Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Good night, sweet prince.

Doctor Molly arrived at our apartment amid heavy flurries. She didn't mind letting me finish my cigarette. I didn't want her to stand out in the cold, so I let her in while I puffed and contemplated what was about to take place. All too soon, I was down to the filter, and it was time to face the purpose of her visit.

She talked with us for a while. Got acquainted with Radar and the other kitties. She gave them all treats, and petted and played with them. Radar took to her right away. I knew he would. She seemed like such a good-hearted person in our correspondence, and Radar's always been a great judge of human character.

Even now, barely two hours after the fact, the next moments are hazy. I know I brought Radar upstairs, and sat with him for a while before Matt and the vet came upstairs. I know Radar tried to escape once, not so much because he knew what was coming, but because I think he was afraid he was going to be forced to leave the house. Any time he even thought he might have to endure a ride in a carrier, he would hide under the bed.

Eventually, we got him settled. The doctor first gave him an injection of a sedative. It took a few minutes to kick in, and at one point, he tried to make a break for it, but soon he couldn't fight it anymore. I watched his breathing slow, his eyes dilate and glass over. He wasn't gone yet, but he was visioning, I'm sure. I wonder what he saw? Do cats see their ancestors when they lay at death's door?

I'd spent the day preparing. I didn't feel like eating, but I put a roast in the crock pot just to make sure we'd have something to eat. I tidied my room and set up my altar, pouring a libation of mead to Hela and placing the box that will soon be occupied by Radar's ashes near the candle. I lit incense, played soft music. Radar stayed with me in my room the whole day as postcard-perfect snow fell from a soft, grey sky. It was peaceful, but I was restless.

When the moment came, Dr. Molly shaved a small patch on Radar's leg. She thoughtfully asked if I wanted to keep some of his fur, to which I answered yes, and placed the fluff into his box with a whisker I'd harvested a day before. My cat was gone almost as soon as she inserted the needle. The vet said that the sicker they are, the faster they go, and Radar must have been a lot sicker than he looked. As I'd suspected. It didn't really make it any easier.

I wanted the other cats to have a chance to say goodbye. I placed Radar's now-lifeless body on Matt's bed, and invited Molly to stay for a cup of tea, which she accepted graciously, and we did the rest of the paperwork. She was quite taken with Kyri, unsurprisingly. Then, I gathered Radar's body, shrouded in a black towel, and gave him to the doctor to take with her.

The door shut. He was gone.

I don't think the other cats are going to realize it for a while. I know it hasn't sunk in for me, despite watching him die. I expected to "feel him go," but I didn't. I still feel like he's in the house. Maybe he is. If that's the case, I'm going to have to do a little work to let him go, for his sake and for mine. Matt wept as soon as the doctor pushed the first injection, but I have yet to shed a tear. I remember crying once, when I'd been sure of his diagnosis, but I've never been one to greet death with tears. People cope with death in all sorts of ways. I've always felt the need to be strong and stoic in the face of death, only breaking down much later, when the loss really set in. I'm not sure when that's going to be for me. Tomorrow? Next week? After we move? It's like waiting for a storm, and I hate it. I wish I could just cry and get it over with.

I have received an enormous outpouring of support and love from friends, and for that, I am deeply grateful. Just moments before the doctor arrived, I opened an envelope to find a hand-drawn card made by a friend I have not seen since I lived in Portland, Oregon, five years ago. I've received phone calls all day from people who knew me and had never even met Radar. It's an incredible feeling to know that so many people care about me, and empathise with what it is like to lose a beloved pet.

The sorrow of the day is eased, somewhat, by the news I got from Matt just before he came home from work. We got the apartment. We're moving out of this gods-forsaken ghetto hellmouth (no offense, Hela) in just ten days. I think having packing and planning to do will be good for us, but I worry that, after the move, I'm just going to collapse. Well, if that happens, I'll allow myself to. I'll have earned it.

Good night, Radar. Dance on the Bifrost. Purr in the arms of goddesses. Nuzzle Thor's beard. Chase ethereal mice. Be reborn to another in Midgard who needs your love. You will be missed.

