You down with OTP?

A couple of weeks ago I did something that I, a proud Dekalb County resident, have never allowed myself to do. I went to realtor.com and started looking at houses for sale OTP.

This term, OTP, needs no explanation for my fellow Atlantans. For some of you, it’s home. For others, it’s a disease.  

For the rest of you: OTP is the acronym we use to describe the suburbs. “Outside The Perimeter.” Atlanta is surrounded by a perimeter highway, 285. Decatur, where I live, is also encircled by 285.  Anything outside of that highway is considered OTP. 

I’ve always been anti-OTP. I’d make the typical worn out jokes about needing one’s passport to make a trip out there.  It baffled me how or why anyone could live in “the ‘burbs.” It’s so far!  The traffic! What do you do on a Friday night? Go to TGIFridays??

After 5 minutes on the internet, I got it. You can get a lot of house for almost nothing. I discovered I could trade in my current house, move 15 miles and get twice the house for half the price. AND be in a better school district.

All I could think was, why the hell did I buy this crummy old dump when I could live in a brand-spanking-new palace just a few miles down the road?!

After I started researching some of the towns OTP, I started to hate on my neighborhood big time. Downtown Decatur has cool restaurants and shops and has great schools. I live in Decatur, but not downtown Decatur, and I’m outside of the Decatur High School district.  The schools where we live are not as good.  In my eyes, I had the worst of both worlds: I was in a lame suburban neighborhood but with crummy schools and in-town prices!

When we bought our house, I didn’t care about school systems, and all I wanted was to be close to Emory, and I wanted to be able to take a cheap cab home when I went to the bars and drank too much. Now, I don’t work at Emory anymore and I don’t go out drinking. The last drunken cab ride I took was when Tess was just a glimmer in Andy’s eye! My priorities have changed. I want good schools, a small mortgage and a home office.

I had a lot of in-town people tell me how foolish I was to think about going OTP. And it wasn’t just the commute I was warned about. “It’s a different world out there,” they’d say. The further away you travel OTP the “red-er” the politics go. And to be horribly frank, a lot of people in-town view those who live OTP as a bunch of racist, homophobic assholes who spend their weekends at gun shows. (No offense to my OTP peeps, but you must know this is the stereotype!)

           

As much as I was aware of this stereotype, I was hesitant to believe it was accurate. Andy grew up on the edge of a major city, and I grew up in a rural cow town, and we aren’t racist, homophobic assholes.

And, let’s be honest people, we might be in-town… but it’s still fucking Georgia! Of course I like the idea of living and working in a community of people who share my values, but if I really wanted to surround myself with people who share my politics, I’d move back to Northampton, Massachusetts. Or better yet, PTown.

So one Saturday we decided to take a drive out to Gwinnett County.  All I could think on that drive was: damn, this shit is FAR!  Really, it didn’t look so bad on a map – but it takes a long time to drive out there. We were focusing on the towns that were the shortest commute to Emory and it was still far as hell. And it was a weekend.

I didn’t like the idea of Andy having such a long commute and I also didn’t like the idea of feeling so isolated out there. Sure, I want a bigger house, I want another kid, maybe even 2, I want guest rooms for my family. I hate having an old house that constantly needs updating. I hate my huge mortgage most of all. But I just didn’t feel good about being so far away.

Then something else happened. You may have heard.

It snowed. 2 inches. And Atlanta was brought to its knees.

The Daily Show
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Jon Stewart had some fun at our expense... 

and, as usual, makes some good points along the way.

Andy and I had been following the forecast and knew we were going to have some sort of frozen-ish precipitation Tuesday afternoon. Andy left Emory as the first flurries were falling. That afternoon, I started seeing some of my friends post on Facebook about the horrible traffic. By 2pm, I checked google maps on my phone and saw this:

I was glued to the local news, watching the stories of people trapped in their cars. It was taking people hours just to pull out of their parking decks on Peachtree Street. People started abandoning their cars along the highway and heading out on foot. Home Depots were opening as shelters. A friend of mine’s husband walked home 13 miles in the snow while CARRYING A GALLON OF MILK for their 2 year old because they were out.

Of course, the hardy New Englanders kept asking what is wrong with these southerners who can’t drive in the snow. The problem was not the driving in the snow, however. (Well, I mean… it was – let’s be honest, even rain causes horrible Atlanta traffic, but the weather was only the beginning).

