...we thought Lu had been granted a reprieve; vet said it was likely an upper respiratory virus. He was waiting until he got her bloodwork back today to confirm the diagnosis. We thought she was out of the woods. But...
...it's not a virus. They think it's something in Lulu's brain, a parasite, but they don't have the facilities to deal with her situation. They will have to tap her cerebral/spinal fluid and run tests, which our vet can't do. He's referring us to the vet school down at LSU.
I'm looking at pet insurance policies.
I'm numb, but I'm getting close to the edge. It's not far away.
can't get you off my mind, it's only you I think about
I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know what's happening to her. Helplessness is a terrible place, a terrible thing. I hope she's not in pain, hope she's not suffering.
She's my good girl. Always and forever.
6.29.2010
6.28.2010
it's only you I think about
I have no biological children, only fur babies - four cats: twins Stewart and Lulu, Fran, and Hesh. We've had the twins for seven years, since they were kittens; Fran and Hesh were rescued from the same woman, about a year apart. Fran was nearly dead when we rescued her, and we didn't think she'd make it through the night. We were up with her all night, medicating, feeding, bathing, watching. We were rewarded with her survival. Hesh was rescued before the woman could do the damage to him that she'd done to Fran. The twins were adopted from our landlady, a woman who took good care of the them until they were old enough to be weaned.
These are our children. We are not likely to have children, and we've accepted that. We dote on the cats; they are our children. We spoil them, we love them, we pet them, we punish them, we nurse them, we clean up after them. They are the only children we are likely to ever have, and that's certainly okay with us.
__________________________________________
We know several people who have lost children. My parents lost their first child, a son named Greg, to SIDS. My aunt miscarried two babies. My husband's parents lost their first child, a son named Michael; he was stillborn. My best friend's sister was killed in a car wreck when she was 15. We have friends who lost their first son, a boy named Collin, to SIDS. I had a school friend lose her son, Montgomery, recently. My cousin H's brother and his wife lost their first child (which has made H understandably paranoid about her own child, born earlier this month). These people lost so much with the death of one child, and I can't imagine their grief...
...but I'm afraid I'm about to experience it. My cats are my children, and one of them, Lulu, is so very sick, perhaps in renal failure. She's gotten so sick so fast, gone down so fast, it's hard to understand. It's hard to understand why she got so sick, how she got so sick. We've wiped out our bank account and maxed out a credit card taking her to the vet and to an emergency animal clinic. And we took her back to the vet this morning; she's there now, having tests run. We are hoping for the best, but I'm a realist, and I'm afraid I'm expecting the worst.
It's true that cats can survive renal failure and live for many years afterward. It requires a special diet and managed care. I'd be willing to do that, just to have her well again. Just to have her a little while longer. She's my good girl. She is, to all extents and purposes, my daughter.
Losing any one of my cats will be like losing child. No: losing any one of my cats WILL BE losing a child. Some folks might scoff at that, but it's how I feel, and I won't apologize for it.
If the worst comes, my folks have said we can bury Lulu at the country house. I won't have her cremated and her ashes scattered. I want to know where she is, so I can visit her. She's my good girl, now and always.
These are our children. We are not likely to have children, and we've accepted that. We dote on the cats; they are our children. We spoil them, we love them, we pet them, we punish them, we nurse them, we clean up after them. They are the only children we are likely to ever have, and that's certainly okay with us.
__________________________________________
We know several people who have lost children. My parents lost their first child, a son named Greg, to SIDS. My aunt miscarried two babies. My husband's parents lost their first child, a son named Michael; he was stillborn. My best friend's sister was killed in a car wreck when she was 15. We have friends who lost their first son, a boy named Collin, to SIDS. I had a school friend lose her son, Montgomery, recently. My cousin H's brother and his wife lost their first child (which has made H understandably paranoid about her own child, born earlier this month). These people lost so much with the death of one child, and I can't imagine their grief...
...but I'm afraid I'm about to experience it. My cats are my children, and one of them, Lulu, is so very sick, perhaps in renal failure. She's gotten so sick so fast, gone down so fast, it's hard to understand. It's hard to understand why she got so sick, how she got so sick. We've wiped out our bank account and maxed out a credit card taking her to the vet and to an emergency animal clinic. And we took her back to the vet this morning; she's there now, having tests run. We are hoping for the best, but I'm a realist, and I'm afraid I'm expecting the worst.
