I have been waiting for almost 4 years for some sort of visit from my beloved calico cat. She has shown up in the periphery in dreams, but it was never anywhere near enough for me.
I’m so comfortable with and interested in physical death, but her death taught me that I am just as unaccepting of what comes after. I am not at all peaceful with how thorough and permanent that separation is.
When she died, I genuinely expected to have regular hallucinations (visual and physical) and dreams. I thought I’d be able to sense her presence. I still struggle with the fact that there’s no loopholes in the severance that allow me to occasionally feel what it was like when she was here. Our bond wasn’t so special that it could transform the law of what death actually is, and I can barely remember how it was to live with her.
I discovered sometime in the last months of her life that she LOVED Wheat Thins. I had to feed her fresh food 4-6 times a day to keep her weight up, but she would do anything to get her face into that bag. She didn’t get them much because of the salt, but it was a special treat for her.
In the years after I lost her, I would sometimes light white candle sprinkled with catnip and place it next to her ashes by my bed. (Sometimes I’d keep the candle with me and go about my night, talking to her as if she could hear). Then, at bedtime, I’d put a wheat thin beside her stuff before bed.
This morning, I woke up to one on the bed in between me and her stuff on the bedside table.
I think I bought Wheat Thins for my parent’s visit over Christmas, but I have definitely not bought them since. It couldn’t have fallen into my bedside drawer since then, because (1) I cleaned an organized it in January, so I would have found it then. (I also did a “deep clean” of my bedroom, so my cat couldn’t have picked one up from behind the bed and brought it up. (2) I have two humidifiers in my room, set to keep the humidity at 50% (although it’s usually only 30-40%), so it would definitely be stale. I ate it, and it was perfectly fine.
I don’t care if I’m just experiencing what I want to experience. I don’t care if “feeling” her presence or seeing her would be literal hallucinations. I want those, and I’m calling this a visit.
I haven’t had romantic feelings for anyone for years. I’ve jokingly referred to someone as “my boyfriend” to my friends before, but it was just me being silly. I also used to think my neighbor was cute (until I found out he had been a cop). But I never actually thought about these people, let alone felt anything in their presence.
I’ve worked with this person for months without thinking anything beyond “he’s too good at this–he’ll be gone any day now.” But we were in the middle of a work-related conversation when I got this weird feeling. I also found myself talking in a way that seems like my sad attempts at work-appropriate flirting. Later that day, I told my friend “Oh my god–I think I like _____.” First she was like “oh my god you like someone,” but then it was a wry “yeah, he’s your type.”
And now I find myself looking forward to seeing him, and even trying to be less of a slob. I wore something nice on Thursday, and I was bummed that I only saw him from a distance. He came to my room Friday looking for a coworker, but I was doing a lesson, so I didn’t hear him come in. When I turned around and saw him, I actually blushed.
I’m also going over past conversations about music that I had only half-engaged in because I was just focused on whatever work task I was doing or trying to get to. (Dammit!).
I’m obviously not going to shoot my shot. I wouldn’t do that in general, but for all I know he’s engaged or has a girlfriend. And it’s fine if I want to try to look a little nicer for work. It’s more that I don’t know how to manage thinking about him.
I really thought I was done with this at least until I was an empty-nester. At one point I wondered if I might be ace (turns out I’m not–it’s just that I can’t maintain attraction to someone who continually lies to me, and eventually I just shut it all off so I could live a peaceful life). While aware that the day may come when I regret closing myself off to any kind of romantic feelings, I was pretty much content. But this came out of nowhere.
I haven’t felt this way in years. I barely remember how it feels to feel this way. It’s kind of nice sometimes when I don’t think of all the potential disappointment or hurt that could come of it….but I also don’t know if this version of a crush is normal.
The funny thing is that, last week, I overheard my kid tell their friend that they wished they had a crush because it would give them something to live for at school. I’m sure that was hyperbole, and I have plenty of other things to live for, but it is helping to give me something to look forward to at work (which is at an all-time high level of difficulty and stress).
So yeah. Not going to embarrass myself by going on about him. It’s just really weird (and kind of neat but also kind of awful) to have a crush after all this time.
I need someone to talk to, but it’s questionable if I have the time, money or energy needed.
I actually had an intake appointment last year with a therapist who both takes my insurance and has “parenting” listed as an area of specialty. I went there and talked about my child (and, of course, my current and past issues). It was mostly parenting angst. At the end of the appointment, she told me that she didn’t think she was the right person to work with me, and said to reach out if I need help finding someone more suited to my case.
I left two messages at the private practice of a former coworker who specializes in working with adolescents, asking if she had room in her practice or could refer me to someone with experience in the particular areas I needed. I never heard back. Another coworker suggested I texted her, but I felt that was crossing a boundary, and maybe it’s unfair to ask for the free labor of a referral.
I need someone to vent my anxieties with—not with my kid, but with not always knowing what to do, and rarely being confident that I’m making the right decisions for them. So, here I am after a year hiatus. At the very least, maybe I can get it out without (1) dominating conversations with friends, (2) asking for more than is reasonable in terms of support from their dad, and (3) losing my ability to keep my chin up in front of my kid.
So, what’s going on? Well, they’re an adolescent, and that’s tough. Tough for me, even tougher for them. But there are a couple other things that make it even more of a challenge.