Friday, November 22, 2013

Farewell, my companion.

My cat is dying.

Despite the fact that Radar has shown few signs of discomfort, the reality of his condition set in two nights ago, when I noticed a vile black fluid trickling fron his mouth. It smelt of death. The tumor that has been growing beneath his jaw has taken over his cheek and the inside of his mouth, and has ruptured. He must be in so much pain. I feel as though he has continued to be strong for me. Last night, though, as I was petting him, he crawled up onto me and looked at me. He seemed to be saying, "Don't let me die. Help me across the veil."

I have been corresponding with a veterinarian in the area who does house calls and in-home euthanasia. She seems to truly be a good soul, and someone who "gets it." Today, I called her to schedule Radar's final appointment. This coming Tuesday, Doctor Molly will come to our home, ease Radar's passing, and leave with his remains. We will get his ashes back, and I'm planning to make some pendants containing some of his ashes to keep and give to Matt and my mother. My mother took care of him while I was unable to have pets where I lived, and regardless of the issues between her and I, she deserves to have the ashes. She kindly agreed to pay for the euthanasia and cremation. She's distraught. Radar and her cat, Buster, bonded when Radar stayed there, and Buster hasn't been the same since Radar left. My mother says that Buster has been acting out especially badly the last few days, as if he knows Radar is about to die. Buster acted in a similar way just before my grandfather's death several years ago.

I've explained this before, but I'll tell the story again, because it bears repeating. Last year, around this time, doctors found suspicious masses in Matt's parotid gland. Radar's first tumor appeared at around the same time. I prayed, "If there must be cancer in this household, let it be the cat and not my husband." My prayers were answered, and so, I cannot be bitter. Matt has a scar and a clean bill of health, but Radar will be leaving us. I scheduled the appointment so that Matt can be with me when Radar passes. He loves my kitty, too. I always said I knew the relationship would last when Matt let me move my cat into the house.

Radar has been with me for six years, lived in at least four different places with me and in three different states. He flew all the way across the country with me when I left Portland to go back to Ohio. I've told all of these stories before, but repeating them helps me to comfort myself, and to remind myself that Radar's life, though short, has been full and happy. Ever since I took him home from Forgotten Felines, a shelter in Seattle (donations suggested), he's been a source of joy for me and for all who've met him. I've never had a cat quite like Radar. His antics in our household will be sorely missed. I will no longer wake up in the morning to find cat toys, socks, blankets, and anything else Radar could carry lined up in front of my bedroom door. I will not hear his soft, mournful, muffled meows as he carries his toys around the house in his mouth, looking for his human parents. (He did this especially often when Matt was out-of-town for work.) We will not be greeted with his rumbling purr and squeaky meow when I come home. His physical presence will be sorely missed, but I know that he will always be with us.


(This is the first photo I ever took of Radar, in the apartment where I lived in Seattle. He was scared and hid in the tub.)

I'm grateful for the fact that I've found Doctor Molly from City Paws Home Health to make his transition as dignified, peaceful and comfortable as possible. Radar hates leaving our home, let alone going to the vet. I'm grateful for a healthy, cancer-free Matt, because he loves Radar and he loves me, and he understands how hard this is. He has been nothing but supportive every step of the way. I'm grateful that we did not end up moving out when we were meant to. If that apartment we were looking at hadn't fallen through, we would have been moving this weekend. I'm grateful for the timing, because I don't think I would be able to handle moving and watching Radar decline on the cusp of the holiday season. I'm grateful that my mother is making this possible now instead of having to wait and save up. I'm grateful that I have had good years with my kitty, and that he has only recently begun to show signs of decline. I'm grateful for my friends who empathise with me, and understand that, to me, this is like losing a child.

I will deal with Radar's death as I do any death. I will allow myself to mourn my own loss, the absence of his physical presence in my life, but I will not mourn for Radar, because I know he will be fine. I know I will see him again someday if I want to.