Around noon, when the snow started to fall, everyone in Atlanta left work at exactly the same time. Five-million people found themselves on the road all at once. Even if there was no snow and it was a beautiful day out, there would have been a massive traffic jam from that many people being on the roads all at once.

Millions of people on the road and the snow got worse and then it froze. Fender benders happened. Nearly 1,000 of them apparently. That obviously exacerbated the traffic. And because of the traffic, the sanders couldn’t get back out to treat the roads. That obviously exacerbated the slippery-ness factor. It was a vicious cycle.

People were literally trapped. Even those who wanted to give up on driving, abandon their cars and walk, couldn’t even pull their cars over to the shoulder to do so.  People who couldn’t get out of town slept on the floor at Publix and CVS. A baby was born on 285 because Mom and Dad were stuck in their car in traffic. Children were stuck at school – and worse – on school buses all night. Can you imagine knowing your child was trapped on a school bus all night???

People on Facebook and Twitter, the media, everyone keeps asking, why did this happen? How did this happen?  Who is to blame?!

Even Al Roker blasted Nathan Deal (our governor) and Kasim Reed (Atlanta’s mayor) on the Today Show for failing to act. And, yes, I agree - school should have been cancelled; roads should have been pre-treated with salt and sand (and before 9am the day the weather rolled in). Different choices should have been made.

But what happened on Tuesday wasn’t just because of slippery roads. Let’s get real here for a minute and admit that what happened on Tuesday was a result of suburban sprawl.

Hundreds of thousands of people were tempted by the same things I was: big, cheap houses in excellent school districts 30 miles from work.  People have kids in school in Alpharetta, Marietta, Johns Creek and Lawrenceville but work in Buckhead. Downtown or Emory and the CDC.

When they are told to come get their kids at 1pm, they have to drive 20 miles or more to get there. They don’t take the train because MARTA sucks and doesn’t go anywhere near where they need it to. And when millions of people all get in their cars and hit the road at the same time, a big ass traffic jam happens.

While 2,000 kids around Atlanta were stuck at school or on school buses during and after the storm, apparently Dekalb County, my county, didn’t have any. I’m guessing that was because the kids who go to Dekalb County schools have parents who work close-by and were able to go get them.

I was super lucky on Tuesday. Andy was able to leave work early, before shit got real out there. And because I am working from home and Tess doesn’t go to daycare or school, we were all safely in the warm before a single flurry even stuck to the grass. If Andy had to stay at work longer, and the traffic or road conditions were too crazy to drive, he could have easily walked the 2.5 miles home. When your kid is in school 30 miles from where you work or where you are stuck in traffic, you can’t walk to them. 

Again, yes, I agree – errors were made. Our government officials failed to act, but it wasn’t just the failure to cancel school or put salt on I-75 that caused this mess.

It was the decades of poor civic planning to cope with the suburban sprawl. It’s the fact that people who want good schools and affordable housing are forced to go to Gwinnett or Cobb County. I am not an expert on the public school system, but what I do know is that the Atlanta Public Schools have been plagued with a cheating scandal, the accreditation of Dekalb County schools has only just been removed from “probation” status, and Clayton County schools lost their accreditation in 2008 (it’s since been regained, but they were only the 3^rd school district in the US to lose accreditation since 1969!) Clearly, we need better options around here. I don’t pretend to know how to improve things, but I’m sure fewer people would commute out to Gwinnett County if the schools in town were as good as they are out there.

And, I think the biggest contributing factor to this whole mess was the lack of a decent public transit system. Sure, we have MARTA, but the suburbs aren’t accessible by MARTA. In fact, most of Atlanta and Decatur aren’t accessible by MARTA. I live inside the perimeter and it’s almost 4 miles to the closest MARTA station.

Emory employs over 24,000 people and has almost 15,000 students. I don’t know how many more work at the CDC, right next door. They are both well inside the perimeter in the city of Atlanta, and the closest train is 2.5 miles away. There are buses and shuttles, but no train access to campus. To think of how many cars could be taken off the road if only people could take a train to Emory or the CDC.

Atlanta isn’t the only city where people commute from suburban towns many miles away. I know plenty of people who live 20 or more miles from where they work in Boston. Hell, people commute to Boston from Worcester! But the difference is, there is a great system called the T that can get people out of Boston. We don’t have that in Atlanta. For many people, for most people, the only way out of this city is by car.

