Back in 2009, my then-husband and I were still feeling like newlyweds. Bought our first house. Spent lots of time with other young couples. Took a big first anniversary trip.
Despite the fun in things being new and us being so young, I was spending most of my time at our new house by myself. He was working alternating 80-hour nightshift weeks at the hospital. We wanted a dog, but I needed a companion for all those nights alone. Every creak and moan in the walls of our house after sunset would often drive me to paranoia. I hoped that getting a dog would alleviate my nighttime anxiety.
Enter Mojo. Actually, Pet Finder listed him as "The Mighty Mojo". The ad didn't quite know what breed he was. They guessed he might have had some miniature pinscher in him since his tail was nothing but a nub and his ears stood erect. He was also all of 19 pounds. But his black-and-tan coat definitely screamed German shepherd. I just wish I still had the original photo from his listing. Guys, the way his collar fit around his neck fur, he looked like he had a mullet. He had to be mine.
I went to meet Mojo at his foster home: a farm up in Clarkesville. Mojo was clearly all personality. He had a fancy prance, much like the horses he was walking alongside. He ignored the chickens and goats, but flying bugs were a different story. They made for a fun game of "Seek and Nip". When taking Mojo inside the foster house, he wasn't a "normal" snuggly pup. He was actually kind of a douche, giving us looks of, "You can pet me and I'll wag my stump of a tail, but you will have to come to me for rubs."
Seriously. This dog was everything. A fine balance of any extreme pairings of personality types, knowing when to turn one side up or dial another back. All we needed at that point was for the foster parent and rescue group to sign off on us as his owners, and our house would be filled with happiness and clumps of shepherd undercoat.
And it was a happy time. Mojo, the douchey dog who laid claim to his favorite spot on the stairs so he could look down on his lowly humans. Who barfed on any car ride that lasted more than 15 minutes. Who rejoiced when I got out his sleeping bag each winter. Who loved snow days more than the neighborhood kids. Who laid his cute little face on your lap to beg for your popcorn.
Because he was a star in obedience classes, he respected the rules of the house. He wasn't allowed on the couch or in the bed since he shed so much. But every once in a while, he could sense when I was feeling a little extra lonely or anxious over the creaky walls at night. So he would jump on the bed and burrow all the way to the end of the covers, only touching my foot with his furry ass to show he cared enough to make contact but had no intention of snuggling.
Fast forward to 2013. By now, we have had a child, and I have worked in four schools. Being a school teacher and a mom, I pick up lots of germs despite my best efforts to keep everything clean. But I was sick more often than my educator peers, and most of my visits to the doctor were due to respiratory infections.
What bothered me most was how every time a doctor listened to my lungs, they'd say the same thing: "You're lungs sound good, but we're going to go ahead and call it bronchitis." They would write a scrip for antibiotics, and send me home.
I should have gotten better. Yet I continued to get sick with multiple rounds of "bronchitis", and antibiotics I had been taking didn't seem to be effective. New scrips were written. Trying new classes of antibiotics didn't work, either, because I was having allergic reactions to a few of them. One made me violently ill. Another caused painful blisters to pop up on my finger and toe joints. All the while, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't sleep. My voice was constantly froggy.
New Years Day, 2015. I am so sick. Again. Just sick and tired. I drag myself to a doc in the box, weeping. Wheezing. Still getting, "Your lungs sound great, but..."
But what?
The doc asked if I had ever considered that I might have asthma.
Nope. Hadn't entered my mind. How does a woman in her early 30s just suddenly develop asthma? Especially one who takes care of herself?
He referred me to a pulmonologist, and I didn't hesitate to make an appointment. Sure enough, after a dozen breathing tests, the specialist calls it "asthma" and prescribes me a daily inhaled steroid, as well as a rescue inhaler. I feel like I finally understand all these years of respiratory issues, and I'm back on the road to health. Or so I thought.
About a year into my diagnosis, though, that healthy road took a dangerous turn. My stress levels were abnormally high due to work, a sudden death in the family, and a failing marriage. In a single year, I battled "bronchitis" 3 times. But then sinusitis showed up. And it showed up 6 times over the course of 12 months. I even check in with the school nurse to have her measure my blood oxygen on the regular. One afternoon, it drops below 90%. I rush to my primary doc, who says to increase my daily steroid to 300mg. Use my rescue inhaler before every workout or stressful event.
