let's let them be for a while.  Instead, let's talk about Rosie.

Rosie is my dog, the sweetest dog in the world.  She is also the blindest dog in the world and she has diabetes (which caused the blindness...cataracts).  Eight months ago she was neither of those things, just a happy, active senior dog who was afraid of fireworks and liked to take up more than her fair share of the bed.  She lost her sight so quickly, over a month or so, that it took me a while to notice.  I thought she just had the usual cloudy old dog eyes until suddenly she started bumping into things and was afraid to jump down off of the bed.  She'd lived with only me (post-breakup) for almost three years with no health problems whatsoever, so at first I was at a bit of a loss.  I knew she had to go to the vet to get her eyes checked out, but Theresa had always handled the vet stuff (she works there).  I even emailed to ask if she would make an appointment for Rosie at her vet but we'd had a falling out the year before over vet expenses (we had like a thousand other pets together) and she emailed back with a firm no.

So I was on my own.  My beloved dog couldn't see anything and it was up to me to try to fix it for her.  I remember sitting in the waiting room of the new vet, terrified of this new responsibility, sure I was nowhere near equal to the task of caring for a blind and sick dog, hoping irrationally that there was some pill or eyedrop they could give her to make everything okay again.  And I was crying.  A lot.  So much the receptionist ushered us into what is known in the industry as the "comfort room" so I could cry in peace (and not upset the other customers).  I sat on an IKEA sofa and blew my nose while Rosie tugged on the leash and sniffed the room, still confused by her own inability to see things.  Three times I reached for my phone to call Theresa and beg her to handle it.  Three times I managed to stop myself.  Finally the vet came in and ran some tests.  The next day the results were in and diabetes was confirmed.  They didn't need any tests to tell me those were cataracts in her eyes.  They told me her blood sugar was extremely elevated and I should take her to the emergency vet immediately, so once again I found myself in a waiting room.  And once again I was crying.  But they don't care if you cry at the emergency vet, in fact three or four other people were doing their own version of the head down, not looking at anyone, sniffling every now and again surreptitious cry.  I kept telling myself to man up and stop being such a wuss, to be strong for Rosie's sake and be the parent she needed me to be.  But there was so much fear in me.  I was consumed by it.

The emergency vet got her blood sugar down and sent me home with a bag bulging with pills, eye drops and other medications, plus a prescription for insulin. Every day for the rest of her life, Rosie needed to have an injection twice a day.  From me.  I was going to have to give her a shot, lots of shots.  With lots of needles.

When we got home I let Rosie off the leash and she wandered toward the back door.  I dumped out the bag of medications and attempted to form a plan, my brain swimming with dosages and frequencies and panic and doubt and, again, fear.  It was a few moments before I noticed a scratching sound coming from the back of the house.  I stepped into the kitchen and saw Rosie, near the back door but pointed sideways, pawing at the wall in an attempt to find the rubber flap of the dog door three feet away.  And that was the moment it really clicked.  She needed me.  Not just like needing me to fill her water dish or scratch her on the head or take her for a walk, she needed me to function, to help her find her way, to care for her in a way she couldn't begin to care for herself. 

And so I did.  I opened the back door and guided her outside, then sat with her while she did her backyard business.  I made a schedule of medications and set alarms to remind myself about her insulin every morning and evening.  I started giving the dreaded shots.  I adjusted.

I still get afraid sometimes.  This week her blood sugar has been all over the place, a sign she might be developing insulin resistance which would be another whole can of worms.  Next week she's scheduled for cataract surgery and afterward she might even see again, be back to normal, be able to watch the neighbors out the window.  It always was one of her favorite things.

 This post is part of The Scintilla Project.