           

I will try to be hopeful and say perhaps this catastrophe will make the city and state re-think their commitment to public transportation. I don’t mean the politicians. I mean the people of this city. Both republican and democratic politicians came together in 2012 to support a referendum to invest in public transit improvements via a small tax increase, but the voters overwhelmingly voted against it.

The same people who want to blame Nathan Deal and Kasim Reed because they got stuck in traffic are the same people who voted against a small tax increase that would have made it easier for them to get home. Cries for smaller government suddenly turned into “Where were you when I needed you?” Meanwhile, if the City of Atlanta or Fulton or Dekalb County had spent millions of dollars on hundreds of sanders and snow plows, and paid workers to go out to spread salt all over for days prior to the storm, there would have been accusations of government waste. I’m certainly not one to defend Nathan Deal, but we just can’t have it both ways.

Of course, if the next catastrophe is one during which we need to evacuate the city rather than just get home, I am totally f'd along with the rest of you. 

This post got far more political than I wanted, and I hope no one thinks I'm judging anyone who lives OTP! Trust me, I get it... the pull is strong! I was practically packing my bags 2 weeks ago! In the end, however, this “snow storm” made me incredibly grateful for my small, moldy old 1950’s ranch with no closet space and it’s endless “To Do” list. Because, instead of spending 16 hours stranded on an interstate or sleeping at a Home Depot on Tuesday, Andy and I were doing this:

Grad school killed the neuroscience star

There’s a story my best friend from college loves to tell about me.  She even told it during my wedding toast. She describes this interaction we had during our first few weeks of being friends, my first year at Smith.

After starting college intending to major in studio art, I took intro to neuroscience to fulfill a natural science requirement simply because it did not require a lab section. I hated science lab courses in high school. Neuroscience, however, is a saucy minx and within the first few weeks I was swooning over the action potential, the habenula and long-term potentiation.

One night I was studying for an exam with my girls and was having a nerd-gasm over what I was reading about the inner ear. Caitlin loves to joke about how she couldn’t have been more bored to death by what I was describing to her, but since we were new friends she feigned interest. It was certainly clear, however, that I should be studying neuroscience. Who gets this excited about cells firing and bones vibrating?

By the end of that semester, I was a neuroscience major. My courses blew my mind. My lab work blew my mind. I spent my summers at the Autism Research Foundation studying anatomical changes in post-mortem autistic human brain. I never got as excited about anything as much as I did about neuroscience in those days.

I went to The Society for Neuroscience meeting the fall of my senior year and was instantly sold on the idea of pursing research. I LOVED that meeting! It’s possible I was just on cloud 9 after meeting my future husband my first day there, but whatever the reason, I decided I wanted to apply to graduate school right after.

In hindsight, it was definitely an impulsive decision. If I could go back in time and tell my 21-year-old self one thing it would be to slow the F down and think about something for more than 5 minutes before acting on it. (I’m sure I’m not the only person who wishes they could do that). It was mid-November when I made that decision and by early January I had taken the GREs and sent in my grad school applications. I interviewed in February and by early March I knew I’d be moving to Atlanta to start my PhD at Emory that summer.

Impulsive may not even cover it. Hasty? Yes. Rash? Perhaps. But at the time I was incredibly motivated and figured, “I love studying neuroscience. Why stop?”

And yes, I did continue to “study neuroscience” in graduate school, but it couldn’t have been more different. Maybe I thought grad school would be an extension of college.  I guess I don’t really know what I was expected, but it feels like everything went wrong from day one.

While I pretty much knew during my first year of grad school that bench science was not for me, I gave it the good old “college try.” Damn did I give it the old college try. I’d never quit anything in my life and I certainly wasn’t going to start now. I am incredibly stubborn, if that isn’t clear by now.

Almost 10 years later and multiple lab switches, a degree, a post-doc, 5 papers, one sociopath for a boss, overt sexism, paper rejections, impossible collaborators, failed grants, failed job applications, and even a knee injury at a scientific meeting that ultimately required surgery… I’m finally ready to leave the lab behind me. 

During the last year, since becoming a mother, I have done a lot of soul searching. A LOT. Self-reflection became my job in 2013. I quit my post-doc last spring and since then I’ve genuinely and seriously considered doing another post-doc, teaching, and even research administration to name a few of my pursuits.  

