Change Sucks.

Maneuvering through life's difficult situations with grace.

Change sucks. It’s hard and overwhelming and often not welcomed. Transitions feel hard for me, like I’m jumping from one secure lily pad to the next, and the floating, liminal space in between is a wide-open, uncomfortable abyss. Just when I thought things in life were starting to smooth out, they went and got bumpier.

I’m not sure I’ve got anything figured out, and It’s the thinking that I’ve got things figured out that’s gonna screw me up. I’ve just finished grad school for creative writing, I’ve got love in my life, and I’m a homeowner. Yet everything feels unstable. Maybe it’s all the trauma I encountered early on that makes life feel naturally unstable, but somehow I want to keep chasing a life ‘when everything feels better.’ At moments when it seems like I’ve got things figured out, I can relax and breathe more into my lower belly. At this particular moment, full breaths feel elusive.

When things in life seem all figured out, we will do anything to keep holding onto it. We will bargain with ourselves and others, even give ourselves away to hold onto what feels stable. But life and the many organisms within it only exist because of constant evolution, and to fight against change would be like fighting against life itself.

Change is mercurial and not something that can be predicted (duh) and will sneak up on us when we least expect it. Falling in love is a perfect example, yet society will suggest something different about romance. Lock it down, put a ring on it, sign papers claiming that you will both love each other forever and ever. No matter what. And shame on you if you fail.

But what about the fact that the trillions of cells in our bodies are changing at a fast rate, and scientifically speaking, we are technically not the same person that we were when we fell in love? One day we feel one way, and the next day we feel another way. When the person we’ve pledged to love is also going through the same thing, it seems miraculous that loving partnerships last as long as they do. Romance relationships can feel the most painful when they change because they’ve taken the place of the good mommy or the good daddy we never had, and the wound can feel so tender when the stability shifts. Our connection and safety feel disrupted. Where did Daddy go?

Trying to hold onto something that naturally wants to change is like trying to chase the tail of a kite. It’s bouncing around in the wind, happily flapping, just out of reach. We can feel it so close that we can taste it. “If only . . .” we think too many times. Our grasping makes the tail fly even higher in the sky.

I thought I’d love my dog forever. He didn’t sign papers saying he’d love me back, but I assumed it was a given. He’s been a sturdy companion, giving me emotional support in his distant style, has only been squirted by a skunk three times, and has never ruined anything in all the times he’s shat in the house. Plus, his name is Booda. How could you not love a dog with that name?

Booda came home with me almost 14 years ago from a GSP rescue in southern California. His heavily traumatic first few months (before we met) left lasting wounds, and his body shook with terror every time we left the house for a walk. Over the years, exposure therapy and encouragement brought him out of his shell, and we emotionally grew together, two odd creatures finding their way in the world. He’s been my wingman through several relationships and many new cities, always up for an adventure with Mommy.

I never knew that dementia could affect dogs in nearly the same way that it affects humans. I’ve also never known or met a human with dementia, so to me, it was a distant medical condition or a character’s plight in a film.

Like a romantic relationship that feels ‘locked down’ once you’ve moved in together and started sharing bills, a long relationship with an animal feels like it should have a similar – if not more so – expected trajectory. After Booda hit 10 years old, I started wondering how long he’d stay around. The life span for GSPs is anywhere from 12-16 years old, so when he made it to 13, it started feeling like extra time. Then he started following me. Everywhere.

My life plan didn’t include Booda getting dementia, and his morphing into another creature over a slow period has forced me to accept change in a way that I never wanted to. Why can’t I just have the dog back that I’ve known for the last dozen years? After we go to the park, it’s time for a nap, riiiiight? Nope. His tippy-tappy nails click over my hardwood floors and follow me at about an 18” distance. Everywhere. Into the bathroom, from one room to the next even if I’m gone for 10 seconds, into the kitchen, and immediately underfoot as I’m cooking.

At the dog park, I can’t help but talk about my frustrations with Booda’s changed behavior and the new stranger that I’m unloading on undoubtedly has an in-law with dementia or a neighbor with an aging dog. And then I bawl and sometimes we hug, and it feels like I’ve joined a club that I never wanted to be in. When I run at the river and see big, loopy chalk marks reminding me that it’s Elder Abuse Awareness Day, for the first time in my life, I understand the importance of creating such a day.

I don’t know how I thought the end of Booda’s life would look. Maybe I’d get lucky, and he’d die in his sleep. Or maybe he’d get an aggressive cancer and only suffer for a few weeks, tops. I don’t know if he’s suffering now, but I know I’m suffering.

A friend told me about a podcast with a story where a woman was diagnosed with dementia. Knowing that she didn’t want to be a burden to her family, her doctor agreed to provide her with a concoction to be stored in the freezer for when she felt she was ready. The original diagnosis was for only two years, but she held onto most of her faculties for nearly four years until the moment when she could feel herself slipping away too much and pulled the ‘goodbye medicine’ out to thaw. Tears poured down my face for the bravery of that woman in creating a plan to address her unwanted change.

I know way more about dementia than I ever wanted to know. I’ve heard story after story about all the ways that dementia changes things. How someone can walk around in circles until they fall from exhaustion. How they might not forget a close loved one but forget everyone else. How the staring can go on for hours. I wish I could talk to Booda to know if he’s already slipped away too much.