Wait, I needed to puff on my albuterol BEFORE I went for a run? What the actual hell?
I needed something better than upped meds. I felt like I was putting a tiny bandaid on a wound that needed dozens of stitches, and my doctors were trying to convince me which brand of bandage would suffice. But I still follow orders because I didn't know what else to do.
Then in the early fall of 2017, I'm lying in bed next to the man who would be my ex a year later, and he vocalizes his worry. My breathing was extremely shallow and rapid. My heart rate wasn't so great, either. He urges me to get the opinions of other doctors.
I make an appointment with an ENT. He suspects that all my battles with sinusitis is being caused by a pocket of infected fluid in my sinus cavity that antibiotics can't reach. He scopes me and starts talking about surgery. All he can find, though, is that I have a slightly deviated septum, probably the result of too much nose-blowing. He orders a CT scan, just knowing he will find that pocket of fluid in my face. The scan comes back totally clean.
So I try seeing a new pulmonologist. Maybe the first guy didn't know what the hell he was doing. The new pulmonology crew puts me through all the breathing tests. They take a chest X-ray. And of course, they can't find anything wrong with me. They are stumped as to why I'm constantly sick with respiratory issues.
That's when they asked if I had ever seen an allergist. I knew I had a slight allergy to cats, but I mostly avoid being around them and didn't see the need for a specialist in that department. The pulmonologist, though, thinks there might be an environmental allergen that's to blame for my infections. Thankfully, they offer a simple blood test that focuses on a few (but very common) allergies that if they were to come back negative, they would refer me to an allergist.
I get my blood drawn the day I was flying to New Orleans for a conference, choosing to focus on the time I was going to spend in a new city. My time there goes so well, that I end up walking roughly 10 miles a day exploring NOLA outside of the conference. And my lungs felt effing amazing. I never once had to reach for my inhaler. I start thinking that maybe my vulnerability to illness was simply stress-induced. And even though a conference isn't exactly a vacation, I felt like I was on one.
When I got home, my respiratory issues returned. I also got the phone call with the results of my blood test. The woman started giving numbers. Somewhere around a 0.26 was the magical cut-off for being allergic to something. She said I was a 0.28 for cats. OK, so I was barely allergic to felines. The numbers were roughly the same for grass pollen and dust mites.
But then she read my number for dogs. It was 1.58. I studied psychology in undergrad, so I spent a good deal of time working with statistics. She didn't have to explain to me that a number that high was statistically significant.
I wept. Mojo had been making me sick for years.
The woman on the phone suggests loading up on allergy meds. But that just sounds like another bandaid remedy. I realize what I have to do.
I have to give up my Mojo.
As much as it hurt my heart to give my dog away, my head knew that it would be the only way to be truly healthy again. I was able to accept what was to come. Explaining it to my child, on the other hand, was a whole different set of emotions to battle. She was about to experience her parents splitting up. Now her dog has to go? The last night Mojo was with us, our child requested a sleepover with everyone in her room. Her parents on the floor in sleeping bags, and her dog in the bed with her. She cried herself to sleep. And when the morning came, she and I struggled to say our goodbyes as her daddy drove Mojo to his new home.
Thankfully, this story has a happy ending. To say that my health has improved would be a vast understatement. I decontaminated every surface in my house after Mojo left. It didn't even take a week before it was clear I no longer needed my daily steroid. I only carry my rescue inhalers because they're my crutch. I can count on one hand the number of times I've used them in the 18 months I've been without my dog. I also haven't had a respiratory or sinus infection in that time, either.
I also discovered I'm not allergic to hypoallergenic breeds of dogs. So one day when the post-divorce finances swing back in my favor and the schedule isn't so insane, I hope to find companionship in another personality-filled pup. I know how happy that would make my child.
We found the perfect home for Mojo with a friend who just happens to have a farm. When I explain this to people, I have to clarify it's an actual farm and not the metaphorical one. There are no horses, but there are goats and chickens. There's even another (much younger) dog Mojo can grump at in his old age. Her name is Luna. And where the flowers are blooming, Mojo still nips at the bees trying to do their job. We make the time to visit Mojo when we can, me loading up on Claritin beforehand. Mojo "cries" each time he sees us. And now, he likes to snuggle up close for those belly rubs.
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