First, I’m happy to say that the health issues I talked about last year are managed. They are no longer anemic, and we’ve found a medication that works to suppress their periods altogether. Even better, we didn’t have to resort to the scary side effects of Lupron. (Honestly, I would have pursued surgery before putting them on that). So that’s a win.
However, there’s a new health issue. It’s not a new one–they’ve had it their entire life, but it’s a relatively new diagnosis (added to the DSM V in 2013). Doctors were at the point of saying “well, [they’re] making their own growth curve” long before it was a well-known disorder. But they have absolutely, 100%, had this from birth, and now it’s affecting their health.
My kid has an eating disorder called ARFID. Specifically, they have the restrictive subtype (with avoidant symptoms as well). It is mild in the sense that they have more than 5 “safe foods,” but it’s scary because they have lost almost 15% of their body weight in 6 months. That wouldn’t be the end of the world for an adult with a higher BMI, but it’s highly concerning for a growing child who was underweight at the start.
I’m kind of done with their pediatrician. They’ve been hit-and-miss with returning calls over the years (it’s not something I’ve done a lot, I promise), they completely blew off my concerns about the abnormal periods, and they didn’t say a word about their weight at their physical. Luckily, they saw their adolescent medicine doctor that same week, and she referred us to a dietitian who works with kids with eating disorders.
They are officially not diagnosed, as this came from the dietitian. The diagnosis has to come from a social worker or psychologist. I did let their therapist know about it, but I don’t know if she did a screening. It really doesn’t matter unless we’re pursuing accommodations at school (which we’re not…what’s the point of getting a 504 to allow for snacks and Boost during the day for a kid who simply does not have a hunger drive?).
Things got even worse right after they were referred to a dietitian when my kid had braces and a Herbst appliance put it. They were unable to eat solid food for a full three days after, and then they had to gradually relearn how to chew. Things are better four weeks later, but eating is still more work than it would be without. The RD had them weigh themselves this week, and it’s 2 lbs down from before the appliance. Honestly, I was expecting worse. (They were also sick last last weekend). However, this kid has got to get some weight on them.
I’m going to speak to the orthodontist privately when we go for an adjustment in October. If I had known that it made eating harder, I would have insisted on speaking to the doctor before going forward. It’s not his fault–the appointment was just a few days after the adolescent medicine appointment.
I say that if they haven’t gained in another month, it has to go. I’m not telling my kid that, though…they already have too much of a drive to starve, that might be a “plus” to them, but the appliance is one of the few options for jaw growth, so I’m trying to give it a little more time.
Their dad thinks some of my worries are because I’m looking at this through the “lens” of anorexia and bulimia. For example: I called him from the bathroom one time because I felt stressed and actually afraid to discipline or insist because I’m afraid they’ll be upset and not eat. He reminded me that that’s not what ARFID is.
And then, of course, there’s the “normal” stuff: they got put into honors math (their most hated subject) despite their attempts to flunk the test by purposely getting questions wrong, yet again they have no friends in their classes, and who knows when some 13 year old is going to decide to make school even harder for them by giving them shit.
So, yeah, I need someone to talk to. Advice would be even better, but getting it out is a start until I get into therapy and/or find a good psychic.
I could probably talk about my bumpiest-September-ever, too.
And it’s not all bad. I want to recognize the good, too. I just don’t know how much I can share about the other stuff while staying super anonymous with literally 10s of readers.
Blood has been at the center of my life for the last three months. I’m hopeful that this will change soon.
July 2/3, while at her dad’s house, my kid had stomach pain so bad that it woke her up. She woke up her stepmom, who gave her 2 Advil.
When I heard about this, because of my own experience with painful gastritis after taking big dose of ibuprofen, I said “Advil isn’t really for stomach aches. In fact, it can make it worse” and “the dosage based on her weight is 1-1.5 Advil.”
Turns out I was wrong on both counts.
The next day, while she was back with me, her period started with a bang (or, a gush and a large clot). The “stomach ache” was severe menstrual cramps.
Her first period lasted 9 days. She didn’t have a lot of pain; but it was fairly heavy. It was a nuisance because she was taking swim lessons, and she’s not comfortable with tampons. We had to work around by putting a bad in her suit until just before it was time to jump in, and then immediately changing after the lesson.
Periods longer than 7 days are abnormal, so I called the pediatrician on day 8 or 9. She told me that it’s okay in the first year or so, and that she didn’t think a pediatric gynecologist would do much with her.
I know now that a normal cycle length for early adolescents is 21-45 days. She got another period about 16 days later. This one only lasted 6 days. It wasn’t over heavy, and she didn’t have a lot of pain. I thought “okay, well, this sucks, but it means she probably won’t have a period while she’s on vacation with her dad in August.”
The next one started on August 5. I brought it up at her physical the following week. At that point, she’d bled 33 out of 45 days (with another couple days of spotting), I gave the pediatrician this info (this was not the one I’d talked to on the phone), and he literally waved it away with his hand and said “yeah, yeah, it’s the first year,” but he also said I should look for a multivitamin for her that contained iron.
I couldn’t find one that I thought she’d take (chewable or a small pill), so I got iron gummies and started giving them to her.
