Still Tough, Learning to Be Soft.

What Kilo’s health scare taught me about vulnerability, letting people in, and the strength it takes to ask for help.

I was in the kitchen doing something completely ordinary—tending to my plants, doing dishes, I honestly don't remember which—when I heard a commotion on the other side of the island.

At first, I thought one of the dogs had slipped in their own water drippies.

You know the sound.

A little scramble. Some paws going every direction. A little dignity lost.

Except this was louder.

And longer.

I looked over and saw Kilo's back legs completely splayed out underneath him like a cartoon dog slipping on ice.

Except this wasn't funny.

He looked scared.

Not just startled. Scared. Like something had suddenly disconnected between his brain and his body.

Kilo is 14½ years old. He's my independent, grouchy old man who walks around like he owns the place because, in his mind, he does. He follows me everywhere, even when we have company, and he really only listens to me.

So I helped him stand.

He could stand.

He could walk.

But he was slow and wobbly. Drunk-looking, almost. One of his back legs seemed…loose. Disconnected. Almost dislocated.

And naturally, because I am me, I decided this was only because his nails were too long.

Obviously. Nothing could actually be wrong with my soul-doggie.

So I clipped his nails.

And here's the thing: he let me. Easily.

Kilo has never allowed a one-person nail clipping. NEVER! But that day, he just sat there and let me do it.

Because he wasn't himself.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that.

But I didn't want to admit to myself what it might mean.

So I did what I tend to do when something worries me: I kept busy.

I clipped his nails.

I settled him onto the couch to rest.

And then, because apparently I had decided this was the appropriate response to a potential neurological crisis,

I steamed the carpet.

Because if I could just keep doing things, maybe nothing was actually wrong.

About an hour later, it happened again.

This time I saw it.

Kilo had what looked like a seizure—except it was one sudden spasm, and then it stopped.

When he tried to get up, he struggled.

His head was tilted to one side.

His balance was terrible.

If he looked up, he fell over.

If he shook himself, he fell over.

If he walked, he either fell over or bumped into whatever happened to be next to him.

And suddenly, steaming the carpet seemed like a pretty ridiculous way to spend my afternoon.

I finally gave in to reality and called the vet.

Kilo can't jump high enough to get into my Jeep anymore, and he really doesn't like being picked up, so I asked whether I could send videos first and let the vet determine whether he needed to come in.

The doctor was with another patient, so they took a message.

And then I waited.

And waited.

And while I waited, I did what any completely rational person would do.

I went down a Google rabbit hole.

Which, as you can imagine, was not particularly helpful.

I was already starting to spiral when I called a friend.

When she answered, I didn't explain everything.

I just said, “I just need to cry for a minute.”

Her tone changed immediately.

That isn't typical Heidi behavior.

I'm usually the listener. I'll vent about something irritating. I'll tell you what's going on. But I don't usually ever say, I need help.

She came over. I didn't stop her.

Then, I cried.

A lot.

And I let myself be vulnerable, which does not come naturally to me.

At one point, I told her that asking for help and letting someone see me like that was very hard for me. That vulnerability can make me feel worthless. My actual words were "makes me feel like a useless piece of crap". Like somehow needing someone means I've failed at being strong enough...

She told me that with her, I never had to worry about looking foolish or less than.

I knew that. Deep down.

But I also needed her to understand that this was tremendously uncomfortable for me.

She was concerned enough that she didn't really want to leave me alone.

So I promised her I would still feed and take care of myself after she left.

Yes. I had to provide proof-of-my-own-life assurances to my friend, because my dog was sick.

Apparently that was my version of vulnerability.

Eventually the vet called back.

He asked questions. We talked through what I was seeing. I sent the videos.

He prescribed a medication, something that wouldn't fix the underlying problem, but could help, and told me to keep monitoring him closely.

The next morning, Kilo's eyes started moving rapidly back and forth.

Nystagmus.

And strangely enough, that was a little bit of good news.

It was another clue that this probably wasn't a stroke.

It was vestibular disease.

More specifically, what is often called idiopathic or “old dog” vestibular disease.

When I called the vet about the change, he explained more and eventually added antibiotics.

His basic explanation was, essentially:

“Well, he's old. These things happen in old dogs.”