I know that I am doing the right thing, but I still feel as if I need reassurance. He's still not acting sick. What if I'm doing it too soon? What if I'm cheating him out of a few more weeks because I can't deal with him getting sicker? I answer this question by asking another one: if it were me, and I had the choice, would I want to be spared undue suffering from a terminal illness? Would I want to put my loved ones through seeing me decline? I would not. Radar may not be human, but my feeling on the matter is no different.

As terrible as this sounds, part of me still hopes he will pass quietly in his sleep, and we will find him curled up in eternal slumber before the euthanasia can take place. I guess part of me still does not want the responsibility of taking his life. But then I remember something taught to me by my spirit guides before I even knew thier names. In cases like this, life is like a flower in bloom that falls from the tree. It has not died, it has been given back to life. And that is what I will be doing on Tuesday. I will be giving Radar back, with deep thanks, and memories to keep forever.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Home economics.

Yesterday sucked. I got up, went to get the mail, and discovered another notice to leave the premises. Apparently, Matt's rent check bounced again, and unless we could come up with $850 by Wednesday (two days before Matt gets paid), we'd be up shit creek. Now, honestly, it takes a lot to get me really angry at my husband, but I don't mind saying that this time, I was fucking livid. Hadn't we started credit counseling, leaving us with (theoretically) three or four hundred in wiggle-room we didn't have before? Hadn't I asked him, over and over, "Can we afford this?" every time we'd gone out or bought anything beyond the bare essentials? Hadn't we already had this discussion? I haven't been checking the account balance, because I was trusting that Matt was keeping a better eye on it. I guess I should have been.

"I really thought I had enough!" he said.

"You always think you have enough!" I screamed into the phone. "I have to know that I can trust you!"

I knew that would sting. It hurt for me to say it. I had become one of "those wives" who calls her husband at work to yell at him, something I never wanted to do. But something had to give. I was shocked and angry and terrified, and so tired. I told him that we should think about getting out and moving in with his parents for a while until we can truly get on our feet, because I could not handle the constant stress of wondering whether we're going to get kicked out of our apartment every month.

Our current rental company could technically terminate our lease at any time, now, since our 12-month lease is up and we're month-to-month. It doesn't help that our rental agent has had it in for us ever since the bedbug incident. (For the record, I know I could have pushed to have the rental company pay for the extermination, because Ohio law would have been on my side.) This jackwagon actually accused Matt of bouncing the check on purpose. I could have throttled him, had I known what he'd said. Yet, we are clearly in the wrong. At this point, seven of our twelve rental payments have been late, and despite the fact that we have paid all the late fees, that is not a good track record. In fact, it kept us from getting into the apartment complex we wanted. We would have been moving out this weekend if it weren't for that. It took them a month to deny us, after they actually gave us a move-in date. So that's a month we could have had to be looking for another place.

After I calmed down a bit, I talked to Matt again. I told him that what we needed to do was to sit down every single time he gets paid and make a workable budget for that pay period, not a theoretical pay period, and we need to account for every last cent. I accepted my own responsibility for letting bank fees in my account pile up, which accounted for $150 this past month (who knew it would cost $6 just to check my balance on a "foreign" ATM? But I digress.) Chances are, that $150 would have made the difference, but my point remained. When I ask, "Can we afford this?" I need Matt to be honest with me and himself. He needs to tell me "no." If I ask for money, and there is none, he needs to tell me so. If we can't have a date night, then we can't. If I can't buy cigarettes, then I can't. I almost feel as if he thinks I wouldn't believe him, or would blame him, or believe that he's being cruel if he says "no." I told him that I would much rather go without a new shirt, or a cup of coffee, or a pack of cigarettes, than risk losing our home!

The timing certainly doesn't help. It's incredibly frustrating to know that Matt will be starting his new position at a higher pay grade in just two weeks. It's also frustrating that I still have not been paid for the work I did at the haunted house, and it looks like I'm not going to because the owner claims I was "never on the pay sheet." I could have taken care of the bank fees, myself. Actually, there probably wouldn't have been any, because, you know, I'd have had money in my account.

