The Rubowski update

According to the vet I spoke to this morning. Ruby is doing well. She has had no additional seizures. So, now we just watch and wait. If she continues to act squirrely then we bring her back to the vet. Otherwise, we just assume all is well. Rest assured we will be keeping a watchful eye on her.

The Rubinator

Have you ever heard a cat walk around calling for his friend that isn't there? If you haven't, let me tell you, it is the saddest thing you have ever heard. We have two pets. Ruby the red heeler and Henry the tuxedo cat. Ruby isn't home right now. Jeremy had to take her to the emergency vet tonight because of a serious seizure she had after coming home from the regular vet.
Ruby was a pound puppy that we saved about ten years ago. When we adopted her she was already about a year or a year and half old. I was working at REI at the time in Dallas and the SPCA came in for an adoption weekend. They set up camp by the front doors with a multitude of pups and cats looking for homes. I saw Ruby (who was then named Rasta) and recognized her breed. Jeremy had mentioned to me that he wanted a buddy and thought that maybe a dog was the kind of buddy he wanted. Neither of us had cell phones at the time. I held Ruby in my lap for about two hours before I was able to get in touch with Jeremy for him to come check out this new friend. He came in the front doors, took the leash out of my hands, walked outside for all of fifteen minutes then came back in. Let's get her. He was sold immediately. And that is where Ruby's affection for me disappeared and her love affair with Jeremy began. We only found out years later that red heelers are one owner animals. They will only take commands or give respect to one owner. That one owner is not me.
Ruby and I have had an extremely difficult relationship. She doesn't like me because I take away the precious attention that Jeremy could be giving her. She doesn't like our children for the same reason. But, she is smart enough to know what side her bread is buttered on. Anytime she wanted to lash out it was always towards me. She ate my shoes, my photos, my food. But, if Jeremy had anything out it was always untouched. Ruby is a disturbingly smart dog. You wouldn't know she is as smart as she is by just looking at her. But, she is on constant alert. Ready to snap to attention with a doggy "sir, yes, sir!" whenever Jeremy walks into the room.
But, like most incredibly smart creatures on Earth, she is plagued with mental illness. Seriously, I am not kidding. I think it starts with the feeling of being abandoned by her original owners. Frankly, it may start with the trauma of having a name like Rasta forced upon you. Please, if you have ever met our dog you know she is so far from a Rasta it is laughable. I digress. Her original owners lived in an apartment and then ended up having a child and Ruby didn't fit into their lives anymore. I know this because I was able to track them down to find out whether she had been neutered or not. This is a nice segue into the next step deeper into her mental illness. The owners did not have her neutered while she was living with them. When we adopted Ruby Jeremy signed a contract stating he would have her neutered if she wasn't already. Once I discovered she was intact we made the appointment to have her internal organs rearranged. Our biggest concern that day was the fact that Jeremy's inspection of the Volvo was out of date and he wanted to use my Jeep to drive down to the SPCA downtown. It is located very close to the Dallas jail. He was worried about getting a ticket. I was at work when I received a call from Jeremy later that evening. He was worried about how thing Ruby was on her return. Less than twelve hours later and she had a considerable weight loss. I remember telling Jeremy that she had jsut had her insides scooped out and that we should expect some weight loss. I had no idea how thin she was until I got home.
Once home I was able to understand Jeremy's concern. We had Ruby for a few weeks before we took her to be neutered. She had gained a good amount of weight while living with us. I just figured it was because she wasn't stressed anymore and was catching up on the kibble. I had no idea how wrong I was. I asked Jeremy for her paperwork to check it out. It was in the Jeep. I walked out, got the paperwork and was mortified by what I read. Down at the bottom of the paper the word "abortion" was circled and then marked out. A part of me wanted to believe they wrote on the wrong paper. That they really didn't abort all of Ruby's puppies. I grabbed the phone as soon as I got back into our apartment. The woman I spoke to pulled Ruby's chart and confirmed that she was indeed pregnant and they aborted the puppies. She then chimed in " but we didn't charge you for the procedure since you adopted her from us." I was stunned. She just told me this as though she had done us a favor. We were livid. Jeremy had tears in his eyes he was so angry.
Ruby wandered the apartment all night looking for the things she lost. Looking for her babies.
So, that is strike two for mental health for Ruby. She became neurotic and it took a few years before she seemed to recover from the surgery upset. She became fiercely devoted to Jeremy. It seemed to catalyze her feelings for him. She and I just regarded each other. She likes me when Jeremy is gone. She definitely does not like our children. But, she too has had a companion for the last five years. Enter: Henry
Henry came into the picture when I thought I needed a buddy. Two weeks after I got him I found out I was pregnant. We introduced Henry to Ruby the night we brought him home. Ruby spent a half an hour licking Henry's head. It would seem she found a surrogate child. All those years of missing her puppies would be put behind her. Little did she know that this little package of floppy feet and huge ears would be such a hand full. It would not at all be surprising to see Henry pounce on Ruby from his cat tree or hanging from Ruby's upper lip with a single claw. Ruby was incredibly patient with Henry. She would turn and look at you with a face that said "Kids, what are we supposed to do with them?" Over the years the two animals have kept up a relationship but they don't spend the time together like they used to. Suffice it to say, Henry is a bit out of sorts tonight.
Ruby has never given up hope that one day she will wake up and there will be no wife or children to contend with. That she can go back to the days of her master taking her to the park, feeding her whatever he was eating, chasing balls and jumping for sticks. Over the years though, we are still here and much to her chagrin we have added to the brood. Now, she must contend with two little boys that desperately want a dog that will love them. She regards them with passive disdain. Out of respect of her master she doesn't bite the kids to satisfy her dislike of them. She has remembered that having a baby around the house means lots of spilled food. She will camp out under the high chair waiting for the baby to drop food. What she doesn't realize is that Kellen is so in love with her he doesn't accidentally drop food. He purposely throws it over the side for her.
It is amazing how much we take our pets for granted. A few hours ago I was cursing Ruby for being under foot in the kitchen while I was trying to feed the baby. Or yelling at her to get off the blankets. And now here I cursing myself for taking our my impatience on the dog. All she has done is be a constant companion to the man I love. She has given him unconditional love. She has supplied us with an alarm system should any one hit the bark bell next to the front door (read: door bell). We have felt safe with that neurotic dog around the house.
The vet called not too long ago to say her blood work came back normal with the exception of an elevated kidney reading. He wasn't terribly concerned ab0ut that. He is thinking either she got into something toxic and the flushing of fluids should do some good or she has cancer of the brain. I pray for the former. But, if not, then we spend the rest of her days trying to repay the love she has shown in her own little dysfunctional little way.

