I read my friend’s astrology blog on Saturday morning, and had a feeling of generalised dread about the week ahead, but thought I’d read it again once I had got through Saturday.

We’re having a new roof put on the house my step-father, Ed, lives in and it’s been an ordeal.  Friday the roofers found some mystery electrical wire and were uncomfortable going ahead with the job until I had it checked out, so Saturday involved me working with patients whilst Bear was my eyes on the ground at the house.

Or so we thought.

When Bear got to the house, Ed wasn’t answering the door.  He let himself in and discovered Ed had tried to get himself out of bed, into his wheelchair, and instead had fallen rather heavily.  He’d managed to wedge himself into a space between some furniture, knock over the wheelchair and hit his head rather badly.

Bear is not a medical person at all, but he did everything right.  He didn’t move Ed.  He call the paramedics.  He talked to Ed to keep him connected to reality.  Of course, in between, he was having a small meltdown on the phone with me, but I think he deserved it.

And I was facing having just put TWO patients into rooms, one with needles already and one about to begin treatment.  I kept asking if I should cancel my day, but Bear – backed by the paramedics – said no, it looks like he will be okay, just needs to go to hospital to get fluids and a look-see.

And so the day went.  I’d pretty much get a patient set up for needles, or have just put them in, and Bear would call with an update.  The final call was right before I finished with my last two patients, new to my clinic so I hope I was somewhat professional with them, during which I was on the phone with Bear, essentially in the room with Ed, whilst he died.

What – Ed’s DEAD?  How did THAT happen?  He was enjoying his cocktail and Mexican food just yesterday lunch, and now he’s dead?

So, that was Saturday.  We went to the house, where Bear would NOT enter the master bedroom.  I went in to take a look and it was not for the faint of heart.  It began to look to me like Ed did more than just fall out of bed.

I made all the difficult phone calls, got the mortuary to take his body (oh, that was a stroke of luck.  Because he hadn’t been admitted yet, it seemed that he would have to be a coroner’s case, going through an autopsy and possible having to wait MONTHS for results and a body and paperwork and all.  After interviewing Bear & I the attending physician(s) determined this was natural causes and the coroner’s office concurred.  Phew.  I can’t imagine Ed, that energetic part that was/is him, would really care, but the Ed who was incarnated would have CRINGED at the thought of being autopsied.) and generally wandered around in a haze of anxiety, expecting someone to call and say “hah, this has been a test.  Come pick Ed up at hospital”.  Needless to say, that did not happen.

Sunday we approached in a very upbeat manner.  My job 1 was to clean that bedroom so Bear could go in, which meant pulling a certain amount of carpet, as well as cleaning up all the tubes, packages and whatnots the paramedics left behind.  Bear, newly freed from a weekly commitment that interfered with it, was to go re-join the Scottish Fiddlers of Los Angeles, then come help me out afterwards.

I started by appliance shopping.  I can’t afford the electric bill for the ancient appliances in that house.  It was easy, we’d just done our kitchen and we walked through the appliance stores, pointing and saying “that, that and that”.  One of our “that’s” wasn’t happening because the opening in the house is bigger than the appliance we wanted, but there’s a larger size option so we’re back on track.

Back at the house, it was a bit of a mess, and I added to that as I schlepped items for donation from one room to another and girded my loins for the job at hand.  I finally went in to clean up the area, and as I did so I became more & more convinced that Ed was having internal bleeding before he fell.  The discomfort is probably what woke him and began this whole chain reaction.

I’ve never been more grateful to my Buddhist/Daoist teachings than I was Sunday.

And now it’s Monday, my to-do list, which has been expanding since my Mother died in January, is threatening to move in and demand its own bed, but the really uncertain things are behind me – will Ed move into a retirement community, will he need assisted living or hospice, will he fall, will he let me make an appointment with his primary care doctor and so on.  Now it’s really concrete things – house repair (and there’s a lot of it, about a decades worth of deferred repair), getting a tenant into one of the houses, taxes, bills, wall paint, bushes and so on.

The dogs are great, it’s cool out with plenty of sunshine predicted for later and what’s not to love about life.  On balance, both Ed and my Mom lived wonderful lives and I can’t begrudge them the ends of those lives, although I do wish they’d had a few more years together.

