pets

Fear has a place in our lives. It can tell us to pause, take a moment to pay attention, assess the situation before acting. We may move forward cautiously or we may decide to jump. Fear can also stop us in our tracks, literally, render us incapable of moving forward. Keep us stuck in place, frozen in time. I’ve been dealing with this kind of fear for the past few days. From my dog.

This month Bailey turned eleven, which technically makes him a “senior” dog. Old. But he’s still so spunky, I’ve fully embraced the “age is just a number” philosophy with him. Until this week. When he’d grown fearful of the staircase. He’d lost his footing, stumbled a few times on the way down and was now unwilling to even try to take a step forward. Fear had defeated spunk.

So I did what any empty-nester, dog lover would do. I foolishly carried him down, stair by stair. Safely on solid ground, I became fearful. My mind was flooded with what-ifs. I Googled and read. And my worry grew. Of course. Then I called the vet (which I should have done in the first place) and made an appointment to have him seen.

As my husband and I sat in the veterinarian’s examination room waiting, Bailey snuggled close. It had been a year since he’d had that tumor removed. Worry filled the room. Bailey paced between us. I pet his face, told him he was handsome, moved my hand to his back, told him what a good boy he was. Then he wiggled close to my husband, slid his head under his arm; solicited pets, reassurance from him, too. In the few minutes we sat in the familiar examination room, I looked at Bailey with laser focus. Had I missed something? A small change that had become a big deal?

I realized my good boy had become an old man. I’d barely noticed. Sure, his chocolate brown fur was flecked with gray. And his walks had gradually decreased from three to two to a single mile, which freed up precious time. He’d been changing bit by bit, right in front of my eyes but it hadn’t registered. It seems I’d been experiencing what scientists call “change blindness.” It’s the phenomena people experience when they fail to notice a friend’s haircut or a rearranged piece of furniture. It’s linked to holding on to our mental images rather than noticing what’s in front of our eyes. Hmm.

That had definitely been the case with me. The past few years have been years of constant change for my husband and me. From job changes, to kids going off to college to losing loved ones-we’ve been in a state of flux. The dog, though, remained a constant. As did my perception, which was solid, so dependable I’d failed to notice the small, incremental changes.

After a very thorough examination, my vet determined that Bailey’s problem with the stairs was a learned behavior; a side-effect of aging. He’d lost his footing and had become afraid it would happen again. He needed some assistance to rebuild his confidence and we needed to make some accommodations to his environment to help him succeed. We took her suggestions and he’s navigating the stairs like a champ.

That got me thinking about the experience I’d had earlier this week while visiting my daughter who is about to start her junior year of college. Now living in an off-campus apartment with a group of friends, we made our way to campus. It was move in day for freshmen. My husband and I followed as our daughter led us confidently around campus. We noticed the worried looks of parents and incoming students as they pulled Space Bagged linens from SUVs and mini-vans, then making their way into the unknown of college. The three of us commented how happy we were to have that experience behind us.

In that moment, I remembered moving her into her first dorm room, feeling a mix of excitement and fear. I remembered watching her long, blond ponytail swing back and forth as she climbed the four flights of stairs, arms full. That image was quickly replaced with another. And another. How had the years passed so quickly? In my mind’s eye, I saw her on her first day of kindergarten; tiny hand on the rail, climbing the stairs of the bus, the Clifford the Big Red Dog backpack eclipsing her torso. In that moment, walking across campus, I saw my daughter as the beautiful, confident, young woman she is, even if in my mind’s eye, I often think of her as my little girl. And that’s o.k. because I’m her mother and she’ll always be my child.

As we’re heading into the new school year, it’s important to remind ourselves; whether we’re parents or educators, our children are growing, changing, whether we notice it or not. It’s happening. And change can feel uncomfortable, sometimes really icky. Change can be scary, throw us off balance, make us stumble or even fall. And that’s o.k. Because there is always a helper around to support us, offer a guiding hand to help us find our way to solid ground.

©Kathie Z.