We are incredibly blessed to have Matt's grandparents, whom, last night, drove to meet us in Mansfield to give us cash to cover the rent and late fee to buy us some more time. Regardless, we clearly need to get out as soon as inhumanly possible, preferably last week. Today I'm calling some more places. I don't want to move in with Matt's parents if we don't have to, but I also don't want to stay where we are for another month, at least, certainly not past the first of the year. I feel like the universe is forcibly trying to extract us from this situation, and I'm glad of it.

Today, I am done being angry a Matt. I said my piece, and it's done, and all we can do to move forward is admit our mistakes and work together to make sure this pattern does not repeat at the next place we rent. I need to be more involved, clearly, checking Matt's account balance daily, if need be. And Matt needs to stop writing checks. Who uses checks anymore? Cash, debit card, even a money order, they're predictable, but checks are like this nebulous area of "who knows when it's actually going to clear?" and it all depends on when they deposit it.

And maybe we need to make even more sacrifices. We've given up cable. We can't shut off the Internet because Matt needs it for work, and I need it for my sanity. At this point, I would be willing to give up my iPhone, even though Matt insists it wouldn't save us that much money. I'm willing to stop smoking in favor of an electronic hookah, which would cost about $40 initially but would end up being much cheaper in the long-run. But really, what I'm willing to do, even if I gave up every red cent Matt gives me, is only a drop in the bucket in terms of household expense. Yeah, we like good food, but maybe we need to shop at Aldi instead of Lucky's. Maybe we need to take a hard look at how much traveling we do on the weekends. Maybe we need to limit eating out to once a month. Maybe we need to take one of those remedial classes in personal finance they offer to people on public assistance. I am wracking my brains trying to figure out what will help.

What I find frustrating is that Matt works his ass off and he makes enough money that we should not have to live like I did when I was on food stamps. I feel like every time we make changes to save money, we hemorrhage cash from some other source. I feel like nothing I can do will really make an impact until I can have a job again, and I'm still not quite in a position to be able to do that, especially since we again aren't sure where we'll be living in a few months. I have accepted, now, that we will not be able to live the way we want to unless I start generating an income, so I'm already looking at re-writing my resume, and I'm looking into what few resources I'm not "too rich" to qualify for. It's coming down to "beggars can't be choosers," and my pain be damned, I've got to find work even if it's just retail.

Immediately after my argument with Matt, I called my therapist to schedule an emergency couples session for today. We aren't arguing anymore. It's not about that. It's about looking at what we can do as a couple in terms of communication to prevent this kind of stress from driving us apart. Most marriages that fail, fail because of financial issues. I refuse to become a statistic. Unfortunately, love isn't all you need.

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Whatever doesn't kill me ...

So much to write about. I knew what I was going to write yesterday, but now that I sit down to do it, I can't think. I guess I'll start with my cat.

Radar is a very special kitty. I'm convinced he's the reincarnation of Mr. Bones, a cat I had when I was growing up. We were both 17 when he died of lymphoma. He's only six, but he's lived with me in at least four different places in three states, and traveled with me from the West Coast back to Ohio. I had gone to the shelter in Seattle with the intention of adopting a completely different cat, but when I saw him peeking out from a cubbyhole, with his ridiculously large ears and big, round eyes, I fell in love.

Now, Radar is dying of the same, relatively-rare cancer that Mr. Bones did, but it's progressing much faster. He still shows no behavioral signs of illness, but the tumnors are large, and every time I pet him I'm painfully aware that there isn't much more time. I won't let him suffer, but I have been worried, because Radar hates the vet. He hates leaving the house at all. I was dreading taking him in to have him euthanized, because his last moments would be terrifying for him. Luckily, I have found a local vet who does house calls. When the time comes, Radar will be in his own home, surrounded by his human and feline family. We'll do it in my room, so that I can say goodbye from there. Then, they will take his body away to be cremated, and I will get the ashes back. Knowing how it will happen has brought me comfort. It will be hard to say goodbye, but this way, he will know love until the very end.