Not exactly comforting.

But also…true.

And that sentence has stayed with me.

Because Kilo isn't just old.

He's my Kilo Bilo.

My soul puppy.

My other half.

My road dog.

My loyal little man who would follow me to the ends of the earth.

He has been with me since he was 14 months old.

And his birthday is April 1.

My April Fools baby.

We weren't even sure we wanted a dog when we went to meet him. And then we connected immediately.

It was like he looked at us and said, Haha! Gotcha, suckers.

And he's been my beautiful bubby ever since.

Strong.

Stubborn.

Loving, but standoffish.

Adventurous.

Protective.

Always wanting to be moving and controlling things.

Basically…me in dog form!

We are bonded. By attitude. By personality. By our big sighs!

Athena is the sleepy snuggle bug like her daddy.

But Kilo is my dog, my mirror.

Over the next several days, he slowly started improving.

There were plenty of hard days.

He wore a diaper for a while because he didn't seem to have much bladder control.

There were days he barely ate, which is extremely unlike him. He even falls for pretend treats!

There was a lot of sleeping.

A lot of random trembling.

A lot of me not leaving the house.

Luckily we had a two-piece harness left from Athena's surgery.

I put it on him right away so I could support his chest and help guide his floppy back legs when we went outside, got on the couch, or tried the stairs again.

He hated needing help.

Of course he did.

Kilo has always acted like he can withstand anything. He ran on broken toes. He didn't stop when he pulled muscles. He kept playing after a dog bit through his ear!

And honestly?

So have I. It feels weak to admit when I'm actually injured enough to go to the doctor, or even just rest!

But little by little, he's getting better. And so am I.

Day by day.

Today is Day 8.

He is eating regularly, kinda.

He is pooping like a champ because we bribed him with soft canned food.

He's barely trembling now.

Today, he finally whined to tell me he needed to go out instead of just staring intently at me, which he hadn't done in seven days.

He's barking at the front window again. (Ugh, didn't miss this!)

But I cannot tell you how happy I was to hear my old man yelling at somebody again.

His hindquarter harness has been off for three days. Even on the stairs!

Last night, we all slept in our family bed together without any problems.

This morning, he made it down the stairs almost completely by himself.

I was hovering beside him, of course, with one hand loosely around his “help me” handle.

But he did it.

Confidently.

And he's getting better.

I'm incredibly grateful.

But something changed for me during these eight days.

I can see his mortality now.

Not because I didn't know he was 14½.

I knew.

But knowing something intellectually and feeling it in your bones are two completely different things.

Someday, Kilo won't be here. The way 14 months turned into 14 years is unbelievable.

I don't know what life will look like without him.

I don't want to think too much about it.

And I don't have to.

Because today, he's here.

Today, he's barking.

Today, he's eating.

Today, he's making his way down the stairs.

Today, he'll probably be disobedient and loud.

And I'm going to consider that a gift.

Because I learned something during this whole mess.

I learned that it's okay to need people.

I learned that asking for help gets you help... not shame.

I learned that sometimes diving directly into the discomfort gets you to a solution faster than pretending nothing is happening.

And I learned that living in the moment is a whole lot more rewarding than hiding from the scary reality that someday, all of us are going to die.

I've spent a lot of my life being known for being strong.

Resilient.

Capable.

The one who always figures it out.

And I am those things.

But I'm learning that strength isn't always about holding everything together.

Sometimes strength looks like saying, “I need help.”

Sometimes it looks like crying on your friend's shoulder.

Sometimes it looks like admitting you're scared.

Sometimes it looks like sitting on the couch, petting your old dog, and letting yourself feel exactly how much he means to you. Especially when that love is overwhelming...

I'm still tough.

I'm still resilient.

I'm still the woman who will figure things out with a little Duct tape and crayons if need be!

But I'm learning that it takes real strength to be soft, too.

And for today, my April Fools baby is here.

So I'll take the barking.

I'll take the stubbornness.

I'll take the attitude and the eye rolls.

I'll take the loud old-man grumbles and sighs.

I'll even take the disobedience and non-stop farts!

Because he's here.

And for today, that's enough.

💜 Coach Heidi

Live Life Better.