I’m flying to Oregon tomorrow. Husband is choosing to stay home as #1 caregiver for Paddy dog, our special child still at home. This month Paddy celebrated his tenth birthday. In December 1999 Tilly, our second border collie died. I said no more dogs. Then I said no dogs until spring. Husband still took me to the kennels and even to the humane society. Those people really freaked me out.

We filled out all the adoption papers, answered a gazillion questions and then those people—I call them “those people” rather than other names—turned husband down. Said he wasn’t a good candidate to adopt because his dog had just died after ten years.

When we left there I thought husband might forget the dog getting, but he didn’t. The next day I called our daughter in Oregon after work. We were chatting away when a horrible ruckus took place on the front porch.

“Mom, what’s that noise?”

“Must be the neighbor kids selling something.” I let husband answer the door. In bounded three adorable border collie pups. One merle colored, one black and then this yellow fur ball with black patches, yes, that was Paddy Awfulous O’Reilly’s entrance into our home. He came straight from a pig farm. He’d rolled in so much farm stuff he smelled a fright and looked a deep tan/yellow cream colored. The owner gave us a Christmas discount when I continued to say “no dog.”

Husband gave Paddy three baths before he cleaned up real pretty.

Paddy’s smart as a whip. He shakes hands with both paws, plays dead, sits up, tells us where the cookies are and can spell forwards and backwards. He opens the door to let himself out and he also says his prayers. He’s also my protector.

Paddy is also smart enough to know when you enter a hospital you keep your yap shut. In December 2002 when husband was fading fast, our family doctor said to call our children from Oregon, “I’m not sure Gary will make it through the weekend.” That’s when I decided a paddy visit might stir husband from the pits. I asked my friend Jean to help me and prince that Paddy is, he walked through the hospital like a Champ winning Best of Show.

There are many reports about animal therapy, but I’m here to tell you, puppy visits aren’t always as beautiful as portrayed in the movies. Husband freaked when he saw Paddy. He grabbed his stomach and kept saying, “No! Paddy, No!” Afraid he’d have a ball of fur in his lap.

The good news is, we brought husband home from that hospital and he and Paddy still live in my house. I’m sorry husband isn’t traveling with me, but I love our Paddy dog and understand that he and his master need each other. The other really good news is, my visit to the hospital this month was only an overnighter. My cancer isn’t rare like husband’s pseudomyxoma peritonei. Hopefully, I won’t need a Paddy visit, I’ll manage all treatment from home. For that I’m so very grateful.

Thanks for the prayers, I slept like a baby last night—awake every couple hours. (grin)
The good news is I listened to husband’s soft snore, realized he slept well, and then fell back asleep.

This morning I read Psalm 126. I love the phrase in the second verse, “Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy.” Decided today I’ll search for things that bring laughter to our household. Then I continued to read to verse nine, “Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. He who goes out weeping carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with him.”

Like I said, this isn’t about me. Truly thought the whole trip to a surgeon’s office had to do with other caregivers, their needs, there loneliness—how do I create a great awareness? After reading today’s devotional I know God has a plan to turn this into something I can neither think nor fathom.

Read the Psalm again and thought back to December 2001 when I whined to my friend Lynn, “My life feels like a little box. Do the same things in the same square every day.” Lynn gave me The Prayer of Jabez, where Jabez prayed God would enlarge his territory. Well no way in the world did I choose husband’s cancer to meet more people, but Psuedomyxoma Peritonei (pmp) definitely increased the size of my world.

Wonder what will happen in the next few weeks? Who will I meet? Will Capsules of Hope create a difference in another’s life or will I just write a new saga in the next book?

Better than Roses Anyday

In 2002 the surgeon arrived after an exploratory surgery to say, “Mr. Crawford you have Pseudomyxoma Peritonei.” She explained what she found and said she’d called an oncologist. When she left I called our middle child, Marcy.

This week husband said he’d see the doctor with me. “Not necessary. I’m going there and then to work.” I handled that first appointment fine. Had lunch with friends at CBWF and drove to the surgeon. I felt rather grand when I left there. After all, it’s a lump. Had one of those before. I know dozens of women that suffered with these problems.

Only the next morning when I realized the radiologist talked with the surgeon before he talked with me, I felt a bit squeamish. When he said I needed to call the surgeon for an appointment, I said, “okay.” Drove out of the hospital parking lot, down the hill, into a driveway, dug through my purse for the surgeon’s phone number. Couldn’t find it.

Husband wasn’t home. Didn’t want to call him anyway. He wouldn’t know the number and I wanted to tell him in person. So why did I call Marcy? Cause that’s what daughters are for.

Someplace in Capsules of Hope I have a whole thing about not leaning on your kids, they break. However, at that moment in time, I needed to talk about what happened. How I felt. Marcy couldn’t find the phone number I needed, but there is something about sharing the weight of what just happened.

Thank you, Marcy Lou, you are better than a dozen roses in my day, a sweet rare treasure.
Mom the Kat