It's true that cats can survive renal failure and live for many years afterward. It requires a special diet and managed care. I'd be willing to do that, just to have her well again. Just to have her a little while longer. She's my good girl. She is, to all extents and purposes, my daughter.
Losing any one of my cats will be like losing child. No: losing any one of my cats WILL BE losing a child. Some folks might scoff at that, but it's how I feel, and I won't apologize for it.
If the worst comes, my folks have said we can bury Lulu at the country house. I won't have her cremated and her ashes scattered. I want to know where she is, so I can visit her. She's my good girl, now and always.
6.21.2010
...I will wait for you right here...
...circle in the sand...
...and you complete the heart of me...
Two things complete the circuit that keeps me running: the Captain and the City. Yes, I often question this unprovoked and unreasonable attachment to the City Beneath the Sea, this unaccountable love affair...but even recognizing, intellectually, that I cannot account for it does not diminish its power. And I hear the Voice of the City in most things, so she is ever with me...
It seems like all I ever talk about on here is my preoccupation with the City, or my reliance on the Captain, or my restlessness. I want that to change...
...but not today. Today I'm going to feel every misfired nerve, every inch of muscle and joint that aches and burns, every slowly drawn breath (slow, to avoid hurting the ribs), every stabbing sensation that pierces my ears, every pulse that radiates from my sinuses and rocks through my jaws and teeth, every step taken that resounds through the bones and joints like an alarm, every letter and word typed that feels like it's shattering my left hand, every lightning bolt that thunders down my spine...
...and I'm going to be grateful for every one, because I am alive and could still get out of bed this morning, despite the hurricane of pain slamming into this body; I am alive, and my life is pretty good - there is money, there is shelter, food, kitties, friends, family, love - and though it's hotter than hell, somehow fitting for the Summer Solstice, it's still a gorgeous day. This flare-up will pass, just like the other ones, and this virus or flu or whatever it is haunting me will go away, and I'll have weeks and weeks of feeling nominally normal, like I did before last week. This flare-up is not the end of the world, no matter how much pain I'm in, and it will pass.
Today I will not accomplish much, that's okay. I won't feel guilt about it. I'll accept that it's a fact of the disorder. Tonight I will have dinner with friends, perhaps hang out for a little while, then go home, do some reasonable house cleaning, and rest. I will maintain my house, and my soul.
...and you complete the heart of me...
Two things complete the circuit that keeps me running: the Captain and the City. Yes, I often question this unprovoked and unreasonable attachment to the City Beneath the Sea, this unaccountable love affair...but even recognizing, intellectually, that I cannot account for it does not diminish its power. And I hear the Voice of the City in most things, so she is ever with me...
It seems like all I ever talk about on here is my preoccupation with the City, or my reliance on the Captain, or my restlessness. I want that to change...
...but not today. Today I'm going to feel every misfired nerve, every inch of muscle and joint that aches and burns, every slowly drawn breath (slow, to avoid hurting the ribs), every stabbing sensation that pierces my ears, every pulse that radiates from my sinuses and rocks through my jaws and teeth, every step taken that resounds through the bones and joints like an alarm, every letter and word typed that feels like it's shattering my left hand, every lightning bolt that thunders down my spine...
...and I'm going to be grateful for every one, because I am alive and could still get out of bed this morning, despite the hurricane of pain slamming into this body; I am alive, and my life is pretty good - there is money, there is shelter, food, kitties, friends, family, love - and though it's hotter than hell, somehow fitting for the Summer Solstice, it's still a gorgeous day. This flare-up will pass, just like the other ones, and this virus or flu or whatever it is haunting me will go away, and I'll have weeks and weeks of feeling nominally normal, like I did before last week. This flare-up is not the end of the world, no matter how much pain I'm in, and it will pass.
Today I will not accomplish much, that's okay. I won't feel guilt about it. I'll accept that it's a fact of the disorder. Tonight I will have dinner with friends, perhaps hang out for a little while, then go home, do some reasonable house cleaning, and rest. I will maintain my house, and my soul.
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