She was still bleeding when she left for vacation on August 12. I had bought her a period bathing suit by the point so she’d be able to enjoy the pool.
She got very nervous when she got to the hotel and saw white sheets on the bed.
I asked her about her flow daily. It was light enough Thursday of that week that I assumed it had stopped on Friday. She returned Saturday, and she stayed at her dad’s house since she’d already traveled 9 hours, and it was close to bedtime.
The next morning, I got a call from her dad. She had woken up (on period day 15) covered in blood from her feet to her stomach. Her stepmom got on the phone and said something like “I know you’ve been bringing this up to her doctors, but you need to press harder. Someone needs to help her.”
I called my ob/gyn, because I can reach him on his cell anytime. He assured me that she was safe, and he said to give her 3 Advil three every six hours (even in the middle of the night), and that that would stop the bleeding in 48 hours.
I wanted a second opinion, to be sure that she didn’t need to go to the ER, so I made a telehealth appointment with pediatric urgent care, and then I headed to her dad’s house. (If she needed to go to the ER, the one I’d want to take her to is closer to her dad’s house).
Dad had saved her clothes and pads so I could see just how bad it was. I have gotten some mixed information on the significance of clots–my doctor says it’s just blood that has pooled and sit higher up before coming out, and other doctors have said that clots larger than an inch in diameter are indicators for severe bleeding. Either way, she had first-sized clots, and it looked significantly worse than the early miscarriage that I opted to go through without intervention….
…the difference being that I had signed up for the risk of heavy bleeding when I decided to try for a baby, I had opted to go through the bleeding, and I was in my 30s. She’s 11.
The urgent care doctor was very helpful. He said that she was probably going to need IV estrogen, and possibly IV iron or even a transfusion. The only way to know for sure would be to get a CBC asap–and that meant a trip to the ER.
Hours later, we got the numbers back. I don’t remember everything about this trip, just that her iron was a little low, and her hemoglobin was at the bottom of the “normal” range. There was a whole slew of other tests done, but they were mostly fine. Her bleeding had slowed down by the time we left, and I think at this point we were just continue the Advil and follow up with an ob/gyn.
By this point, she was afraid to go to the bathroom. She now associated the bathroom with the horror scene from that morning. I came with her and did her pad changes.
She also walked very, very slowly in an attempt to slow down any gushes and hold in any clots. (It was like the walk you’d do if you were very close to peeing yourself).
We went home, she had some dinner, and we were getting ready for bed.
By this point, in addition to being afraid of the sights of the bathroom, the iron smell of the blood made her nauseous. Every time we went in there, I sprayed a peppermint room spray around, and I gave her a cloth with peppermint to put over her face while I changed her.
She sat down, and I heard a loud and aggressive stream.
It wasn’t urine. It was blood.
I thought “Fuck this. I am not sending my kid to bed to bleed out.” I called her dad, and we headed back to the hospital.
This time, instead of assuring me that she was safe, her nurse literally said “…she MIGHT be okay.” They said that there wasn’t really much to do unless her iron or hemoglobin had dropped.
They did. Her iron and hemoglobin had dropped significantly in those 12 hours. So, this time, they finally called in an ob/gyn, and they did an abdominal sono. They said they were probably going to do IV estrogen, but they wanted the consult first, and they needed to make sure her liver numbers were okay.
Ob/gyn talked with us there, and then they did an external exam without us (probably to talk to her privately to make sure there was no abuse involved). The ob/gyn said that she was going to prescribe oral contraceptives. She was to take a pill with breakfast, another with lunch, and another with dinner for three days. Then, she’s taper to 2 pills a day. Then, she’d go on maintenance therapy (just 1 pill a day). She also needed iron, but she was safe to take it orally.
They had warned us at one point–I’m not sure which ER visit it was–that it might get worse before it gets better.
We were discharged with instructions to follow up with their pediatric ob/gyn within a week.
We got home right around sunrise. The pharmacy wasn’t open yet, so we went to sleep, and I picked up her pills later that morning.
She tolerated the pills pretty well. The problem was that she was honestly traumatized. I did pad/clothing changes on the couch with a chux pad under her (to minimize bathroom trips). I had strict instructions not to say a thing about what I saw.
When she had to pee, it took up to an hour of peppermint spray and distraction (soft-body tetris videos) to manage her fright. This got better throughout the week.
My ob/gyn called to check on her, and he chided me for not calling him back.
I tried the pediatric ob/gyn, but they had nothing for months. The ER people checked in regularly to make sure she was getting follow-up care. I even got them to send over a note saying it was urgent, but they still couldn’t see me for at least another month. So, I started trying to find someone else. I got a referral from the first place, and then when the referral couldn’t see her, I tried a place they recommended, and so on. I tried the place my pediatrician recommended. Eventually, I made an appointment for October (the best anyone could do) with an adolescent medicine specialist, and then I called my ob/gyn,
They were able to see her the next day.
She woke me early in the morning the next day to help her in the bathroom. She was extra “out of it.” As she was about to sit down on the toilet, her eyes went weird (her irises weren’t lookin the same direction), and I realized she was passing out. I got her safely to the floor and changed her there. She went back to sleep, but I couldn’t sleep after that. I kept seeing her eyes, and I was looking at her lips, which had been white ever since this started, but I swear they looked blue.
