On Having

I've been struggling ever since Jessie died. There's been one or two days that we okay, but most of them have just been hard. She passed February 14th. In some ways I think that's just one very cruel vicious joke: Valentines Day. It gave me pause. I wondered if the Gods really did love me. If they did how could they do that? Why take my best friend from me on that day? You could call it coincidence, but I tend to think there are none. Taking her from me on that day so suddenly is hard not to take personally. It's one of the few slights in life that didn't make me angry but just hurt. It still hurts. It's not like there's a man to bring me flowers or children to buy me useless things on Valentines Day. All I had was a dog okay. Some kisses and a cuddle here and there.

I've been trying for the last few weeks in earnest to find another dog. Nothing seems to be working. I thought I'd found a local breeder who's dogs I liked and could afford but it turns out the breeder doesn't OAF or Penn her breeding dogs. If I were to adopt a shelter or rescue dog I wouldn't know diddly about their parents either, but I can't bring myself to buy from a breeder who cares so little about the puppies she might be bringing into the world to suffer short painful lives because of hip dysplasia.

The way I found out pissed me off beyond words. I'd joined an email group of large shepherd breeders figuring that would be the best way to find a local breeder. What I forgot, or chose to forget from previous experience is that breeders are the most inbreed, nasty tempered, suspicious, back stabbing sniveling bunch of pantie wastes on earth. Dealing with them one at a time ain't so bad, but get a group of them together and watch the knives come out and the blood spill. Given that they create soft fuzzy life out of that never ceases to amaze me: how absolute opposite they are of that which they give to people. Had someone simply said "Have you asked about hips yet" I would have been fine. That was on the list to ask about, but I hadn't gotten that far yet. But some smarmy little backwoods breeder had to insinuate that breeders dogs all had bad hips. This is the same shit that privately contacted me the week before wanting to sell me one of her puppies from all the way over in freaking West Virginia. So I walked quietly out of that group and left them to their backstabbing and I declined to buy the puppy.

I tried going back to the rescue where I got Jessie from. They keep precious few dogs in their rescue now and seem to prefer to dedicate their time to a permanent facility for unadoptable dogs. I got no where with the volunteer who contacted me. When I asked about cat friendly dogs I was told to "Just come on down some Saturday and meet the dogs." It's a three hour drive to just come on down. The idea of spending three hours in the car to see dogs who may or may not be cat friendly is not appealing. Why they don't temperament test the dogs is beyond me. Perhaps I'm the only person on the face of the planet who wants a German Shepherd and has cats? Yeah, but that's the way they make you feel when you ask. I've since come to realize that attitude is pretty common with breed rescues. I tried another breed rescue in another part of L.A. and that hasn't gone much better for the same reason. As I told a friend the other day, it's far easier for Madonna to adopt another child from a third world country than it is for me to adopt a dog.

That leaves me with county shelters. There's a cheery place, a county dog shelter. My fear with going into one of those places is how many dogs I'd walk out with, "Excuse me but is there a limit to how many dogs I can't adopt at one time?" If you've never been in one, county shelters are the most dismal hopeless places on earth. That any of the animals ever get out of there alive and rebound in spirit from the experience is a miracle.

I know, yes, I know it's not supposed to be this hard. If it's this hard I'm doing something wrong and the wisest thing to do is step back and take pause. I realize that. But there's the thing, grief makes it hard to accept that.

Alright, wait, slight tangent here. Dinner tonight was miserable. It sucked. It didn't turn out right. But then I was trying to make egg rolls with rice paper yet again. I want to track down the tramp on the gluten forum who claimed you could bake them. Uh, no, you can't. The texture turns to plastic if you bake them. First I tried frying one of them tonight and it stuck to a non stick pan and came apart. I gave that up and got out the steamer. You are supposed to be able to steam them. The other three fell apart when I took them out of the steamer. I had deconstructed rice paper egg rolls. I'd have killed for proper egg roll wrappers. I've tried repeatedly with rice paper. This is the fourth or fifth attempt. Mercifully I used up the last of the package tonight. If you make them light enough and you're lucky you can pan fry them but they're a freaking mess. Make them too big and the weight of the filling tears the paper and you have what I had for dinner. I was furious by the time I was done. Not mad at the wrappers mind you; that would be pointless. But mad at life, mad at fate, mad at the Gods because I can't walk into the fucking supermarket and buy egg roll wrappers like most everyone else on the planet. I was mad all over again that it was taken away from me; other people can have it but I can't. THAT is what gets to me every single time.

And I'm angry that other women have husbands and children and grandchildren. I can't. And it's as much grief as anger that all over this planet men and women met and fall in love and have children; billions of people do that every single day and I can't.

Sense a pattern here yet? All I want is one relatively young cat loving german shepherd to take into my home and love and spoil and take on walks and watch tv with and I can't have it. Truth be known I don't even want that. I want Jessie back and I can't ever have her either.

I don't entirely understand what it is that set my life apart from what is normal. I haven't a clue actually. Not a single clue why. Most days I can ignore it, and can focus on everything else that works and be happy, but some days I just can't see the light no matter how hard I look. And unfortunately its mostly been like that since Jessie left. Yeah, other women get men and children; I got a dog to love.

