Mon 28 April 2008 Greenfield
First off, a little more poemizing... TUUSCHI'S POEM
Number 18
The ringer of bells,
the happy boy,
the lover of love itself.
I was flummoxed always,
baffled always,
that a soul so enormous,
a will to love so huge,
could fit inside
your little ounces of
feathers, flesh and bone.
You're the sun,
the rushing waterfall.
You're everything that shines
and effervesces.
And you're gone.
copyright 2008 by anne nakis
So what is love? Different things to different people, I'm sure. And what do you DO for love? Again, different things to different people. Here's something that I did for love for 13 years: I watched my epileptic dog and cat have grand mal seizures, and after the first few times, I learned, for their sakes, to pretend I was perfectly calm. But Departement of Mental Abuse never asked me about things like that. They apparently decided I'm just a wing-nut animal-hoarder and decided to rid me of my animals. Presto, the problem's gone.
So here's the dog, epileptic since he was 5 years old in 2002. The dog weighs about 80 lbs, and in an animal that size, a grand mal seizure is a grand event. Pee, sometimes poop, lots of thick saliva, thrashing and snarling and odd sounds coming out of the throat. And as many seizures as I've seen over 13 years, I have never lost my terror: this animal is going to die. Right here, right now, in my arms. And it's not TRUE that they're going to die, it's just a loving friend's irrational fear. But I've never lost it. But for love I learned to kneel down beside the thrashing, snarling, 80 pounds of electrical misfiring, and gently stroke his side, and tell him everything's going to be ok, and swallow my terror while my heart pounded, and tell him mommy's right here, and you'll be better soon. And then when he begins to come out of it, he wants to get up, but you know from long experience that he can't walk yet. So you gently push him back down 3, 4, 5 times and keep stroking him, till you know he's come out of it enough to walk (as a novice I let him get up too soon, and he staggered and fell like a drunk, and things got broken). Then you wash the thick saliva from his muzzle, and he looks at the pee on the floor and then looks guilty, because he knows he's supposed to pee outside, and he's a good dog. And you tell him it's ok, he couldn't help it, he was sick. You clean the pee, you clean him. He's hungry and thirsty after a seizure, so you give him what he needs. And often these things seem to happen in the middle of the night. All sound asleep, and suddenly he's thrashing and moaning beside you. You wake up in a flash, swallow your fear, and be what he needs you to be.
One of the things I did for love of Mishi for over 5 years. And I would do it a hundred times again, if I could have him back in my arms this minute. But the DMH took care of that, didn't they. Keep whatever and whomever you love away from the DMH. I'm sure Mishi's been killed as unadoptible. 11 years old and epileptic. Give me a jeweled dagger in my hand/ to avenge him.
Fri 22 May 09: This post hurts so much that I have to get away from it. For so long I lived in hope and denial: denial of the worst trauma of my life, that my psyche doesn't want to bear. And hope that the FBI would point me to a home and give me back at least some of my animals. All gone.