My ob/gyn would have wanted the hospital to do IV estrogen (which would have required her to be admitted), but it was too late for that. He looked at her results and saw that, even after 16 days of bleeding, her uterine lining was still overly thick. He explained to her that what was inside had to come out, but in a controlled manner. He wanted her to change birth control pills at the end of the week (I can’t remember why for sure–I think it had to do with the type of progestin). He also prescribed zofran in case she needed it.
He was concerned about her heart rate (which was high at the hospital, but it was even higher now) and something else that I think was just a nervous movement. He called the pediatrician to bring him up to date, and the pediatrician wanted to see her to follow up on the heart rate.
He also wanted her to eat as much as possible of anything that appealed to her; he gave her the same prescription that led to her being nicknamed “Haagen Dazs” as a fetus.
She really didn’t have an appetite. I let her eat whatever was appealing to her, even though it was mostly crap (and not enough of it).
She was very angry with me for making her take a bath that night, but she was caked in blood. I cleaned her up on a chux pad on her bed so she would hopefully not have to see anything int he tub. Then, I set up a big dog bed, her sleeping bag, and a pillow right outside the tub, so she could crawl out and not actually stand up. She was still very distressed. I dried her hair with her laying down and watching videos.
She was nauseous later on, and she barfed 10 minutes after taking zofran, so I gave her another. (Luckily, she didn’t barf up her pills or iron). She didn’t vomit after that, although she did need zofran a couple times in the upcoming days.
Her dad was very good about it–he knows I’m a big wimp about hearing vomiting, so he sent me out and told me to go call the doctor when she did it. He also stayed extra late that night, until she was asleep. That was more for me than for her, and I appreciated it.
Iron-deficiency anemia usually doesn’t cause symptoms in kids, but it can cause an increased heart rate and orthostatic hypotension. I think that the latter was the cause of her nausea and vomiting, which occurred after getting up to use the bathroom.
She had a late night Tuesday (I was at the 24-hour CVS getting the zofran at 10:00 or so). The next morning, she had a tour of her new middle school. She hates school, but she was actually looking forward to this.
But she was still so pale and fragile and weak. I just wanted to let her sleep, but I knew she’d be angry with me if I did that. I woke her up, and we hemmed and hawed until the last second, but we went (with 12 minutes left of the walkthrough). She was holding onto me for support, and she truly looked like she was going to faint the whole time, but she did it.
On Friday, we started her new pill, and it was just 1 pill a day. She tolerated it well.
She went to her dad’s on Saturday as usual. I was worried about her having a trauma response to their bathroom, and asked dad and stepmom to be on alert in case she needed some support or distraction. She did fine, though.
Somewhere in there, I got another call from the hospital. The von Willibrand panel, which takes a week, had come back, and her von Willibrand factor activity was a little low. They said I’d need to see a hematologist.
We saw the pediatrician, who was confident that all of her symptoms were due to anemia and low blood volume. He said he doubted that there was a bleeding disorder, but to follow up with hematology.
The next week, I was back to work, and my mom was watching her. She was super sweet and snuggly with me, but very distant with my mom. I felt bad for both of them–my mom, for traveling 1800 miles just to be shunned, and my daughter, for being through a traumatic medical event.
She didn’t start school until after Labor Day, and it was rough. Her school refusal is a whole other issue, but obviously there’s overlap between that and what’s going on with her medically. I got a doctor’s note for her to have bathroom access at all times, and I ended up reaching out to guidance about the rough start.
She settled in for a bit…until it was time for her to get another period. The fears about being in the bathroom, bathing, and changing pads came back full-force. The night she took her first placebo pill, she had an anxiety attack. She told me she can’t get her period, she won’t. She begged me to call the ob/gyn to ask him to stop her from getting a period. I called him, and he said that I wasn’t helping by being so anxious about this, and he urged me to get her help for the emotional trauma.
I called back one more time, just to ask for one more week of pills, so she’d get her period this week (over the holiday break). I left a message. He didn’t call back that night (it was a Friday night), but he did call the following week to check on her.
She ended up being home for a lot of the period (she had a cold that turned into bronchitis). When she was in school, she was wearing menstrual underwear with a drawstring bag with a change of clothes and overnight pads.
She now hates the ob/gyn. He says that he doesn’t care, he doesn’t understand, “why would he make me do this?” It doesn’t help that he was on bluetooth when he called to check on her (we were in the car), and he was kind of short with me. (It really was nothing. When he asked how she was doing, I said that she was in a lot of pain. I’d given her 3 advil every six hours, and even a Tylenol on top of that. He cut me off to say I’m not giving her enough Tylenol, and he pointed out that the bleeding was improved from August). He said that we should see some real improvement with the next cycle.
He doesn’t really understand. She isn’t really all girl; I’m not sure she wants to be a girl at all. A regular period would be bad enough under those circumstances, but this is horrendous. I did tell him this, but I got mixed messages about it. The first time I mentioned it, he said that there were two centers on the island that treat genderqueer kids. The second time (that Friday night on the phone), he said that 80% of kids that feel this way around menarche change their minds.
I don’t think that’s true. And he’s not a pediatric ob/gyn. He’s an ob/gyn who specializes in infertility. While he’s been amazing for me, I don’t think he is the right person to treat her.
