T speaks: "I thought 'gestate' was what a Southern boy said after a meal."

“Lawdy, Lawdy, Miss Bunny. I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout birthin’ no babies.”

Seriously, no stork?

So Shannon’s pregnant, you got that much, and it’s all magical, blah, blah, blah. But there’s a not so magical side to it as well. It’s the actual childbirth. You know how they say people don’t want to see how sausage is made? I’ve watched those videos and Jimmy Dean can be found on my breakfast plate every weekend. I’ve now been privy to birthing videos, thank you Science Channel. The Exorcist is no longer my scariest movie to watch; I laugh at it now.

I thought I had dutifully prepared myself for this by watching Mr. Mom 17 times and thought parenthood would be a comically satisfying experience, much like Michael Keaton’s performance. But they skipped the whole horrifying genesis of their wonderful family romps, the actual passage of a slimy, bluish, reddish, let’s say creature, through an obviously pained woman’s birth canal. And that’s NOT all. Seemingly needed body parts and other liquids also follow acting as the parsley and au jus sauce in our freshly made, Frankensteinian main course.

Apparently being a baby is akin to being a stuntman because the freshly squeezed child has a safety line to keep from actually falling. At least this is my understanding of gestation. Presumably after the safety line has failed in its attempt to keep the child entombed in the mother’s womb one of the educated throng of degreed persons will ask the father to cut said safety line. What good is the line at this point anyway and why would you keep faulty equipment? It’s a newborn for Pete’s sake.

Now, at this point, the video skips ahead and here is the newly proud mother and father and baby in tow. All laughing and smiling, happy. I can only assume they skip ahead to conceal the real horror show. The clean-up. Don’t think we can handle that Sci Channel? Thank you, I suppose, but I’m pretty sure the preceding horror show has prepared us. I just want to see the poor guy cursing and muttering that gets stuck with that job.

Oddly enough, none of these “pictures” are censored or blurred, but yet the bleeps come fast and furious. Momma’s got a potty mouth. This rite of passage might be fun for me because Shannon has such a large vocabulary and can unite words that would never seem to fit together. Ooh and she knows some German, I’m sure cursing at me in German will bring the nightmare altogether. My plan is to only reply in Spanish, Italian or French just for my own amusement.

The point I am trying to make here is that the Mrs. wants me in the delivery room to share in the aforementioned miracle of birth. My plan of handing out cigars to complete strangers has been thwarted. Smoking and newborn babies are sadly only in my dreams now. Being with her in spirit won’t be enough. I’m the designated hand holder and have been told that a small curtain will shield my eyes from the “miracle” that is occurring. C’mon, the curtain didn’t stop Dorothy. Well, a better analogy would be the curtain not stopping Anthony Perkins in Psycho. Dorothy got to meet a nice guy to help her get home; Vivian Leigh did a performance art version of woman giving birth while taking a shower.

There are also rules for my being there:

1. Take any and all abuse that is hurled my way with a smile on my face. No problem, I’m a Mets fan.
   


2. Don’t be funny. As this post shows, also not a problem. Honestly, let’s face facts: Childbirth has to be funny. Who hasn’t wanted to give a “Push em out, push em out, wwaaaayyy out?” “C’mon, it can’t feel THAT bad.” “What about me? My feet hurt, you at least get to lie down.” “Wow, you really need to do something with your hair.” “I bet my mom didn’t whine this much.” “Are these stirrups regulation size?” “I think you’re PULLING.” “Honey, I lost my ruler. How else I am supposed to measure how far apart the contractions are?” “Episioto-ME? No, episioto-YOU.” “No, I thought you said you DIDN’T want the epidural.” “C- section? Can’t we upgrade to a B?” And so on and so forth.


3. Don’t pass out. That’s a rule. Do my best, honey. Just have to make sure I don’t peek in the baby theatre.
   


4. Have her mom on deck in case I cannot fulfill the above duties. Not a big request, but I put it here because there’s a caveat. Part two of this rule is to explain to her mother that she will hear all sorts of new and exciting words that she has never heard her daughter utter. So I get to walk out and forewarn her mother that Shannon has been replaced by Joe Pesci. Ironically, they’re both Italian and 5’3”.

**Mushy part warning**

Obviously, I’m joking about all of this. I’m beyond excited for what’s next and can’t wait for the experience. I joke about all the preceding because it will lead to my favorite part. Of course, I cannot wait to see my child for the first time—well, more so second time, after they’ve cleaned him up.

The moment I cannot wait for, though, is after the whole “ordeal” is over and it’s just Shannon and myself. I lean forward and place my forehead to hers and say “You done good, kiddo."

Bubba (featuring guest blogger T)

This is Guest Blogger T. Shannon’s T, not just a random T. First off, all apologies for the length of this post, but I feel no need to be concise. I should also apologize for the grammatical errors that are sure to occur. I am far from the writer my wife is. I am clueless as how to add pics, so S might do it in edit. Nothing groundbreaking or awe-inspiring will be said here. This is just the story I want to tell.

(For all non-dog lovers please go elsewhere, what are you communists? Click on the next blogger, I’m sure their drab introspections on life are a hoot.)