Which, for those of you familiar with Danny Kaye is said like “Oh the Doge . . .”

Bear had quite a week.  His birthday was Thursday, and he had a concert this weekend with the Scottish Fiddling group he’s been playing with.  (He plays cello but it still fits in with fiddlers)(really)(…)

He (We) also had been invited to a party at the home of some very good friends.  Friends who are moving down to Long Beach.  Whose parties we’ve been missing due to one thing and another but who keep inviting us anyway (They’re VERY nice people)

So our week went along as it so often does, my checking in every day or so – how’s the week, anything exploded yet?  This is because he’s likely to come home and pack for a red-eye and tell me as he’s rushing out to the limo.

No crisis loomed, the week seemed to be pretty under control.  For my part, I made sure I didn’t have any patients in the evening that would interfere with our getting to our friends’ in a timely fashion.

All that changed Saturday morning when my Best Beloved FINALLY opened his emails and discovered his concert was SATURDAY – all day Saturday, wouldn’t be getting back until midnight or later.

Oh happy days. 

I have memorialised this week using the wonderful art of Allie Brosh and her classic post about reporting pain levels to a doctor: Boyfriend Doesn’t Have Ebola. Probably.

Enjoy the trainwreck of my week and go check out Allie’s blog, she’s quite talented and a little twisted.

Bear's Week: The Beginning

Bear's Week: The End

And now, the owner of every well-bred, well-mannered and trained pit bull hates me.  So before y’all start flaming me, let me explain.

Going for a walk with any of my dogs becomes a stress-inducing exercise because so many dogs are out of control.  But hands down, the worst is coming up on a pit bull; because I never know how the dog is handled so I have no way of predicting what I’m coming up on.

In the same way I used to hate coming up on Doberman Pinchers or Rottweiler’s, I now loathe coming up on Pit Bulls.  They’re the new designer “dude” dog, the more animal aggressive the better.  If their owners need to use big wide collars and heavy chain leashes to barely control them, that’s a totally cool thing because “man, my dog is sooo bad”.  And if there’s a hint of scarring on the dog, as if it were used in fighting, well that’s extra cachet.

What IS that.  It was crazy with the Dobies and Rotties being all about aggressively protecting their people (to the point where sometimes that went too far and family members got hurt) but this, this is inexplicable.

People:  Dog fighting = BAD.  Why is it cool if you’re dog looks like he (or she, but more often he) has been in a fight and is ready to go another 10 rounds?  If you’ve rescued your dog, THAT’S cool – and those people have my utmost respect.  I’m not talking about them.  And no, I’m  not talking about the gang bangers from the inner city, that’s a whole other discussion.  I’m talking about the suburban young man (usually, rarely a young woman) who has this whole ‘gangsta’ thing going on.  Let me say it again, people – dog fighting is BAD.

So back to my grumble.  I can’t get away from these people and their out of control dogs.  I don’t even try to walk my Pomeranian, she’d be a tiny mouthful for these dogs so she is a total house dog.  And because my two other dogs are large shepherds, I get attituded on by these owner/dog pairs, which circles me back to the stress.  I run into these folks in pet stores, on sidewalks, in the park.  I wont go to dog parks because of them.  And I know I’m not the only one.

I know the breed is maligned and has been co-opted by a “bad element”, and I’m sorry for that.  But I live here, I own a house, I pay taxes, I feel like I have some right to feel put out when I can’t even go for a walk in my neighbourhood.  I hope that there is a seachange and the cachet runs its course soon.

And if you have a pit bull that needs understanding and training, although I’m a dog trainer I’m not the trainer for you.  Instead, I recommend  Bobby Dorafshar of K9s Only in Tarzana.  And maybe when we meet on the street, YOUR pit bull will be the under-control one, I hope so.

Yes, another blog.  This is by way of being a very private blog, one I may or may not share entries from.  One I may use as a writing place for articles for my other blogs, or then again I may not.  But it’s mine, the blog of a private person – not the public figure, not the business person, mine.  So harrumph if you don’t like it – just move along to the next million annonymous blogs and leave this one be.