To my favorite teacher

What the hell am I supposed to call my uncle? No, really. I have no idea what kind of title he is supposed to have. When talking to people who are not familiar about my family it is necessary to explain some basic things that will make the conversation go much more smoothly. Things like I am an only child (this explains a lot) and my uncle is retarded. Then of course, I get the look. The look that says “oh, now that isn’t very nice. I am quite sure your uncle would not appreciate you saying that about him.” Then I have to clarify: “No, I mean he really is mentally retarded.” This statement will sometimes still meet resistance. You can see the lack of understanding in their eyes as they look to me longing for more information so they can be in the know. Because, as it stands now, they think they are looking at an incredibly rude and insensitive person.

You see, Pharris is profoundly mentally retarded. He didn’t mature much past the age of about four years old. He is a perpetual child: a real life Peter Pan. He never has to grow up. His whole life he has loved Elvis, Johnny Cash, The Beatles, Matchbox cars, tools and a doll named Kinney. There has also been a steady stream of black and white rat terriers named either Midget or Sparky. These names don’t really ever change. Pharris loves any type of hat but has a particular soft spot for baseball hats. He loves to show you his wallet, ask you what time it is and tell you “pretty shirt” while he pokes himself in the chest. All the while he has your hand in a death grip while he is pumping it up and down in a very enthusiastic hand shake. He loves people. He loves being around people who make lots of noise. The origin of the noise doesn’t matter so much. It could be his brother’s airplane, my son’s ear drum piercing screams, my other son's sounds of playing, a barking dog or loud music. He just loves being where there is life. Part of me believes he wants the noise because his mother was an incredibly loud person and he needs something to fill the void that was created when she died. Another part of me believes that he just loves the energy that is intrinsic where there is a circumstance that involves noise. When there are moments of silence he seems to turn off. As though he is reserving his energy for the moments that he can capture someone’s attention and monopolize their time. When I say turn off, it is more like standby on a computer. The machine is running but there is very little being processed. Then as soon as someone comes into the room he flickers to life immediately.

So, if “retarded” is a word that is not widely accepted as a term to describe people like Pharris, what is? I am not quite sure but I think the term that is in fashion is mentally challenged. There have been so many different terms that I get them confused: retarded, mentally handicapped, mentally challenged, differently-abled. They just seem to get more and more obscure. All my life I have called Pharris retarded. His mental development was retarded. It makes sense to me. It doesn’t seem at all offensive. He doesn’t seem to mind to be called retarded. But, he does hate being stared at. As I mentioned, he has the abilities of about a four or five year old. But I always say he has fifty years experience. His intelligence is not based on what he knows so much, but how much he understands. He knows when people are judging him. He understands what their looks mean. Generally, he will look back at the people until they look away. It is amazing watching these people. If I am with Pharris I will stare back at he people. They seem to have no regard for Pharris as a person until they realize that I am there, too. Then they snap to attention when their eyes pan to me. I am fiercely protective of Pharris. I don’t want anyone looking at him as though he were not a person. It makes me incredibly angry that people can be so insensitive. Years ago I was friends with someone that was very uncomfortable being around Pharris. I understand that. Not everyone is comfortable being around someone like him. That’s cool, I get it. One particular reaction to his was unconscionable. Jennifer and I were at a local burger joint one afternoon after we had spent the morning with my family. I am not sure how we even got on the topic. I think I may have made a mention about her obvious discomfort at being about Pharris. She returned with a comment referring to him as “it.” I was so shocked that she would even refer to a human as “it” that I didn’t know what to say. I know my blood boiled and I demanded an apology from her. He is my family. How dare she even have the nerve to reduce him to an object? She did apologize but I have always doubted her sincerity. He has always been in my life so I don’t have any of that uneasiness. I have defensiveness, not discomfort. These are two entirely different things. I know that sometimes I will over-react to people. That is where that fierce protection comes in.

