The cure for coonhound depression

In my previous life (before spinal stenosis), one of my favorite pastimes was walking or hiking with Banjo. We would go to the urban grassland preserve here in town or, on a nice Saturday, we would head down to Dinosaur Valley State Park to hike, explore, wade in the river, "hunt." (At least Banjo thought we were hunting.) But with my mobility limited to about 15 minutes of painful walking, hiking fell by the wayside, much to Banjo's chagrin. Like that sad dog on the Cymbalta commercial, waiting expectantly with his leash in his mouth, Banjo would agree, "Depression hurts."

But in recent weeks a change in medication has relieved some of my pain, allowing me slightly more mobility. And I discovered a city park in nearby Arlington where there are wonderful nature trails, with native plants, a tiny creek, animal habitats, and a very comfortable cushioned surface (thick mulch, perhaps?) that is less stressful on my spine and legs. So I've managed to take Banjo hiking there several times and we're both loving it!

A couple of weeks ago Tevis and I spent a pleasant fall afternoon exploring the trails. At my insistence we stopped to take some pictures of Banjo in the ravine. As you can see, Banjo took umbrage at interrupting his hunting to pose for pictures! He wanted to get his nose back to the ground, sniffing for raccoons or possums.

Just like a child, he got a bit of an attitude and decided, "OK, if you're going to make me stop for a picture, I'll just make a silly face!"

As you can see from this picture, hiking is the cure for coonhound depression. (And it's pretty effective for humans, too!)

The flood

Well, it finally happened. I had a major meltdown this week. I suppose it was bound to happen, sooner or later. I mean, the stress has pretty much been unending all year: Marcus’ two surgeries and his slow recovery, the bad evaluation I got at work in June, my heart attack in July, my angioplasty in August, Gabriel’s deteriorating condition since September, my mother’s stroke in October, the financial hit of missing so much work and paying medical bills. Through it all, I’ve been quite depressed, but have shed very few tears…until this week. Once the dam was breeched, the trickle of tears became a flood that lasted well over 12 hours.

So what was the straw that broke the camel’s back? (I know I’m mixing metaphors, but I guess my brain is still drying out.) Since it involves work, I can’t go into too many details, but the bottom line was this: I was disrespected. My professional opinion to discharge a patient was questioned and the company is sending another therapist in to re-evaluate the patient and give a second opinion. Never mind my 30 years of experience in the field…I have someone second guessing my professional judgment. I wish I could quit, but the reality of needing to stay with this company so I qualify for health insurance and FMLA (and maybe long term disability) overrides my self-respect.