Harley Le Pew

Another beautiful day, another opportunity for a dose of nature.

We headed to one of our favourite trails – Quarry Rock – in Deep Cove. We love it not only for its beautiful lookout but for the donut we always have at Honey's when we're done.

The weather was a little Ontario-ish: muggy, humid, threatening to rain. But it was still a balmy 22 degrees as we set forth on the wooded trail. The girl was getting over a cold and I was still ailing from herniated discs, so our pace was slow. Which was nice, because we had a chance to look around and see and watch and be amazed.

Two minutes into the hike a tree fell. Yes, a tree. A massive tree fell (and for those who wonder: Yes, it does make a sound!) Harley was spooked and attempted to dart back to the trail head. A few other hikers stopped, their hearts beating as fast as ours, "Did you see that?! WOw!"

We carried on.
Harley was happy.
We all were.
It was a perfect day.

The girl led the way, while Harley sniffed hear and there, and M and I pulled up the rear.
We heard an interesting chirping noise and saw a chipmunk 10 ft up chirping on a tree branch.
We watched a 4 year old mini-hiker dart after a snake he saw slither by.
We waited while Harley smelled the bums of every other hiking dog that passed by: a malamute, a couple of spaniels, a german sheperd mix, a terrier, a pekinese, three boxers ... the dogs came in droves.

We stopped for a water break just after a small bridge and parked ourselves on a log by a small creek.
Harley was anxious to get to the stream, trying to jump over, then go under our log.
"She's thirsty!" I said, laughing at her antics.
M pulled out the water bowl.
She had a small sip then went back to wildly finding a way to scale the log and get into the creek.
We just watched and laughed.

And then it happened:

She jumped over the logo and into the creek and into the path of a skunk.
She was not attacking, just checking it out.
We wish this particular skunk had chose not to judge a book by its cover and get to know Harley a little first, but alas, it did what any other unsuspecting skunk would do: It sprayed our poor pup straight in the face.

Harley was dazed.
For a moment she looked paralyzed. Like she couldn't figure out how to work her legs.
She sneezed and coughed 1, 2, 3, 10 times. over and over.
I grabbed her by the collar and pulled her out the creek.
Instantly, I reeked.
I started to cough.
It was potent.

It was WAY worse than the normal skunk smell you come across while your driving on an old country road. It was skunk x 1000 + a tear-worthy burning smell. It was making all of us ill.
She tried to lick it off.
It could definitely NOT be licked off.


So, we did what any other hikers with a smelly dog would do, we encouraged her to walk it off.

We carried on.
Every time we passed someone they'd pull they're shirts over their noses: "Can you smell that?" "God, it reeks!" "Smells like a skunk just sprayed!" and so on.
Each time, we smiled sheepishly, shrugged and said: "Sorry. It's us."

When we made it back to the car, Harley Le Pew was emitting skunk fumes. And she was starting to feel self-conscious, I think. No one wanted to pet her, come near her, associate with her. Poor puppy became an outcast.

We wrapped her like a pig in a blanket in an other green blanket, put her in the car, opened all the windows, and accelerated to 100 all the way home. We stopped off at the pet store to pick up some Skunk Off, then rushed to our garden where we conveniently used the community hose to wash her down.

A woman at the pet store had warned us as we bought the shampoo: "Listen, this will help but know this: every time she gets wet it'll stink like it just happened. And she is going to stink for a long time."

"A week?" I asked.

"A month, sister."

Ouch.

Thinking we could sway fate, we used nearly the whole bottle of shampoo and vigorously tried to scrub the "Skunk Off".
But the skunk did not come off.
It stuck.
It expanded.
It infiltrated our lives in a big way.

Now, poor Harley Le Pew is sitting dejected on her bed (which is now located in front of an open patio door 24/7. She's sadder than sad. No pets. No love. No friends. It's tough being a stinky dog.

Her green blanket is hanging over the balcony in the wind. So is her collar. And her leash. And, well, every article of clothing that we wore today. But the wind is not "airing" them out at all ... it's just blowing the stink into the house, into the neighbourhood, all the way to Timbuktu, likely.

So we stink.
The dog.
The house.
The carpet.
The furniture.
Our clothes.
Our stuff.
Us.

We are a big ball of smelliness.

And, to tell you the truth, it's kinda hilarious.

Smell you later.

Finding my stride

Sometimes, a nature-loving girl with an injury just has to say "fuck it" and go outside and do what she can to the best of her ability just for the sake of her mental health.

Yesterday it was 23 degrees in Vancouver. There was one big puffy white cloud right in the centre of the sky, and the rest of it was vastly baby blue. The trees in Stanley Park were a rich dark green. The ocean sparkled. It was one of those days that always convinces me to ditch work and play outside.

I looked longingly out the window and started to tear up.

"what's wrong, babe?" M asked.
"I just want to go outside and play," I said like a cooped up four-year-old swallowing my tears.

"Then let's go." he said. "Don't even think about why you can't. We're going. These are your favourite days."

And before I knew it, he had treats packed for Harley and water for all three of us. And we were going hiking. (well, more like "strolling" but it's all the same no matter the pace, I suppose.)