On to another subject. I was sick for three weeks with a combination of a viral upper respiratory infection and a bacterial sinus infection. During that time, Matt took care of me without any hesitation, and I felt very loved. He did everything from running out to get my prescriptions to cooking to snuggling with me and watching movies on my computer when I couldn't leave my bed. So when he got sick with the same thing (minus the sinus infection, thank the gods), I was worried I wouldn't be able to take care of him as well as he had taken care of me. Because of my disability, I often feel a deficit in terms of how much Matt does for me around the house versus how much I do for him, and just because he got sick and I got better didn't negate the chronic pain I deal with.

But, once again, I proved to myself that, when properly motivated, I can do what needs to be done. I cooked dinner three nights in a row and did all the dishes. I did Matt's laundry for him (we normally each do our own.) I made him tea and made sure he didn't overextend himself. He's feeling better now, but I seem to still have access to that reserve of energy that allowed me to step up and be Superwife for a few days. Hail, Frigga! Hail, Sigyn! I credit Them for helping me find my strength. It's never about gods "giving" you strength, really. It's about Them helping you to access the strength you already have within you. I feel accomplished, even if I know that, eventually, I'll be the one needing taken care of again. The crash already started, with a fibro flare-up that began on Friday. It's not so bad today, but I did sleep until almost 2 pm. I think that, other than putting the pork roast in the crock pot, I'm going to take it easy tomorrow.

On the subject of my pain, yesterday, I woke up feeling totally disgusting, and I got frustrated and posted a rant on my Facebook page. I'm going to expand on that here. Whst I wrote:

"**If you don't want to read a whiny rant about my pain, just scroll on down.**
I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia at 14. I started developing arthritis in my late teens/early 20s. I have collapsed disks in both my lumbar and cervical spine. I have issues with the joints in my jaw, bad knees, bad toes and bad wrists. I am in pain every day from some combination of muscle spasms, arthritis, IBS and migraines.

I have PTSD and Bipolar 2, along with the associated anxiety disorder, which includes panic attacks that make me feel as if my soul is being sucked from my body. I have nightmares almost every night. (Last night, I dreamt my skin was being eaten away by maggots that spit acid.)

What angers me most is that I have fought in no war. I have never played sports. I have never injured myself in any grand or noble adventure. Am I cursed? Is it all in my head? Is it some kind of punishment? I ask myself these questions every day.

I wish for some doctor or spiritual counselor to find the root of all this, the "why" behind my suffering, because I wish there was some clear path to make myself better. I struggle every day to do just that.

I find strength and inspiration in my spirituality and in those who truly love me. If it weren't for those things, along with my curiosity as to "what happens next?", I would have given up long ago.

I get very frustrated. I want to curl up and sleep forever. But after reading Samantha's update earlier today, I can see the pain is a gift. I can empathize with her pain and the pain of those like her. I can more deeply appreciate her sacrifice, because I know what it is like to hurt.

I wish no good people ever had to hurt."

I got many heart-felt positive responses to this, of course, because my friends are awesome. Samantha, whom I mentioned, is a Desert Storm veteran, whose physical and mental diagnoses are almost identical to mine. I met her through a Heathen group on Facebook, and she is one of my biggest sources of spiritual strength and validation. She's truly a remarkable woman. I call her my warrior sister. I dearly wish she lived closer, because I think we could help each other a lot. It might sound arrogant to say that I can feel the pain of such a warrior, who has seen more horrors in her life than I could imagine, but she doesn't see it that way. She sees me as an ally who can empathize with her pain and suffering. Though I might not have seen combat, she respects that I have fought my own battles, and won. We draw strength from each other. This is the kind of friendship I need in my life. And though it is true that I wish no good people had to hurt, I also acknowledge that good people are good because they have been hurt. People like us tend to believe in the motto, "Whatever doesn't kill me better run."

So I guess that's it for right now. I have more things I need to write about, but I'll do it later. Thanks for reading.

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Recovery.

"Look at your stupid awkward blog. You make a fool of yourself every time you post in it. Even the name is stupid."