I explained to her that no other doctor was going to be that accessible (taking night and weekend calls, checking in regularly), but that it was very important that she had a good relationship with her ob/gyn. I kept the appointment with an adolescent medicine specialist in October.
I called the hematologist as well. The doctor looks over all labs to determine if a consult is even needed, then, if so, they call you back to schedule. I honestly thought they were going to say she didn’t need one, but she does. She’s going Thursday am to have some platelet test that they only do at 8:30 am on Tuesday and Thursday mornings.
Her dad is taking her, because he has her overnight Wednesdays, and the place is closer to him. (I’ll do the adolescent medicine appointment). I had to warn him, and I’ll keep reminding her, that it’s at a pediatric cancer center. She’s not being checked out for cancer–that’s just where pediatric hematologists work, I think.
We’re at the end of the first pill-controlled period. It’s significantly lighter than August, but it’s still too heavy. She was soaking an overnight pad and through her clothes within a half hour in August, now it was at worst that in an hour or two. That’s improvement.
However, it’s been horribly painful. It’s taken 3 Advil, 2 Tylenol, and a heating pad to get control of the pain. The first night of her period, she woke me up at 12:45 am because of the pain. I don’t understand why it should be so much more painful.
I’ve done my research, and I have a plan for the next period (start the Advil while it’s still spotting, and send her into school with a wearing heating patch, and get a doctor’s note for 3 Advil to be given in school instead of the 1.5 on her initial note). But, unless things are MUCH better next period, there’s a lot to discuss with the adolescent medicine specialist.
We’ll see her after the next one.
For now, the bleeding, pain, fear, and laundry have slowed down.
I have recently become obsessed with(the work of) Lemon Demon, aka Neil Cicierega. My daughter discovered him first, and she actually forbid me to listen to him. (Some things she just wants all to herself, and that’s fine). Gradually, I’d get little glimpses of his music, and I loved it. At one point she gave me “permission” to listen, but just wanted me to do it separate from her. Then, she eased up a little more and we’d talk about it.
We had some disagreement about the meaning of a particular song, and I cited what Neil said in the commentary track for the album. That was too far. I have to tread lightly.
I had to try to pace myself, too. All I want to listen to now is Lemon Demon. He doesa lotof (GREAT) other things (this is my personal favorite), so it could be years before (if) another Lemon Demon album comes out.
So, to bring the focus to the actual topic: the song “Soft Fuzzy Man” brought back a strange memory from years ago.
Cold and windy Dark and stormy Let me float your way Please don’t ignore me
What you girls really need’s a soft, fuzzy man (An ambient man) A trick of the light to love you tonight You don’t understand, there’s nothing quite like a soft, fuzzy man
Can’t you see me? Why can’t you see me? I’m all around All cold and dreamy
What you girls really need’s a soft, fuzzy man (A wisp of smoke man) To waft over you and cloud up your view So show me your hands and wave them right through a soft, fuzzy man
Although I have no arms to hold you in A human passion burns within me I need to feel like I exist So please, baby, please, baby step into the mist
Don’t be nervous No, don’t be nervous I’m not like other guys Who have a surface
What you girls really need’s a soft, fuzzy man (An atmospheric man) A shimmering puff of indistinct love What’s better than the vague embrace of a soft, fuzzy man?
Who seeps through your thoughts Who makes you see spots Who blows through the air Who plays with your hair I know it sounds crazy But once you go hazy, you’ll understand I’m your soft, fuzzy man
Okay, so the year was…based on what my bedroom looked like, it was some summer between 2004 and 2008. I don’t know if the years are a blur because I was still pretty sick with an eating disorder that was basically an addiction, or if that far back is fuzzy for everyone my age. But there’s a lot that I don’t remember clearly from those years.
I was off for the summer, my husband was working, and I was weird and desperate to be special. I was very un-social, and I needed a “summer project” other than calorie-counting to occupy my days. I bought a book (which I still own!) on lucid dreaming, and I started to follow some of the advice to encourage lucid dreaming: no alarm clock, go to sleep with the intention of lucid dreaming, wake up and immediately write down everything you can remember about your dreams. It’s likely that I was hoping to see my childhood dog, who died in 2005, in those dreams, but I can’t remember for sure.
Somewhere in there, I also got into…I don’t even know how to explain it…sleeping with ghosts? Spirits? Not sex. Literally just like taking a nap with one, maybe spooning. I don’t remember where I got this idea. It wasn’t a book (I think even I might have been too embarrassed to check out that book). It may have been some odd corner of the internet, or it may have been an idea that came out of my undernourished brain.
All I remember is the tan and blue duvet cover, blue sheets, and laying down and trying to feel the presence of a spirit around me. I definitely did feel it sometimes. I don’t know how much of a sense I had of that spirit. Maybe I thought I knew what they looked like, but I don’t think so. I think I just felt. They felt a little cool and a little less lonely. I don’t remember feeling this, but it probably made me feel special.