I have finally decided that what I want to do is write. I’ve always had it in the back of my mind, the idea of doing freelance, but it’s scared me a little. How do I get into it? I’ll have to do a lot of networking, be my own biggest advocate and might even have to talk to people on the phone! Yikes. (I hate talking on the phone. It’s like a social anxiety disorder). What if I can’t keep up with deadlines?  And worst of all… What if someone says they don’t like what I’ve written???

While I’ve been thinking about pursing science or medical writing for a while now, I have also tried getting some other more traditional jobs over the past 6+ months. I’ve applied for jobs, have been offered jobs, been denied jobs, and even turned down jobs myself.

I’m glad I’ve been on this job search journey, because now I’m absolutely convinced writing, specifically freelance, is what I want to do, at least right now. When I was faced with the possibility of spending my day-to-day doing “X” or “Y” starting next week, I realized “oh hell no, that’s not what I want!”

While a few things scare me a little, I love the idea of freelance writing. It gives me the flexibility in my schedule that I am used to after never having a typical 9-5 job at 31 years old. Having the ability to accept or turn down jobs will (hopefully) allow me to spend as much or as little time with Tess, and travel when I want/need. I don’t like working on the same thing day in and day out, so I love the idea of having various different projects to work on. I also love working at home - I don’t get distracted by dirty dishes, looming home improvement projects or even television. I got my dissertation written in 6 weeks and 90% of that happened at my dining room table. I realize it can (and will) get lonely at times, not having an office/lab to go to, but I have a lot of volunteer work I do and I’m trying to do a better job of meeting people and spending time with my friends. Hopefully I won’t turn weird. (Make sure I don’t turn weird!)

Now that I’ve finally decided to fervently pursue freelance writing, I’m still left with the battle of what KIND of writing I want to be doing.  I have been focusing on trying to get technical writing/editing type work with medical device or pharmaceutical companies, or even copyediting, where I can really use my experience, background and expertise.

The truth is, though, what I would really love to be able to do is science journalism. I think it sounds far more interesting and fun than technical writing. Not only that, but I feel strongly that the world at large needs to know what is happening within the scientific community. Tax payer money funds a vast majority of the research being carried out at US universities via grants from the National Institutes of Health. Americans have a right, and I’d even argue that they have a duty, to learn about what scientific discovery their tax money enables.  I want to help introduce that work to the public.

I just have one problem…

Science has destroyed my passion for science.

The rush I would get from studying the inner ear, that I mentioned earlier, is long gone. The excitement I once had for the brain is mostly dead. Sure, I read scientific studies and think “that’s a well-done piece of work” and sometimes even “wow, that’s pretty cool.” Mostly though, my thoughts while reading scientific articles are:

“Flawed,” “Poor controls,” “Incomplete statistics,” “Low n’s,” “Incoherent writing,” and a little bit of “Bitch, please.”

I applied for a faculty job over the summer. The overwhelming piece of criticism I got from the wonderful colleagues who read my research proposal was “where’s the passion?” It was a logical study with important implications, complete with ideas for specific experiments with sound controls and even plans for how to acquire my animal models and funding. But there was no “flavor” to it. No feeling. No enthusiasm. All facts, no passion.

When I applied to grad school, I think my acceptances were a result of my personal statement and interviews.  I wrote and talked about why I wanted to study autism in grad school. I remember my interviewers commenting on how passionate I was about the work I wanted to pursue.

Maybe my problem was that I didn’t end up pursuing that line of research… maybe I picked the wrong school… the wrong degree… who knows. But in any event, I got the shit kicked out of me by grad school and it killed the passionate scientist I once was.

Sure, I became a damn good electrophysiologist, I made it rain data like n’s were 100 dolla bills ya’ll and I was T-pain. I always knew the right statistical test to run and why, ran the proper controls and ran them again, then thought up some more. I used organized, clear, concise language to describe my work in abstracts and manuscripts, could identify poor quality data, flawed logic or pick apart a weak argument in any study.

I studied under some tough mofos who studied under even tougher mofos and they made me into a damn good scientist… but at what cost?   They would say “jump” and I wouldn’t even ask “how high” because I knew it had to be higher and I probably already disappointed them. I have had endless lessons from advisors and mentors about how to get a beautiful western blot or pull a perfect electrode, how to grow the healthiest cells and how to build a rig with the lowest noise.  So much of my gradate education was focused on “doing it right” and still feeling like I was “doing it wrong.”