Someone on my friends list on Facebook actually said this to me after I asked her, politely, if she could put me on a filter where I didn't see her fighting with people all the time. (You can do that on Facebook. Just post really personal stuff to your "close friends" only.) I didn't know her well. We only started chatting because I thought it was neat that she lived in the Ukraine and she worshiped my gods. But after seeing post after post of her whining about how everyone hates her, and calling out this person or that person and publicly tagging people by name, I got tired of all the negativity. I'd tried to be a listening ear before, but after this immature and hateful response, I blocked her with absolutely no hesitation. That means I can't see her, and she can't see me. (I'm explaining this because my therapist, bless her heart, is a total Luddite, so bear with me.)

The amount of fucks I didn't give about blocking this person is staggering, and it's actually a sign of growth. I used to feel guilt and shame for cutting people out like that, even if they weren't really that close. So that's all I'm gonna say about it.

More pressing are the series of breakdowns I've been having. I've already discussed the one I had last week with my therapist, and as this journal exists largely as a tool to use in my therapy sessions, I'm not going to go into too much detail. It wasn't so much a panic attack as an extended bout of heightened anxiety which was resistant to all my usual techniques, and it was brought on by a combination of physical illness, grief for a broken friendship, and a really bad experience at an urgent care facility. I eventually calmed down, and was feeling much better after talking to my therapist on the phone.'

Sunday was another matter altogether. Still sick, my anxiety reached critical mass. Despite all logic, I was convinced I was going to die. I was convinced I would never feel good again. Each day I'd been trying to get up and do what I could do, and each day I had ended up feeling worse than I had felt the day before. Add to that the fact that I knew that Matt was going away for most of the week. I just... lost it. Complete and utter breakdown. I could not stop crying. I could not relax. I could not think straight. I think I cried for more than an hour before he left, as if I would never see him again. I felt shame for breaking down like this because Matt was doing absolutely everything he could to help me. I did't want him to feel bad leaving me alone, but I couldn't help it. I was in complete despair. Even Loki, whose comfort often comes as a clap on the shoulder (or a smack on the ass) and a reminder that his love for me is evidence that I'm stronger than I think I am, was gentle with me. I felt him near me, holding as tightly to me as Matt was.

And then, Matt left. And I stopped crying.

I realized I had gotten myself so worked up about him leaving, about being alone for almost five days, that I had used up all my tears. And then, quite suddenly, I began to feel better. Maybe the crying loosened up some of the congestion. Maybe I had simply burned through all the adrenaline and cortisol in my system. Whatever it was, it was sudden, as if I'd taken a pill, except that I hadn't. And instead of crying myself to sleep, I ended up walking down to the corner store to buy cigarettes, which might seem counter-intuitive in case of a respiratory infection, but something had to give.

After the greasy urgent care doctor had told me I was sick because I was a smoker, I had thrown my cigarettes away in a fit of fear and anger. I actually went three days without smoking. But, between the illness, grieving, withdrawing from cigarettes and also from pain meds, I was at my breaking point. (I had to stop taking my pain meds for a while because they act as a cough suppressant, which is the opposite of what you want when you're trying to get rid of chest congestion.) Eh, it was worth a shot. As I have told Matt, I will quit when I am ready.

It might have even just been the act of walking to the store that helped, but after I had a smoke and calmed down even more, I ended up making two pairs of earrings. I'd been saying I was going to start making jewelry by re-purposing old or broken jewelry I got for cheap. The first two pairs of earrings aren't particularly sturdy and I don't know if I could actually sell them, but it was a turning point. Somehow, I turned manic dysphoria into creative energy.

Since Matt has left, I have felt progressively better physically and emotionally. Yesterday, I washed my quilt and cleaned up my room, scouring away evidence of my illness. I think just looking at the pill bottles and the trash bin full of slimy snot rags. (Sputum. Isn't it a beautiful word?) I opened my window and let in some fresh air, lit the candle on my altar and burned some incense to cleanse the air, all of which made me feel much better.

It's now Tuesday evening. I'm half-way there. Matt gets back late Thursday night. Thor 2 comes out this weekend, and I've been chomping at the bit to see it. It's like my reward for getting through this. Hopefully, I can look back on this whole thing and remember that yeah, actually, I am stronger than this shit, and I am going to be okay. Whatever doesn't kill me better get the fuck out of my way.