My Other Half

My other half is gone. I didn't realize that's what she was until now. I had to put Jessie to sleep last week. She suddenly had trouble breathing and it turned out she had advanced lung cancer and there was nothing that could be done to help her. I couldn't let her suffer though I was so not ready to let her go. Letting her go was about the most gut wrenching thing I've felt in awhile.

She was this big beautiful exuberant lug of a German Shepherd. We were together pretty much 24/7. I realize now she was literally a part of me, my other half. We were a pair. I'd look over at her to see what she thought of who ever had entered the room, and she'd look at me to see what I thought. She was much kinder to people than me though. That kindness taught me a lot about life. If she could have talked we would have been finishing each other's sentences.

I always marvel at how pets do that; how they become so attuned. I finally figured out a few years ago that she viewed me as her job. That was a somewhat humbling realization. I needed looking after in her estimation. In return I tried not to be too obvious about having to look after her, particularly as she got older and simple things became harder for her to do. I didn't want her to think she was letting me down in any way. I told her if the positions were reversed you'd do the same for me so don't worry.

I can't seem to get past the grief of loosing her. At first all I wanted was another dog, another Shepherd. I missed having a dog almost as much as I missed her. But I look at rescue and shelter and breeder sites and all I think when I stare into the eyes of all those dogs is that they're not Jessie.

Perhaps it was a mistake having her with me all the time. On the other hand I'm glad I was there for so much more of her life. So I don't know. I suppose there's another dog out there somewhere who belongs with me, I'm just having trouble imagining that right now.

HLA-DQ 1,1

I should have paid more attention in High School biology. It might have helped. It might not have. I'm awash in a sea of DQ's and I am fighting for every bit of understanding. The more I read it the more I glean from it, but the definitive answers I want don't appear to be there.

I took a gene test to determine which gluten sensitive genes I posses. I've seen estimates that as much as 60% of the population has one or more of the genes. Problem is they just aren't sure what it all means. They have some idea that certain genes are worse than others, and they've begun to understand that different genes can cause different symptoms and present different challenges for gluten sensitivity. But the science is far from exact. I have two copies of a gene they seem to be calling HLA-DQ 1. I say seem to because apparently even the protocol for naming genes is an ever evolving one. Everyone has sets of genes, with one gene in the set coming from their mother and one from their father. I received the very same gene from both of my parents; the DQ 1. According to the literature a double DQ 1 gene means the sensitivity is more pronounced and probably unavoidable. It is a gluten sensitive gene and it's most associated with gluten ataxia. Ataxia is a word I didn't know until today. I could probably have gone the rest of my life without hearing it.

I read today about something they call the Romberg Test for Ataxia where a patient stands with their feet together and their eyes closed. That's it, that's all. I read the description of that test and immediately thought, "Well, no one can do that." Well, actually most people can it turns out. But I have never been able to. I'm better than I used to be, but standing with my feet together and my eyes closed I start to wobble and run the risk of falling over. Hell, it's a miracle I haven't fallen off my treadmill yet my balance is so terrible. My balance has improved in the last two years, but it's obvious even to me that some things are never coming back. They know that a gluten free diet improves balance and coordination in affected people, but they don't know whether or not it can reverse all of the damage that's already been done. On the up side I don't fall down anymore so I guess I should be grateful.

But the part that got to me, that freaked me out is that gluten can actually change the cerebellum, leaving deposits and changing the shape and function of the part of the brain most responsible for balance and movement and coordination. This freaking gene and the subsequent gluten sensitivity has altered the very make up of my brain. There are mentions of links between ataxia and Alzheimer's and dementia as well as schizophrenia MS and several other things.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I live in my head too much. Maybe other people don't. I don't know. There's this huge disconnect between my thoughts and the fact that I'm a physical being dependent on things like the structure of my brain for cogent thought. I'm anchored to this body and that's a hard thing to process for some reason. I can't transcend the physical body. I'm bound by its health and abilities. And that makes me angry.

More than that it scared me, more than anything else on this journey through gluten hell has. And I'm mad. And I'm confused by all the uncertainties. And dammit none of this makes sense. Why me. But of course me.

Someone somewhere posted a snip from Slaughterhouse Five this afternoon on a local website.

Tralfamadorian speaker: We know how the world ends and it has nothing to do with Earth, except that it gets wiped out too.
Billy Pilgrim: Really? How does it end?
Tralfamadorian speaker: While we're experimenting with new fuels, a Tralfamadorian test pilot panics, presses the wrong button, and the whole universe disappears.
Billy Pilgrim: But you have to stop him. If you know this, can't you keep the pilot from pressing ...
Tralfamadorian speaker: He has always pressed it, and he always will. We have always let him, and we always will let him. The moment is structured that way.

What is meant to be will be. You can't go back and change it, and even if you could it would do no good because what's meant to be will always find a way in the end. Everything has a point and purpose.
But accepting that is a struggle.