Being meticulous, diligent, careful, productive, attentive to detail, thorough, committed, dedicated… these were the traits that were celebrated in the lab. Creativity, passion and innovation were secondary, if anything. And that message got through to me loud and clear.  When I sat on the Emory Neuroscience program admissions committee, I would roll my eyes and scoff at anyone who so much as used the word “passion” in their personal statement, or the expression “piqued my interest” (worse still if spelled “peaked”).

What happened to me? How did I so quickly transform from the eager, idealistic, excited 21 year old scientist I was when I graduated from Smith College to the bitter, jaded, disinterested 31 year old I am now?

I think maybe because in many ways I was dealt an exceptionally losing hand on numerous occasions. I never had an opportunity to join a lab, explore various projects, pursue one of my choice and then spend time to write a grant proposal to fund my work. I was always handed a project to complete. I had a PI encourage me to quit grad school because my brother was dying of cancer and I wasn’t sufficiently focused/driven at the time. I worked on studies that were eventually published but I was not included on the author list. My PI decided to move the lab cross-country as I was nearing completion of my project.  A professor I revered above all others told me I could join their lab to finish my dissertation research, but then mere weeks before my start date revoked that offer (and didn’t even have the decency to tell me to my face but had my previous advisor tell me). I was encouraged by program leadership to join labs I shouldn’t have simply because they had a lot of money.  I don’t mean to play the victim or appear like a woman scorned, but let’s just say I did deal with my fair share of bullshit.

I don’t mean to throw all my professors, mentors or advisors under the bus here. Unfortunately, they are slaves to the NIH and money is the name of the game. Grad students need to be paid and if you want to pay them on a grant they need to work on that grant. Funding levels are damn low, have been for a while, and don’t appear to be improving any time soon. Studies that are high-risk but high reward are hardly funded. A project needs to be half done and have 3 publications before a grant proposal gets a fundable score. There is a specific playbook, a template, for getting funded and pedigree, rather than ability or ideas, is a huge part of it. There are areas of research that get you a grant and those that don’t. There are questions they want answered and those that they don’t.

While I’ve had a lot of bad luck and missed opportunities, I don’t necessarily think that my general training was in any way unique – I think that there are few labs where things are different than what I describe. The ones that are different, where enthusiasm, ideas and creativity abounds, where students are allowed time to pursue various projects and submit various graduate fellowship applications, where the PI doesn’t need to suddenly up and move, are probably heavily funded, often by Howard Hughes, and don’t need to worry about failed studies and money.

I think the world of scientific research is sick – sick, as in un-well. Too many people and not enough money. Peer-review is great in theory, but is ultimately flawed because your “peers” are also your competitors. Anyone who thinks a PI is free of bias while they read grant applications from their competitors is naïve. I feel this is especially the case at this point in time when people are fighting tooth and nail for measly scraps with which to fund their work. There is too much focus on conflict-of-interest due to potential financial gain (i.e. relationships to industry) but not enough on the conflict-of-interest caused by the need to publish, to get funded, to get tenure, etc.

How can anyone be passionate about science with the current shit storm that is plaguing us?

The truth is, though, there are plenty of people who retain their fervent enthusiasm for science in spite of the bullshit and nonsense. These are the people who make great science writers. I might communicate effectively, but what makes something interesting and fun to read is the passion and excitement behind those words.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I’m apathetic about everything. Clearly, I’m passionate about motherhood, about food (and beer and wine), feminism, liberal politics, and the Red Sox. But I used to feel the same way about neuroscience… and I just can’t seem to re-ignite that flame.

I hope it’s not gone forever. Perhaps I just need a bit more time away from the bench before I can rediscover my enthusiasm for the scientific process. Or maybe what I need to do is combine my other passions with my scientific knowledge. Maybe I can write about the neuroscience of Red Sox fan-dom! Or about the neurological benefits of butter and booze: evidence for 40ounces a day!

Or… a more likely scenario would be writing about baby science, the science of motherhood or Goodnight Moon… I just need to find someone to actually PAY me to write about Tess’ development on this blog.

Any takers?

Goodbye Miss Twicky...