Doggies

In 1997 I lucked out in the dog lottery with the greatest dog that ever lived, Hobbes, a brindle boxer. Yes, he was the greatest dog that ever lived and your dog does not compare. I have never even met your dog and I know that to be a fact. You’re, of course, arguing with me, “No, Sir Barks-a-lot was the greatest dog ever,” “No, P. Doggy could run circles around your dog,” “Well Kim Kardaschund is the bestest ever." You’re all wrong. My dog, not yours.

Hobbes-y

Obviously, I’m joking a little (no I am not at all). My point is you had better be arguing with me. Of course, our own dogs are the greatest ever and we’ll all defend them. Hobbes was the greatest joy in my life. (Besides Shannon.) I could legitimately write scores of chapters on Hobbes, but that’s not my point for this story. Just know that Hobbes was my dog and the thought of ever replacing (I hate the use of that word in this case) him was not happening. When he passed away, we still had Murray, another brindle boxer, decidedly Shannon’s dog. Murray was extremely sad. Hobbes was his world, his big brother, playmate, protector, best friend.

Hobbes and Baby Murray

But, after some cajoling we decided to get another dog; this was to be “my” dog.

We were definitely set on getting another boxer, no other would suffice, love boxers. We showed up to a house with boxer puppies. First off, whoa lady, clean up some, your house is not intended for the sole use of a doggy outhouse. Seriously, 17 dogs lived in the house, NONE were house trained. The stench and her two teeth aside, one cute little boxer was hiding behind a couch and wanted nothing to do with his then-brothers and the other madness going on this house. That’s my dog, right there. He wants out as badly as I do. OK, so he’s covered with fleas, has a HORRENDOUS cough, he’s a fawn not a brindle, seems to be shy and doesn’t have that boxer spazzy hyperness that I love. This was “my” new dog. He was born on Dec. 17, 2004, was now 6 weeks old, and was going to be named Bubba. Bubba Ray to be precise, a nod to my hillbilly upbringing and since Shannon would never allow me to name my firstborn that, he would have to do.

We brought him home that day, after a quick stop at our friends' work to show him off. (They had asked us, oh, about 3 hours earlier if we ever thought about getting another dog. I guess we’re impulsive. Ooh, shiny.) Yes, indeed, the cajoling I referred to was just one of our friends asking if we had ever thought about it. (I dare you to walk into a room full of puppies with money in your pocket and not walk out with a new best friend.) Anyway, just like that we have a new addition to our humble home, Bubba. We get Bubba home and introduce him to Murray. Cue the string quartet. (HEY SHANNON!! Here would be appropriate place for the pic of baby Bubba and Murray meeting) :

Love at first sight does exist. Now if Shannon puts up the pic I’m thinking of, it doesn’t look like love. It looks like we’ve invested in a Devil dog. Bubba told Murray, “You might outweigh me by 80 pounds, but your ankles are in striking distance, Charge!!” Later on that day:


With our assistance Bubba got up on our couch and immediately went and laid down on Murray. A scene that has repeated EVERY day for 6 years. Buddies. It was readily apparent we had made the proper decision, the fleas went away, the cough left, the worry of 17 other dogs running over him passed. Another overwhelmingly obvious fact was Bubba was not “my” dog, he was Murray’s dog.

Dear readers, please forgive me, as I have never read this blog before, but I am sure that Shannon has frequently put up pics of their “companionship,” well Shannon, put the one where they’re spooning. And, no, we did not pose them for this pic.


We did, however, pose Bubba for this pic:


Hopefully, the previous pics illustrate how close they were. They never slept apart, always one on the other, and 9 out of 10 times it was Bubba on Murray. Let’s face it, Murray can handle it, he’s svelte. (Svelte means fat, right?) Point is, they have never been apart for 6 years.

We were lucky enough to be able to move to the country shortly after pairing the two and they went crazy. Acres to run around on and play with each other. Anyone that knows boxers know the 10-minute-long “run”: Run as fast as you possibly can in the most possibly random directions ever, stop, then repeat. This was also done inside of our house. This was Bubba’s favorite pastime. That and to attack Murray’s ankles, never got old. They loved to chase the random bird, curse the stray cat, find out what a snake is together, run away from butterflies (yes they did that), get lost in snow drifts that are taller than them, play “King of the Deck,” and of course their favorite, catch the bunny rabbit. Happiness.

Bubba was the quintessential happy dog. Never met a dog or person that he didn’t like and in return didn’t like him. Bubba was gentle versus Murray’s brute strength. Bubba had a clipped tail that we lovingly call his ‘nubbin. Wagged the live long day. It only stopped when he slept and even sometimes when dreaming it kept going. And Bubba loved to sing. Engage him with a staring contest and he would sing to you and break your concentration. He always won, cheater. Leave the house for 5 minutes and you were greeted the same as if you were gone for days. Have a bad day? He knew and you should be prepared for an hour of kisses. Have a lap? He’s in it. Hide Shannon in an unknown room with a blanket over her, he’s your man to find her. (Most times.) Put him in funny poses with different clothes and accessories, and he’s patient enough to indulge you. Bliss.