Pharris continues to be the best teacher I have ever had. I have had a wonderful education scholastically. But he has been my life teacher. He has taught me that there is always time for the little things. That unconditional love is plausible on this earth. That I am a person worth loving. That he is the most amazing person I have ever met. Pharris has been my litmus test for all kinds of friendships and relationships. If you can't handle him, you certainly can't handle me. Nor do I want anyone in my life like that. My children now love him. He is the greatest playmate. It is confusing to him that I am no longer the baby. But he loves my boys with an intensity that is nothing short of the most beautiful thing I have seen. Pharris loves with every fiber of his being. I only hope that I can experience that liberation. We could all take page out of Pharris' book. So, if you see me sitting on the corner accosting people for the time while wearing a cowboy hat on my head, a radio blaring music by my side and a huge smile on my face don't stare.

Instead, come shake my hand.

So, after all that I am still confused about what his title should be. Any ideas?

Happy 55th Birthday, Pharris!

Here I go again on my own....

In the last month I have elected to wean myself from antidepressants. I started them six months ago as a result of Post Partum Depression. It really sucked having two wonderful boys one of the newborn and not being able to care. The Zoloft I was prescribed did its job and helped me manage anxiety and anger that seemed to devour every bit of my energy. My family noticed a difference and I was once again able to breathe. I stopped snapping at Evan and Jeremy. I was able to give myself emotionally again. My doctor told me she wanted me on them for a minimum of six months since PPD has been known to sneak back before you even knew it was hanging around the corner waiting for you. Once I noticed the difference in my psychology I decided that six months was the least I could do. Nightly I dropped a tiny blue pill into my mouth, tongued it back and swallowed. Waiting for calm...waiting for the calm. I noticed that even the idea of taking that cute little pill even helped me. If I had a stressful day I knew Captain Z would be waiting for me at home. All was great, right?
There were a number of things that I overlooked or laughed off while on Zoloft. I lost my memory. Not long term stuff...I still knew my name, which kids were mine and my address. Now, my phone number - that was another story. Which of my sons I was trying to speak to - hopeless. I found myself running through animal's names (even the dead ones). I had no short term memory. I actually bought a smart phone so I would have no reason to forget important dates like parties my son was to go to or dates bills were to be paid. You know, trivial stuff like that. When it got to the point that Jeremy's memory was better than mine I started to worry. Is this what it is like with two boys? Will I have a perpetual case of the stupids? Could this be the Zoloft?
The last question was starting to get a little more attention. It would seem that the side effects I was feeling were increasing. Strange that I have been taking them for six months and all of a sudden things are getting wonky. Jeremy came to me after a particularly dumb assed move and initiated a conversation about my lack of intelligence. To his credit, he never approached me like this. This is my translation of it all. He was concerned that I was a little too foggy for his comfort. I had been feeling the same way for the last month. I wondered if the drugs were putting me in a position where i am not giving my children all they needed. Yea, it was great that I was doing great with the anxiety and anger. But, I was stupid...yes, stupid. I couldn't carry on conversations with adults without stumbling for words or just downright forgetting what I was talking about. The last time I had this problem was when I was moving through the hapless teenage years of college. Shockingly enough, this conversation with Jeremy went very well. He had prepared himself for the very worst. Braced for the storm of crazy unexplainable emotions from me. I shocked him by agreeing with him on all the major topics.
As a result of this conversation I call my doctor the next day and spoke to them about reducing or stopping the pharmaceuticals all together. I was told to wean to a half dose for two weeks or so and if i was feeling well enough to stop taking them. So, that is what i did. Two weeks at a half dose and was doing pretty well. I spent alot of time waiting for the other shoe to drop but it went well. I felt well enough to stop the drugs all together. I also had to refill my prescription. It just worked out that I didn't refill the drugs. I left them to be restocked at Walgreen's. That was it. Completely anticlimactic and here I am two weeks without medication. I am doing well. But, when I started taking the medicine I never thought about possible withdrawal symptoms. I have spent the last two weeks with a bad case of the woosies. Thankfully the stupids seem to be abating. I started researching the possible withdrawal symptoms and there they were. All the little things that were starting to bother me were right there. I am looking forward to being rid of the sensation that my eyes have catch up with my head as I am looking at life. But, I feel good almost excited that I am feeling again. I didn't realize that I felt like I had a hard candy shell around me. It looked happy and full of color but it sure is hard to hear what is going on when you are stuck inside it.
Don't get me wrong. I do not in anyway regret taking medication to help me get through some seriously dark times. I just feel like I am actually at a point where I can see the humor in all this. Life is funny...I just hope I can remember how to be funny, too!