It was the summer of 2007 and after months of heavy hints that developed into pleading, I finally convinced Andy to get a second dog.  Our other dog Fenway needed a companion.

We spent some time checking out the Atlanta Pet Rescue website (this is where we found Fenway) and their list of available animals. There was a border collie called Jake that we thought looked perfect for Fenway, another playful young dog with lots of energy.

Andy’s aunt Jean had planned a trip to visit, so we decided to go and get the newest member of our family after her stay. Unfortunately, since adoptions work on a first come first serve basis, by the time we arrived, another family was walking out with Jake. I was crushed! I had basically made this dog my own in my mind by that point, and it was like seeing someone else take my dog away. 

The staff at the pet rescue convinced us to take a look at some of their other dogs. As we walked over to the pen, all the dogs rushed over, jumping up, barking and looking at us with their pleading eyes as if to say, “Pick me! Pick me!”

I looked over and saw a basset hound with a sad look in her eye lying in the corner on her own, away from all the other dogs.  Something about this sweet, sad, lonely creature spoke to us, so Andy and I decided to see how she got on with Fenway.  She snuggled right up to us, full of love, but wasn’t as interested in Fenners. In fact, she tried to bite him.

Still, there was something about her. We decided to take her home as a foster initially. We would give her a 1 week trial period to see how she got on with Fenway at home and would return her if it didn’t work out.

           

Pretty quickly, we knew it wasn’t going to work out.

While Fenway was so excited about her and desperate to have a play and run around, she was completely disinterested in him. One moment she would be fine, the next she would be going for his jugular.

The day we brought Twickers home.

July 14, 2007:

"Hey! Let's play!"

"Back off, creep. The snuggles are mine"

I sat down and composed a letter to the Atlanta Pet Rescue, explaining why we would not be able to keep the sad, sweet basset.  This adoption was supposed to provide our dog with a playmate, and we couldn’t trust them alone together. It was an impossible situation.

I cried as I typed from guilt.

We couldn’t return her until Tuesday, so I just wrote the letter and waited.

By Tuesday morning, we had fallen in love with her.  Sure she was crotchety when it came to Fenway, but she was such a sweetheart when it came to us! All she wanted was to be loved. She was desperate for human affection.

So much for Fenway’s playful, energetic, running buddy. We were keeping the lethargic, sleepy, grumpy basset hound.

How could we send back this face???

We decided to name her Twickers, after Twickenham, the England rugby stadium.  Fenway was named after my favorite sports stadium, it was only right our second dog be named after Andy’s.

We think Twicky was used for breeding or maybe even in some kind of a puppy mill at some point. We also think she had been abused. If you would motion to pet her head with quick sudden movements, she would cower as if you were going to hit her.  She didn’t like feet. I think she may have been kicked before meeting us. I think she had previously had to fight for access to food and water the way she would eat and drink.  I still get filled with rage when I think about what her previous “caregivers” had done to her before she came into our care.

Ultimately, she got used to Fenway. Eventually they even became friends. While she was never exactly the energetic playmate I imagined for Fenway, they would still play and have fun in the yard in their own way.  Fenway would run circles around her and she would trip on her ears while desperately trying to catch up.  They hated to be separated.

Best buddies.

Life with Twickers could be pretty Dickensian: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

Twickers remained aggressive with other dogs, even after she learned to love Fens. She suffered from separation anxiety. She would have “accidents” whenever we brought her to someone else’s house. She’s puked on my white couch, pooped in my car, and once delivered a dead bird to me in bed.

Separation anxiety:
"If you pack this suitcase again, I'm going in it with you!" 

Twickers chewed up my college roommate’s shoes while she was in town for my bachelorette party, she’d figured out how to open our trash cupboard and spread garbage all over the kitchen on more occasions than I can recount, and would rarely come when called.

Maybe she decided Caroline was paying too much attention to Fenway

so she deserved having her shoes chewed?

One day, after a heavy night of drinking, I went to my favorite burger joint, Farm Burger, to pick something up to nurse my hangover. When I got home, I set myself up in front of the TV to watch football and revel in my gluttony.  After setting the burger out on the coffee table, I went to grab something to drink. When I came back, my burger was gone and Twickers was sitting on the couch licking her chops.  She had swallowed the entire thing, probably whole. Paper wrapper and everything.

“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!” I screamed at her.

I put her outside in the cold and told her, “You can just sit out here and think about what you’ve done!!!” I was disconsolate.

