Social Media has been around a while now, but it seems over the last couple years there’s been a surge in …  I hesitate to use the word “diagnostics” because I doubt the majority are clinical, maybe we’ll use the generic blanket “discussions” of assorted conditions. Through these posts I’ve learned that not everyone sees splotches of color when they close their eyes tight and – even more bizarre – not everyone has a collection of voices living in their head. (Technically, they call it “no internal monologue,” but… same thing.)

I once got yelled at by a man who clearly lacked an appreciation for free company (the kind that doesn’t drain your liquor cabinet or leave the toilet paper roll empty) when I referred to “the voices in my head.” He insisted I call it thinking, like a “normal person.” So, for clarity: not hallucinations. Just voices. In my head. They’re the ones that turn the wheels that make things fall out of my mouth.

Fine. Thoughts, if that makes it easier on you.

I could try to explain how thinking works for me, but I don’t think I really know. Let’s leave it at this: when I think, it sounds like a football stadium. Especially when I don’t understand something, or there are too many possibilities at once. “Overstimulated” is the polite term. It’s like trying to thread a needle, during a tornado. Eventually, I crash and burn, much like Miss Gulch, post-house

Figuratively, of course.

What has the voices in an uproar today is my dog, Brick.

Brick is… sigh… he’s a good boy, painfully obedient, but medically he’s a mess.  To catch you up; he’s had a history of pancreatitis, and while the internist was playing Chinese jump rope with his intestines, discovered tons of inflammation and a deformed gallbladder. He was scoped, up one end and down the other, he was cut open, sewn, stapled and glued back together. This poor dog has literally been through hell and it took most of 2023 for him to recover. Now, with almost no exception, he only eats two foods to avoid any future gastro-gymnastics. If he were a simple machine, he’d be so well tuned, he could run forever.

But he’s not nuts and bolts, well, no bolts anyway, he is a complete nut. A weird loving little headcase. He thrives in routine! He doesn’t like surprises. Not walks or trips, not visitors or deliveries.  He wants his day to be the same predictable, boring, monotonous pile of nothing, always.  Bill Murray thought it was a nightmare – but Groundhog Day is Brick’s dream!

I do my best to keep his days predictable, even if there is a deviation, I plan the disruption to impact him as little as possible.

Last Friday Boyfriend went camping after work.  Brick watched him drag the trailer out of the yard and went to bed.  Stayed in “his” room until I finally coaxed him out around 10pm to empty his tank before I went to sleep.

Saturday Brick’s anxiety knob was cranked to Metallica-playing-a-sold-out-stadium-on-New-Year’s-Eve-with-fireworks levels. He tracked every move I made. Watched me vacuum. Watched me mow. Supervised laundry. Stood outside the shower. The poor guy was trying to read my every move for signs that we were going camping too.

Comically, in contrast, other dog did the same, but was obviously excited with hopeful anticipation. She wanted to go camping and stayed tripping-me-a-dozen-times close so there’d be no delay in gearing her up and tossing her in the car.

I know Brick and I know when he’s in this zone there really isn’t much I can do.  I kept slippers on most of the day.  I never went near my car. I even got out bubbles knowing how the chase and pop always cheers him up.  Nope.

Sunday afternoon, Boyfriend came home, Brick collapsed. Which is normal. Usually, after a hypervigilant episode, he’ll sleep for hours, take inventory when he wakes up, confirm the threat is neutralized, eat, poop, and return to sleep. Recovery usually takes a day or two.

But this time, he’s not recovering. 

Sunday evening, right after dinner, he crashed out pressed against me on the couch and I could feel him shivering.  This dog’s default sleeping temperature is baked potato in a tin can in a bonfire. I often kick off blankets when he’s close just to avoid overheating. Shivering was… weird. My antenna went up.

Around 9pm I had to poke and holler to get him awake to do potty rounds before bed.  When he got off the couch, he fell over.  He looked like he’d been sedated.  I reasoned that he’d been sleeping so deeply… we’ve all been there, right? I grabbed the ear thermometer, expecting reassurance, but got a reading of 104 degrees.  I decided that everything I’ve read about ear thermometers being unreliable is entirely accurate and I changed the batteries. Took Brick outside for some air and tried again. Second reading 101.  Satisfactory.

Monday I went to work and can’t report anything of his day, but Monday night was a repeat of Sunday night, with an ear thermometer reading of 102. When I got him off the couch for last potty, he again wobbled.  I followed him outside and watched him stagger around the yard and decided, he needs medical intervention!

I took the first available appointment Tuesday, relayed all of this to his vet and requested a full work up, including the test to identify pancreatitis. The vet is as perplexed as I am.  Brick is showing no signs of pain, no obvious discomfort.  The only clues he’s shared so far are sleeping and wobbling. Which is, unfortunately, also very Brick.

It took 2 years to get his chronic pancreatitis properly diagnosed because he never showed anything but sleeping.  When it was especially bad, he’d refuse food but, in the textbook of symptoms, anorexia doesn’t really narrow it down much.

So today I’m waiting for the vet to call with bloodwork results. I’m scared. He’s almost 12. I know what that means…

I’m also not scared because he has such a history of being a medical anomaly, I half expect them to call and say it’s just a UTI.

Meanwhile, the voices keep talking over one another:

“It must be a pancreatitis flare, he won’t eat. He never not eats.”

“Fever points to infection, it has to be a UTI!”

“Wobbling is only caused by serious stuff, brace yourself, it’s gonna be really bad this time.”

They’re all talking at once, none of them helpful, and none of them nice.

So, here’s me, figuratively screaming into the proverbial void, watching my old boy sleep, hoping at least one of the voices chimes in with something grounding. I don’t need optimism, but I could really use a neutral.

I’m not ready to lose my boy.

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The Results Are In!

As I was formatting this to post, the vet called. Brick’s pancreas enzymes are elevated, but he got a blue ribbon for UTI. {shaking my head} damn dog. Yesterday the doctor gave him subcutaneous fluids and when we got home, Brick demanded snacks. I was relieved, but it was short lived.  Ten minutes later he was unconscious and stayed lifeless for 5 hours.  By 7pm it was like that fluid sack never happened. 

The doctor told me today, while we are waiting for the antibiotics to work their magic, try ice packs.  The hope is, bringing his temperature down will make him feel better.  How I look forward to yelling at him for begging again…  for several more years.