When Booda stares at me, I try to figure out what he wants, like he has legitimate needs that I should attend to. What, you need to go outside for the twentieth time today? What, you’re hungry, even though you just ate? But ultimately, his brain is unwell – his neurons have stopped working properly. The longing in his eyes kills me and I want to make whatever is happening all better, but there’s no way. I’ve tried every medication the vet suggested, and he either refuses to eat them or he gets the shits. He’s an old goat that is never the same from day to day and seems more like a grouchy puppy now, Benjamin Button style. My dog sitters love Booda and have been watching him for free, knowing I would’ve called uncle by now. I’m lucky to know them.

He wobbles, he drools, and he makes a mess when he eats. He leans on my leg like he doesn’t know where he belongs, and his stare triggers me more than my emotionally incestuous mother’s stare. I’ve felt incredible shame at using physical force to remove him from my immediate 18” personal space when I can’t take it anymore or when I’m emotionally tired from 2 hours of him pacing during sundown and I’ve forced him into bed. I’ve bawled as much over Booda as any hurtful romantic relationship, and I’m not bawling because I’m sad that I’ll miss him when he’s gone. I’m bawling because I never thought I’d have such complex feelings toward a being that I’ve loved and relied on so much. But things change.

Organisms evolve, people change, and dogs get dementia.

As horribly painful as some changes can be, Booda’s dementia is something I can do nothing about. Just the same as most change, we’re chasing the tail of the kite. It’s gonna do whatever it needs to do, no matter how much we try to intervene. Then it comes down to how we maneuver change. Do we curl up in a little ball and cry, wishing things could be different? Trust me, I have many times over my dog.

Around the same time that Booda started acting differently, I encountered a triggering exchange in group therapy where I realized I couldn’t change another’s behavior and I had no choice but to be in a wide-open abyss of not knowing and to just accept what was. I’ll never forget the uncomfortable feeling of having no control when I’d spent my life always having a plan, so I could be in control. Tripping up my control wiring just slightly allowed me a peek into the feeling of freedom I encountered when I stopped trying to have an answer for everything. And I realized how exhausting it was.

Some changes might be much harder to accept than others, especially when it comes to matters of the heart – whether the creature we love has fur or not. I think it’s the fighting against what naturally wants to change that creates pain. We want to hold onto things the way they were, or the way they were most comfortable, even if it’s not what’s ultimately best for us. It’s hard to apply this same logic to a pet with dementia, but I’ve done my best to apply the triggering to my Mommy wounding, and not be directly mad at Booda. To see it as a gift in my trauma healing, to not see his probing stare as a disturbing psychological suck from an unwell mother.

Note: The above material was written just over 4 weeks ago, and the below material was written 1 week after Booda and I snuggled and eye-gazed on the bed for the very last time.

Being the one responsible for making the proactive decision to make the phone calls and tell all the people that “it’s time” was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and the days before and after now feel like a baptism of fire I never wanted to walk through. A couple of hours before the at-home appointment, I sat on my front porch futon and cried the deepest gut-wrenching cry I’ve ever felt. It felt like a sadness that went all the way back to when I was a toddler – the feeling of being completely and utterly alone in the world with no safety net and no help. At that moment as I stared out into the afternoon sun, I knew that the depth of the panicky pain convulsing over me had to be much greater than the imminent loss of my furry creature inside. I vowed to raise the bar even more on how I was caring for my beloved inner wounded young parts and went in to spend my last bits of precious time with my long-term partner.

There’s no way to put into words the complex feelings of being in limbo and ‘not knowing when the right time will be’ while watching Booda’s symptoms progress. My words from 4 weeks ago feel flip in comparison to the devastation of the time finally arriving because his paws had given out as well. I kept imagining being forced to walk to the end of a high dive and being told that I had to jump off. Even though every fiber in me did not want to jump off, I knew it was the only way forward in my new chapter. There was no choice other than to jump off the board. I feared the pain so much that I panicked and thought I wanted to say goodbye alone, but then I came to my senses and realized that the whole point was to let more love in, more support in, and in the sharing of the stories and photos, I was allowing others to know me, to show up for me, and to possibly process some of their grief. Booda and I spent a perfect hour on the bed together, spooning while I whispered all the sweet nothings into his ear that I may have never said to him.

I wouldn’t wish losing a loved one (no matter in what form) on my worst enemy, but since it seems to be part of life, I’ll try to extract the best nuggets from the experience instead of sitting in my puddle of mud, crying. What seems clear is that the more we learn to embrace change, the more we won’t see change as something to tolerate and adapt to. That if we see change as inevitable and plan for it rather than trying to avoid it, we can learn to breathe through uncomfortable and upsetting situations. Our ability to accept change feels correlated to our ability to receive the success and the adventures that are awaiting us. I’d rather not have gone through watching my dog lose his faculties, but I’m hoping that in my courage to walk through the fire, I can receive Booda’s final gift and remember that beautiful things can only come when we have the courage to let go of the things that no longer serve us.

Put it on a Post-it!

*Change is uncomfortable, but magic only happens outside of our comfort zones.

*We have no control over anything, we only have control over our mindset about what’s happening.

*Beautiful things can come from change if only we can release our fears to welcome what’s next. I love this metaphor: Your correct train can’t come into the station if it’s full with the wrong train.

“You must give up the life you planned in order to have the life that is waiting for you.”

Joseph Campbell