Don't care what the weather does.

Don't care if the kids cry (well, maybe a little).

Don't care if the house is clean, the laundry is done, the dishes are put away, or the floor is vacuumed. 

Don't care.

I'm goin' away with my friends for two solid days, and that's the end of it.

We're going to talk, eat, watch sappy movies, scrapbook, do (more) crazy things with our hair, not cook, not clean, swim, sleep in, stay up way too late, giggle, cry, miss our kids (a bit...), and just revel in the presence of the Lord, and the company of dear friends.

Don't try to stop us.  We're goin'.  Period.

(A few)(scant)(non-specific) details when we get home... :)

Today is Valentine's Day.  We celebrated today with a gift of life...sound a bit melodramatic? 

Our beloved Chelsea, our 10 1/2-year-old Golden Retriever, probably has cancer.  We've spent the past year or so trying to convince ourselves and continually reminding the kids that dogs truly do have a shorter life than humans.  That they age roughly 7 years (let's not get too technical here, ok?) for each of our 1.  This is much more difficult for the kids to accept than it is for us to accept.  Or, at least, that's what we grown-ups pretend to believe, right up until the point when something significant smacks us in the face.  Like a cyst that has "always been there" that suddenly decides to become 3 inches across and pushes out two inches from her ribcage in a matter of 24 hours...did you hear that smack??  We felt it.  A trip to the vet in town just to "check it out" turned into a $1400 surgery estimate (including 4 other tumors/skin tags, blood work, an ecg and blood work to make sure she could handle the surgery, and histopathology to determine whether two of them were cancerous or not) to have her repaired.  Well, it didn't really seem to be that big of a deal...we knew we would not--absolutely would not--choose to afford $1400 on the almost 11-year-old dog we bought for $70 when she was just under a year old and I was pregnant for Reasa, whether it was financially feasible or not (it's not).  I mean, it looked awful, and she sure was licking it a lot, so we figured it hurt, but she's pretty obsessive about licking anything on her skin anyway--she always has been--so if we could just keep her from doing that, we would be fine. 

Or not.

On Monday of this week, she ripped it open.  And by ripped it open, I mean gaping wound, blood-on-the-carpets, pieces of flesh hanging off her which she continued to lick and rip open with her back paw.  I called the vet in town and explained that we decided we really couldn't responsibly choose to do the surgery, even without doing the other 4 tumors or the cancer check (which would have brought the price down to about $700)--was there something we could do to get it healed up and not infected and making her even sicker and not getting it all over the house?  "No, there really isn't," the vet tech/receptionist replied.  "So, all I can do is let her bleed to death?" I felt like asking.  What I actually said was, "Umm, okkkkk...I guess I'll call my husband and call you back."  In the meantime, I dissolved into a puddle of hysterical, choking tears and called Seth.  Who was in PA.  Who was out of cell service.  This was after he made a call to our real vet, a country vet in the middle of nowhere near where I went to college--about 65 miles away from us.  She told him that for $35 (and a trip out there, of course), she would see her and help us make some decisions.  After calling my dad, who helped talk me through the lists of pros and cons of taking her to the middle of nowhere (not the least of which included Seth never forgiving me for putting her down if I didn't take her for a second opinion with a vet we already know we trust and love)(or the "you've already spent $45 on a visit to the vet...what's another $35 and 2 hours in the car? Oh, and I'll stay here with the kids.")  To make an incredibly long story (this already is, isn't it?) short, I took her to our trusted, incredible country vet, and she took one look at her--I mean, literally, in five minutes--and said, we need to take these four tumors and growths off, and I can do it Thursday for $150-200."  I was just plain old flabbergasted.  Other than repeating, "Thank you.  You don't know what this means to us.  We just love her so much," the only other thing I said was, "When should I bring her," and "How much do I owe you?"  They charged me $30 for the office visit, and $5 for the creme to put on her to keep her from infecting it even worse.  They sent her home in one of those crazy e-collars (giant plastic funnel around her head to keep her from licking--and she quickly replaced the damage from licking with digging at it with her back paw as often as she could wriggle out of the giant ace bandage I wrapped around her), and set her up for surgery.

This morning we took her.  Dropped her off at 9:30, got a call at 4:00 saying she had done beautifully and really wanted to go home, and we picked her up at 4:30 (after spending five hours at the Strong National Museum of Play in Rochester, complete with lunch at Pizza Hut/Subway and a carousel ride--now that was a treat).  She hurts.  You can see that.  And she wants to be with me (which is odd for her--she's really Seth's dog, and anyone who knows Seth and her knows that).  She has whined a few times--very unlike her--but she's here.  And she's doing well.  For $235, she had 4 tumors removed, with general anesthesia, $50 worth of blood work, and we came home with 10 days of an antibiotic, 7 days of pain meds, 7 days of salve to put on her eye (where one of the growths was), and the e-collar to borrow until she's healed.  She even said, "If you feel comfortable taking out the stitches, don't feel like you need to bring her back for us to do that."  Oh, and our dog.  She's home with us.  And she's going to heal.  Even if she only lives another six months, we have her for those six months. 

She is our Valentine's Day gift this year.  Five hours in the car, 15 minutes at the vet, and 5 hours at the museum of play later, we have our dog.  Please pray with us that she heals well, and doesn't hurt too much.  I know, I'm asking you to pray with us for our dog.  Humor me, OK?