Harley loves days like this too. We're two peas in a pod that way. The way she wags her tail and drools at the idea of a hike, is a visual replica of what's happening inside my heart at the thought of the same thing.


We drove out to Lynn Valley in North Vancouver where the fir trees tower sky high and the canyon makes for some beautiful views, waterfalls, and hikes.


Lynn Canyon Park is 617 acres of second growth forest (most of the trees are 80 to 100 years old!) There's an awesome suspension bridge that sways about 50 meters about the canyon -- it's loads of fun (as long as you're not faint at heart.)
Although we only did a small small hike today, the park has a ton of great trails that I hope to be trail running on one day soon! It's a beautiful spot.

We walked slowly and carefully. I was weak but not disabled. I think Harls prefers my slower pace these days; she can take more time to sniff and venture off the beaten trail before we catch up.

We sauntered, really, stopping a few times for me to crouch and relieve some back pain or to catch my breath. Sometimes, M can see by the look in my eyes that I am feeling beaten or worthless, and he picks me up before I even fall.
There were moments when I felt like this hike might be worthless if I can't enjoy it the way I normally would. But before I could fall into self-loathing, he pointed out different bits of nature that he knew I'd love: a sprouting fern, a red flower amidst the greenery, a waterfall, the sound of rapid waters, a bird, a beetle the size of a small child (well, maybe not that big.) We took pictures. We told stories. We laughed. We peed in the woods. And it was, for a fleeting moment, just like life used to be pre-injury. And it reminded me that I could be there again.

An hour or so later, my spirit was rejuvenated, my optimism revived, and my appreciation for M off the scale.

This is going to be a beautiful summer.
I can't wait to explore it all, at whatever pace I can muster.

Spinal decompression: 5 week update

Next week marks Week 6 of spinal decompression therapy. The last month+ has been riddled with ups and downs; triumphs and challenges.

The bad news first: I have not been instantly healed. I still have pain. I still have numbness. I am still weak.

The great news: it's getting better. WAY better.

I was longing and hoping and dreaming for spinal decompression therapy to be the "miracle cure". It is more like a "miracle helper-outter." And I've come to terms with that. And am grateful for it.

After spending the better part of a year idle, gaining weight and gaining pessimism, I put a lot of hope into spinal decompression. Unfairly, I think. After all, all of the reading and research I've done about disc herniations has told me time and time again that the back WILL heal, it just takes the dreaded "T word" that I am tired of hearing: "time". And with "time" comes the other dreaded word "patience". Of which, I openly admit, I've been short of through this whole process.

But back to positivity: I am making progress. In the last 5 weeks I have gone from having 24-hour numbness, pain, and burning sensations in my left leg (caused by the disc pressing on the nerve that runs down my left leg) to having that same numbness, pain, and burning sensation for maybe an hour to three hours a day. Now, those 1-3 hours still stink, are still painful, are still uncomfortable, but this progress is H-U-G-E.

To me, it means that I can sleep through the night solidly. I haven't woken up in pain in 5 weeks. That, to me, is bliss. It means that I can sit and do my work at the office for a full day, instead of getting up every fifteen minutes trying to find a comfortable position to dine in. It means that I can eat dinner at the table without my legs going numb in the seat. It means I can do the crossword puzzle at the coffee table instead of lying on my back, knees up, and constantly juggling the pen to make it work upside down. It means I can walk Harley, albeit slowly, for a few blocks and soak up some fresh air. It means I can pedal my bike slowly beside M as he runs and feel the wind in my air.

Basically, it means that I am starting to feel alive again.

I still have 6-12 months of rehab ahead of me.
I still have two herniated discs that are slowly working their way back into place.
I still have back pain.
I still can't walk to work ... but I've made it half way, and that was a victory.
I still can't run, which breaks my heart on every sunny morning as I try to squeeze into old pants that are two sizes too small now. My inability to run and sweat has been and remains the most difficult part of this journey. I cry about it alot. I stare out the window and think about it alot. I feel sorry for myself alot. But I also know, deep down, that the tables will turn, and if I have that darn "patience", this time next year I will be running strong.

As I get stronger and my back heals, I've slowly integrated rehab exercises into my routine.
I have a 30-minute stretching routine that I do every morning and evening. And as time passes, it gets easier and less painful. Another sign of progress.

Last week. the doctor started me on ab and back strengthening exercises, to help me stabilize my spine.
M and I go out to the courtyard, lay down the yoga mat, and I do these while he does bicep curls and the like.
again, it's a small piece of paradise just to feel my body move. These small movements are difficult and sometimes strenuous, but glorious all the same. I have been idle so long. It feels so nice to move.

My treatments are going to continue past the original 20 because my back hasn't healed and I've been a bit of a tough case. But my doctor is optimistic: "You will run again," he said with hope and conviction in his eyes.
And I know I will.

So in the meantime, I am trying to get out and enjoy the sunshine. Vancouver in the summer is a slice of heaven. It is the reason I moved here. And while I won't be summiting mountains and racing through forests like usual this summer, I will be out and about, strolling in my favourite parks, soaking up what I love about this place as much as possible, and remembering that I am very lucky to be here, be alive, and be healthy.

And that when my back heals, I am going to tear up those mountains with a fire in my belly and a smile on my face.

Just you wait and see!