This experience isn’t exactly what the song is about, but listening to the words the first time brought back that memory for me, and then I connected with the song in a way that’s more recent-past. The song is kind of about an amorous ghost, or maybe it’s not. I’ll let Neil speak for himself (from the commentary):
This song is called Soft Fuzzy Man, and that’s something that me and my wife now call our cat…
This song is about a cloud man, or a ghost, or maybe just a metaphor for someone who thinks that being a total mystery makes him attractive. And… I do the thing that I usually do and I figure out an underlying metaphor and that’s good enough and now I can move on and just have fun with the literal side of the lyrics. So, there’s something about male unrelatability in there, but mostly it’s just a cloud man song.…
I always feel like the bridge is a good place to attempt to humanize a weird character that I’m singing about, like, yeah jokes, jokes, jokes but no I’m serious, ok back to jokes...
In an early version of this song I had the line change each time so I’d say, “What you girls really need’s a nebulous man,” or “A fragmental man,” and I kinda miss those lines cause fragmental is a good word.
“Makes you see spots” is a line change, I had something about seeping through the vents before…? Either way, he’s some kind of poisonous gas, maybe.
I think I specified that he’s hitting on a whole group of women at once to try and undercut the creepiness of this noxious, pervasive character. That’s still the point but at least he’s outnumbered.
First of all: I definitely started referring to my cats as soft, fuzzy men before I read this, but that’s not terribly surprising.
Second, I have definitely dated men who were very closed. Whether that was from paranoia, a conscious attempt to keep themselves as a perfectly blank canvas onto which the women they dated could project their ideals, or if they were just plain old bland, I don’t know. But there were two “jokes” that I heard from them:
(1) In talking about going to the gym, they always had to make a joke about their semen as a “protein shake.” Like, I say I’m making a protein shake, and they feel the creepy need to tell me they’ve got a protein shake for me. I swear to God if I never date a man again, it’ll be at least partly so I never have to hear that joke again.
(2) The thing about .gif being pronounced like “jif.” I think they think it’s some kind of a trick to see how gullible women are, or if they really do believe it, but it’s a thing that they like to say.
And the funny thing is that he pronounces every other girl as “jirl.” HOW DOES HE KNOW?
I might have been embarrassed at myself if this memory had popped up a few years earlier. But now, I like to think I’d create some nice things if I shed my inhibitions and followed those fancies. So now, I’m simply picturing old me getting too good at connecting with snuggle ghosts and up with this douche who says the same thing to every corporeal woman. I just smile a little, and I feel very happy that I discovered Lemon Demon.
This is how I mourned, and it’s how I experienced grief. It won’t be the same for everyone. I shared some of this information with one of my students after she lost her grandparents’ dog, and something in it resonated with her, so maybe it could help someone. I’m sending my story out into the void in hopes that, at some point, someone will come across it and find it useful.
I’ll put markers here and after the “story” in case anyone just wants to browse the list of “tips”
*************
I did not find the decision to euthanize or the process of euthanasia to be difficult at all. I didn’t experience guilt or questioning much of anything. I am extremely lucky to have had 7 GOOD months of palliative care to prepare me for her death.
The hardest part of her death as an event was telling my daughter. I had been frank with her when Lu got sick, and I had had conversations with her to help prepare her for her death. I asked her if she wanted to be there when the time came–I do feel she’s old enough to participate if she wished. She did not.
I gathered all of this information long before the day came, and I was constantly adjusting and planning for the various possibilities.
Once the quarantine started, I got in touch with her dad to talk to him, since dropping her off at a friend’s house or having someone come stay with her wasn’t a possibility. I just wanted to be ready. (My daughter’s dad isn’t a short drive away, so he wasn’t the first person I went to in the last months, just because that would be a pain for him).
As it happened, my daughter was at her dad’s house during Lu’s last night and morning with me. I called him once it was a possibility, and then again when it was definite…and I had to let him know that only one person was going to be allowed in.
So, I had to tell her when she got home. Ideally, I wouldn’t have smacked her in the face with it right when she walked in the door, but I was dreading it, and I’d rather just get on with things than to act like it’s all good. Her dad and I sat with her, and I held her until her screams settled.
That was one of the two hardest parts.
Boo and I grieve different. That makes sense–we handle uncomfortable emotions differently. We both did a great job of grieving, though.
I had to balance my need to cry and talk with her need to do those things in her own time and in her own way. I would cry and say I miss Lu, but I tried to keep the really ugliest, most crazy parts of grief private.
I acknowledged to Boo that both our ways of grieving were different, and that I wanted to respect both her need to not talk about it too much and my need to get it out.
Sometimes that meant slipping away to cry into a pillow (I’m good at doing so quietly) and whispering to Lu when I felt overwhelmed. It usually meant my nights alone were spent in the really insane corners of grief.
I think being quarantined and being separated from both my friends and all of the fulfilling parts of my job concentrated the mourning. I was working really long days, but that often felt like a burden, because it was just me hunched over a computer or a keyboard, not really making music.
I also think it forced me to look it right in the face and truly deal with it.
The hardest part–the REALLY painful part–came as a surprise to me. The physical symptoms of grief and the fog started to subside in days or a couple weeks. I don’t really remember how long it was, but it wasn’t a long time.
After that, it started to sink in that while I was EXTREMELY prepared for Lu’s death as an event, I was not at ALL prepared for this as a permanent state. It was like all of my anticipatory grief was poured into the day Lu would die, and I unconsciously believed that our love was so special as to be supernatural. I was sure that it would transcend the rules of death and be neither complete nor permanent.