I felt guilty after a while and let her back in.  She nestled into her spot on the couch and as I looked over at her, with a single smack of her lips, she gave me a glance that said “totally worth it.”

Serves me right for drinking too much, I guess.

Twicky looks as if she had a few too many herself on this Christmas...

We had some close calls over the years when it came to Twickers’ health. I don’t even want to think about what some of her vet bills have tallied.  She once found a bottle of Aleve I had foolishly left on the coffee table.  While I was cooking dinner one night, I went into the living room to get something and found her with a chewed, empty pill bottle. 

I used hydrogen peroxide to make her throw it up and since I couldn’t be sure that Fenway didn’t get any pills either, we made both dogs drink it.  I’ll never forget the site of having two dogs empty the contents of their guts all over my living room. Thank god for hardwoods.

Since all of Twicky’s piles of puke had a greenish-blue hue from the blue Aleve tablets, we knew it was her. We left the puke and brought her to the emergency vet clinic. I just remember telling them, “Do whatever you can, just save my dog!”  $2,000 and 3 days later, we were assured that she would be fine.

We got a lot of use out of this cone over the years.

But for every naughty act she committed, there were 10 ways I couldn’t have survived without her over the last 6-1/2 years.

She was there with me those days when it felt like my PhD would kill me. I was having terrible days, and would sometimes drive home from lab with tears in my eyes. Andy would try to cheer me up in the elevator and in the car, but nothing he said could ever make my day improve. Then I would walk in the house and she would be there, brimming with excitement. Everyday it was as if she had never been so happy to see anyone ever.

Twickers' internal monologue:
"She spends a lot of time at this computer...

Maybe if I sit here, she'll pet me more."

Nothing makes a dreadful day melt away like a dog who loves you more than anything.  Even more than a good juicy burger.

Last year, I had ACL replacement surgery that was really rough on me.  I was bummed about being laid up, and the narcotics for pain honestly drove me to the edges of sanity at times. Twicky was there by my side from day 1. She only left me to go out and to eat. For days, I would lie in bed, in excruciating pain and floods of tears, snuggled up to my girl. Then as I started rehab, she would get down on the floor with me as I did my exercises, and would come on walks with me through the neighborhood. I couldn’t have made it to the other side without her.

Helping me heal.

In more ways than one.

She did so much in her short 6-1/2 years with us. She has been to the beach and up mountains. She has played in the snow and was carried into the pool for a swim once or twice. She has had endless hours exploring our massive backyard, surveying her land, chasing squirrels and bathing in the sun. We have taken Twicks on 20+ hour drives from Gerogia to Massachusetts, and she was perfect for all of them. I think she just enjoyed being confined to the car with us. All she ever wanted was to be close and to love us.

Lots of snuggles

Lots and lots of snuggles...

Good long walks

Twicky-friendly "hiking" in the mountains

Hilton Head Island

Snow in Connecticut

Snow in Georgia

Chillin' at the pool

Driving to New England

Many different long drives... 

One of those drives to Massachusetts was when my brother, who had leukemia, had suddenly taken a turn for the worst. We decided to get in the car and drive up on a moment’s notice.

My brother died on that trip. For the days that followed his death, and for the heartache that followed me home, Twicky would just let me grab her and squeeze when it felt like my grief would take over. I would practically smother her and she would just submit and let me, as if to say, “you can give me your pain, I’ll bear it for you.” I could not have asked for a better dog to have at the low points in my life.

Healing my broken heart.

The first Christmas after Ron died.

The dog on the left is Tosh, Ron and Steph's dog.

He died just a couple of months ago from lymphoma.

Fuck cancer.

A few weeks ago we noticed Twickers had all these lumps on her body that would come and go. We’ve been to the vet more times that I’d like to admit this year, and since they didn’t seem to be bothering her I ignored them. Then more recently I noticed her third eyelid was inflamed, it would get to the point where she could barely see, then it would suddenly go back to normal. Finally, one night we noticed she was having difficulty breathing and in the morning couldn’t swallow her breakfast.

That afternoon at the vet we learned Twickers had lymphoma.  She would live a week without treatment, a month with steroids and even if we were to make her endure chemotherapy, would still only live 6-9 months. Her disease was incurable.