On June 12th, 2010 Bubba was diagnosed with Lymphoma, cancer. F**k! What do we do? What are the options? Chemo? Medicate? What do we do? He’s only 5, this can’t be. How did it happen? How long do we have? What will he go through? Will he understand what’s happening? What’s best for him? What’s the vet’s advice? Who does the procedures? What will it cost? What do we need to do? If we do this how long does he have? What are the success rates? Will he suffer? How will we know when its time? Do we want to put him through that? Will this hurt him? What should we feed him? These are the scores of questions that came up.

Unfortunately, our normal vet was out of town when we took Bubba in for diagnosis, and the new vet started him on steroids and antibiotics. We did not realize at the time, but if you were to consider chemotherapy for your dog do not start them on that course of treatment. The success rates are exponentially decreased if they’re started on steroids and antibiotics before chemo. This made our decision easier, along with our vet's eventual advice of not going through chemo. We were given 2-3 months with the steroid/antibiotic treatment; the vet said he’s seen it last 6 months, max.

Day one of treatment and every subsequent day we started out with meds and my telling Bubba, "We’re fighting this, you and me. We’re not giving up. I’m not letting go and neither are you." Day one was June 12th, and with an unlikely prognosis of 6 months at best we set our sights on Dec. 17, Bubba’s 6th birthday. That’s the goal. 6 months and 5 days away, no problem we can do it.

Bubba’s first surgery, our first hope: With lymphoma there are different types, one being beatable and one not, or it possibly could be lyme’s disease. To find out the type Bubba needed to have a lymph node removed from one of his legs. We did it. Took a week to determine. Fingers crossed, prayers flying. The scar was huge and ultimately the hair never grew back. Type was not beatable, back to the fight.

Several weeks later we were dogsitting for one of our neighbor’s dogs that happened to have fleas. Now Bubba has fleas. Apparently, Bubba is very allergic to flea bites and received a “hot spot” right on his ‘nubbin. (A hot spot is when green ooze flows out a dog’s skin. Not a pretty sight. Imagine his tail sneezing while battling a sinus infection.) Anyway, we had to scrub harshly with Dawn and a dish towel, which removed all the hair from the ‘nubbin. Again, the hair never grew back. Gave him a pill to kill off the fleas. Back to the fight.

Aug. 12th: 2 months, done. Sept. 12th: 3 months, toodles. The initial 2-3 month timeline laid to the wayside. Good appetite, good nature. Bald ‘nubbin wagging at full force. Beginning of December. Fight, fight, fight. Dec. 17th, still standing! Happy Birthday!! Bil-Jac and Frosty Paws all around. OK, let’s get to Christmas: Got it. We can make it to the New Year: Passed it. Bear with me here, Elvis’s Birthday, you can do it. MLK day, no problem. Groundhog day’s next, c’mon Punxsutawney Bubba.

Bubba became very sick this past weekend. The appetite left, the ‘nubbin slowed, movement was gone and so on and so forth. It wasn’t a struggle to make the ultimate decision. We love Bubba very much and knew it was time. We were prepared, but not ready. I didn’t want it to have to come to this, but here we are. My fight chant went from "fight, fight, fight" to "you don’t have to fight anymore." "Never give up" was replaced with "it’s ok to let go." Bubba was much more the fighter than me. I attribute that to his not wanting to leave his momma, Shannon. Not wanting to leave Murray alone one more time. Not wanting to see me sad.

Bubba lost his fight today, Jan. 26th, 2011. He made it 7 months and 14 days, when he was given 2-3 months. We showed ‘em. It wasn’t enough. I wanted more. Years. Having said that, I’m thankful for every extra day that we somehow stole. Not one of them was taken for granted.

In 2004 when we lost Hobbes my mother asked our preacher a childlike question, “Do dogs go to Heaven?” He answered, and I believe rightly so (paraphrasing), “No, dogs don’t have souls and therefore don’t go to Heaven.” I believe his answer is correct and who am I to judge its accuracy. But will I be spending my night dreaming that Hobbes and Bubba finally meet in Heaven and play all day long? You’re damn right. I will dream that sweet dream every night. Right or wrong the thought of them being together is a beautiful thought and makes the pain all that much more bearable.

Bubba’s ‘nubbin. Now throughout this “ordeal,” Bubba did slow down: no more running, no more attacking Murray’s ankles, no jumping on your lap. That part of Bubba was gone. But the ‘nubbin remained the same. If the ‘nubbin was the measuring stick, Bubba was healthy as a horse (save the last few days). Today’s trip to the doctor I had to carry Bubba in. When I sat Bubba down and the doctor came in, it was classic Bubba, ‘nubbin flying saying “Hello friend!” When we said our good-byes, my boy let me know everything was ok with a little ‘nubbin wag.

My prayers at the beginning of this were for spontaneous remission. It’s happened before so why not for Bubba? It didn’t happen and my prayer tonight will be a simple one.

Bubba, you fought well. You did so good. I’m so very proud of you. I hope we did good by you. I miss you. I will never forget you. I love you.

Good Boy.