I think it’s normal to look at the rest of your life without your pet and see all black. The way I fought against that might be outside the range of normal reactions.
I became increasingly despondent when I didn’t feel her presence. I was SURE she’d still be with me…or that my brain would at least show me enough mercy to send me some nice hallucinations. I’m not sure the possibility that this WOULDN’T happen even crossed my mind.
I felt abandoned by her, and then I felt guilty for feeling abandoned by her. It’s not like she was like “hey, I could be dead and still just go back and be with my mom like normal, but I don’t wanna.” That’s what the fuck death IS.
I felt ashamed that I, an very “death positive” person who pores over blogs and books by death industry professionals, had apparently only managed to internalize the information pertaining to dying, the end of a heartbeat, and body care.
There is so much more after that, and it fucking SUCKS.
I became obsessive about trying to establish contact with Lu. I listened to every “animal communicator” podcast in existence, read books and blogs, even bookmarked a good dozen “animal psychic” websites.
I didn’t end up spending the money on it because I just couldn’t decide on which one to go to. There was not one animal communicator youtube video, podcast, or guest reading/podcast that set off “this is the one” bells. There was an author/podcaster with promise…until I checked out her FB page and found out that she supports Trump AND is a vaccine-denier.
Nope.
I’m not saying that they’re all sociopaths taking peoples’ hard-earned money…but I am saying that after spending most of my spare time for weeks on research, I have yet to find someone who really can communicate with your dead pet. I think some of them are good at reading animals and helping with behavioral problems, and I believe that even some of the mediums believe that they’re getting messages from dead pets…but I don’t believe that any of them actually are.
If there was any hope of communicating with my Lu in any way resembling our communication while she was alive, I think I would have found it. But it’s just not possible.
However, now that I have gone through the bulk of the process of coping with her death, I have found a way to have an ongoing relationship with her. My way isn’t much less crazy than using a pet psychic, but it’s free, and it feels right for me.
*****
Okay, so here are the things that I did that helped:
(1) I made myself get some sunshine.
In the beginning, I would sit outside on a blanket and read or work on a pillow that I would fill with her things (a project I didn’t finish, because I hated how it looked…but I did do something else). But then…
(2) I forced myself to start walking (then jogging)
Before quarantine, I was lifting 4 times a week. After, the combination of physical grief and absolute tedium of working at a computer up to 14 hours (usually closer to 10) put me into the same funk everyone else was in.
But I couldn’t keep doing that. It wasn’t good for my physical or mental health.
I would put on a pet loss podcast and cry as I walked whenever possible (when Boo’s dad was over, or if she was at his house). If weather allowed, I’d do this 4-5 times a week.
At first, it was 2 miles. Now, it’s 4-5 miles with a mixture of walking that varies depending on how I feel and the temperature. (I SUCK at running in even the slightest heat). I’m not even at the level that I consider “real” exercise, but moving and, especially, getting sunlight has been absolutely crucial to the healing process.
(3) I read up on pet loss.
I went through quite a few digital books (because the library was closed) in an attempt to find one that had a tone and writing style that worked for me. There wasn’t just one…I ended up reading bits and pieces of books. This one was pretty good, although it felt short and less in-depth than what my obsessive brain craved (it’s written that way to reach people in the post-death fog): http://www.thepetlosscompanion.com/
Probably the most helpful things I read were this article #2 in a 3-part series on losing a pet during COVID, and the various things I read on Worden’s 4 tasks of grieving, which I found to be MUCH more accurate to my experience than the old Kubler-Ross model. (4) I journaled At one point, my despair was directed at the idea that all that “healing from grief” consisted of was forgetting. I felt that the only way to dim the pain was to lose and dim the memories so that you started to forget just how much you were missing every day your pet was not there.
I didn’t want to forget–I’d rather hurt. There were already too much days that I couldn’t even focus enough to conjur up a good memory about what it felt like to have her here. I got panicky about losing memories.
So, a week after she died, I bought a journal from the grocery store, and I started writing about her in it every night before bed. Some days told a story, and some days I just wrote lists of things (like the “people” foods she loved), but, every night, I added something to my collection of memories, so they could never be completely gone.
I asked Boo’s dad to share anything that popped into his head, and I’d look at some pictures to trigger memories. If something came up when I couldn’t write, I’d just jot a few words down to jog my memory so I’d write about it that night.
After I finished the first journal, I started a second journal. Now, it’s more of a screenless, pre-sleep thought-dump. I write about whatever is on my mind at bedtime. Once it was one sentence, often it’s just a page, sometimes it’s pages. I just write.
(5) I talked to my vet
I have an unusually lucky and close relationship with my vet. She was working at the shelter’s clinic when I adopted Lu, and then I followed her when she went to one, and then another, animal hospital. She had been Lu’s doctor from the beginning, and we had talked at least every 2 weeks throughout the last seven months of her life.
My vet wasn’t working the day Lu died, but I had photo cards made for the doctor who cared for her, the staff of the animal hospital, and Lu’s vet. She called me when she got the card. She said she’s kind of glad she wasn’t working that day, because she would have felt like she was saying goodbye to one of her own. We cried, she shared a beautiful and personal moment about the ability of pets to give you hope during the worst times, and she gave me her blessing to adopt when I was ready. She suggested kittens that a friend had rescued, but I told her that I wanted a younger adult and a senior, ideally two gems who had gotten passed over for no reason.