Since we adopted Twicky as an adult dog, we aren’t sure how old she was.  They told us in 2007 that she was 2, but we never really believed that was accurate – she just seemed a bit older. Still, to learn she was dying was almost more than we could bear. The fact that she would so soon die of essentially the same illness that took my brother only 4 years ago was like a knife to my chest.

My initial reaction was to proceed without treatment and “let her die in peace.” I was so focused on the fact that my brother endured 3 years of chemotherapy and bone marrow transplants that were the ultimate cause of his death. I would not do the same thing to Twickers. What I didn’t realize then was that she would not die in peace without treatment.  Within days of her diagnosis, the lymph nodes in her neck were so swollen she could barely breath, could not swallow her food and even started to lose control of her tongue. It soon became clear that she would either suffocate or starve to death if we didn’t do something.

One night, Andy took her to the vet around 10pm to get a steroid injection. I don’t think she would have made it through the night had we not done that.

The steroids were like a miracle drug. My dog was on death’s door and within hours you would not even know she was sick. It was hard because it lulled us into a false sense that she was cured. I had to constantly remind myself she was still dying, but I was so grateful for the precious extra time to spoil her and say our good-byes.

I am so grateful she was here for Tess’ first birthday. I will never forget the sight of Twickers being snuggled and loved by everyone at the party. Nearly every meal her last 3 weeks of life consisted of pate, gravy or bacon. She even got some birthday cake and rack of lamb.

The steroids, unfortunately, were only ever a temporary fix. And we knew that. When they stopped working, the symptoms would come back suddenly and with a vengeance. I could not bear the thought of letting her suffer even worse than she had those few days before beginning the steroids.

Twickers died the day before Christmas Eve in our loving arms. She peacefully passed into the afterlife without suffering, without pain and without stress or worry.

Our last photo as a family of 5.

Christmas 2011.

Christmas 2010.

Christmas 2009.

Christmas 2008.

We had some good Christmases together over the years.

Very sad we didn't have one more together...

It has been almost 2 weeks and the pain of her absence stings. The house feels empty. Hallow. Eerily quiet.

Twickers had such a huge personality, and was such a central figure in our lives, that her absence is palpable. Every night while putting Tess to bed, Twickers would be there, during bathtime, for the diaper change, during story time. During meals, Twickers would park herself under Tess’ highchair, poised and ready for something to drop.  She would also be there to demand her own dinner (or breakfast), doing her “dinner dance” as we called it, shaking her butt in the air while letting out a hushed bark. But now... bedtime... mealtimes, all quiet.

This dog loved to eat.

My heart aches for these rituals. I long for those behaviors that had been “such a nuisance” to me for so long. I would scold Twickers for always being right under my feet as I carried Tess out of the tub, terrified of what would happen to the slippery little eel in my arms had I tripped over the dog. I would be stressed, preparing Tess’ dinner and my own, and there would be Twickers demanding hers as well. Some nights it was far more than my patience could handle.

Since Tess came into my life, my focus has completely shifted to her. Before Tess, my dogs were my whole world, but since she came along... my patience for the dogs would just run thin so quickly at times. 

The guilt I feel for the times I would lose my temper, the times I would be hard on Twickers, and for the times I thought “Life would be so much easier without these dogs!!!” is almost overwhelming.

Very sad these two aren't going to get more time together.

Luckily for me… the great thing about dogs is that they love unconditionally. I know that even at my worst, she still loved me. If I left her for hours and hours while I was working in the lab, I knew she would forgive me. If I didn’t pet her or pay her any attention all day long, but needed a quick snuggle right before bed, she would be there. I don’t know what I would have done without that unconditional love, endless support and absolute devotion. During my moments of gut-wrenching guilt, I remember that Twickers really did have a great life here with us and she was happy.

Lake Allatoona

At the drive-in movie in the park

Helping with the gardening

Snuggling

"Sorry, this is our bed now.

You can sleep in the ones on the floor."

So much love.

And naps.

Playing croquet

Pre-baby, preggo-snuggles

Post-baby, exhausted snuggles

Dogs play an amazing role in our lives. We know they will only be with us for a few years, and we know how great the pain is when they leave us, but it is still so very worth it for what they give us during those short years together.  Twickers was only with us 6-1/2 years, but I will never forget her and the huge place she will always hold in my heart. There is truly no love like a dog's love.

After everything, I am so glad that border collie went home with another family.