TRIGGERS

I thought my Abby was dying.

She didn’t, but it was a rough thirty-six hours.

Between the blood oozing, sometimes squirting, out of orifices and the water vomiting, I’m not going to lie, I was freaked out. My beige carpet looked like a new leopard skin patterned rug and there wasn’t enough Febreze in the world to get rid of the smell. (Good thing for vinegar.)

I’m telling you this because, as the title entails, I had an unconscious trigger moment that blasted its way up to the surface of my consciousness, all while enduring a massive panic attack.

The first thing you should know is that I haven’t taken my dogs to the vet since I got them six years ago for basic vaccinations. I’m not an anti-vaxxer; I just know that these stupid dogs that I love too much are home bodies. They don’t go anywhere or hangout with other dogs because Abby wants to eat others’ faces. (She’s such a sweet little thing.) And if they are around others dogs, I know my better-dog-parent friends have regular doctor visits; so, I guess that means my dogs are safe, right? (Please don’t judge me.)

Abby was a mess and only a doctor visit could help. So, I kept those waterworks under control by imprisoning them in my behind-the-ear lymph nodes (I’m not a physician) while trying to speak to the receptionist. In the waiting room, tears leaked. I stared at the ceiling, hoping my wet eyes would dry before the doc came in. Too late. By the time she entered the room, I was full-on sobbing trying to explain what was wrong with Abby.

Doc handed me a box of tissues when the light bulb burst overhead. It hit me…the vet was a trigger to the past. The last time I visited an animal clinic, I brought sweetheart Mia and good ol’ Spike in to die and left with two tiny tin containers with their remains inside.

In a split second all the memories of the former two pups hit me. They hit me hard in the heart. While wiping tears from my cheeks and blowing unpretty snot bubbles into tissues, I explained this realization to the doc. She tried to comfort me by explaining this happens often, but did she honestly understand the trauma I just uncovered? My newbie-ish dogs haven’t been to the vet in six years because of my hidden grief.

I think there’s something important here…Trauma comes in all shapes and sizes, but I think difficult situations from suffering of different sorts gets wedged in places that we sometimes refuse to acknowledge. In my case, I hadn’t even comprehended the idea that I created a fear of visiting the veterinarian’s office—of course, I also refuse to watch a softball game (it’s a Frank thing)—but that’s a whole other trauma I’m still not ready to deal with.