Weeks later, when I was really stuck, I asked her if she had any advice. She said “it’s just the price you pay for getting so much love.” At the time, even though I knew there is nothing anyone can say to make grief better, I was disappointed. I was still searching for a magical fix.
(6) I adopted two cats three weeks after she died.
This one is not for everyone, and I’ll be candid about how that went for me. I wouldn’t have normally done this so fast. But it was the right thing for my kid’s way of grieving (and, in fact, she started opening up about Lu’s death down the line), and quarantine without pets is just shitty.
I always planned on adopting two cats after her death. I pictured it being two adult, black cats who had to be adopted together. After Lu’s death, I got skittish about having two cats that were the same age. Not that we really have any control over when we lose our pets, but I wanted to try to put some space in between losses.
This time, with Boo involved in the process, I started to look around online at shelter listings. It quickly became a daily habit…obsession? Anyway, the shelters were closed except by appointment. I had called one shelter about a one-eyed cat that Boo liked, but that cat was too fearful to go into a house with children, and they really didn’t seem open to doing an adoption at all. (Understandable…they needed to protect their bare-bones staff).
Then I saw Spirit. He came into the town shelter the day Lu died (turns out he was dumped there, not even surrendered, just dumped outside the shelter), and it just felt like a sign. I contacted the shelter, filled out an application, did a phone interview with the head of the shelter, and then made an appointment to meet him and a second cat.
I ended up meeting only him. We brought him (age 2-3) home, as well as a cat of unknown age (9 is the guess….no record of anything with him before the age “~8” anywhere) that we didn’t even meet until after he got home.
Now, I knew very well I would never again have the same relationship as I had with Lu. (I didn’t realize the degree to which our relationship was actually a kind of “soulmate” relationship until after she passed). Strangely, that made me just want to get on with opening my home to another cat or two. I knew that I could search and wait forever to have that again, but it wasn’t going to happen, so why not get some cats out of the shelter now? Why not try to fill the silence in my house?
It didn’t fill the silence. It was still there. This didn’t fix it.
And it was painful to see how different they were from Lu. It was another reminder that she was gone.
HOWEVER, each moment that I saw that they weren’t my girl provided an opportunity for me to realize and record the things that made Lu unique. (For example, I bought them tuna-flavor in the brand of food that they had eaten at the shelter, because that was Lu’s favorite. Turns out that they don’t really love tuna, Lu’s favorite….or even beef (favorite of my boy cat that died in 2014). They preferred chicken. Their habits pointed out the habits that made Lu Lu, and it even triggered some specific memories.
(7) I kept what I could of our cozy nights together.
Lu and I were usually together alone every Wednesday and Saturday night over the last seven months of her life, and I was content with that. I just wanted to gather up time and memories while minimizing the possibility of regret after she died.
Typically, I’d go straight to the gym after dropping my daughter of at her dad’s house, and then I’d come home, give her meds and dinner, take a shower (and come out to see her waiting for me on the bed), and then we’d just be together.
After quarantine started, I was spending much of that time working. I had the keyboard and computer on my bed, and she’d be by my side or behind me.
After she died, I had to continue to do the work. I kept things the same, and I’d try to pretend she was still there with me on the bed while I recorded. I would hold the pillow I was trying to make of her things
(which I gave up on, and moved her things to a glass box next to my bed. I just hated the way it looked. I may have a pillow made with one of her full-body pictures, but I haven’t yet done that)
and pretend she was with me as I watched Schitt’s Creek, read, and slept.
Now, as I got to the task of accepting that her death was permanent, and I grappled with my outrage that I wasn’t going to have a supernatural relationship with her, I had to add some more to our routine.
(8) I had a picture necklace made
I ordered mine from Etsy, and I wear most of the time. (I have to take it off for showers, and I’m going to start taking it off for exercise, because it’s getting to be a really sweaty activity).
It feels like she’s close to my heart when I’m wearing it.
(9) I talked to her whenever I was alone and felt like it
In the beginning, it was more like a whispered, silent plea to please come back. Now, it’s calmer but, ironically, more routine.
If I wanted to come home Wednesday night and greet all of the cats (living and deceased), I did. I’d say “hey gang!” and greet them by name. I talked to the new boys about their older sister and brother.
I sprinkle a white candle with a little bit of her catnip, and I talk to her. I talk to her about how I’m struggling without her, what’s going on in my life, and how much I love her. I make a point to tell her that she continues to make my life better every day, because that was true even in the worst of grief.
Now, I’ll just quietly talk to her (to myself) whenever I feel like it. Even when I’m on my walks.
*******
Now, more “story”:
Somewhere, in my extensive and obsessive “research,” I came across the idea that pets help us from the other side, and that sometimes they can help us even more from the other side. I thought that that was bullshit, and I was angry. I was almost insulted that someone would suggest that I was better off with my pet dead.
I can’t believe that I’m saying this, but I am finding that there is a lot of truth to that.
Lu doesn’t speak to me in words, and I haven’t felt her presence through any of my senses. I haven’t really even dreamt about it. However, I absolutely do believe that she is with me and guiding me.
I feel her in sunshine. I’ll be outside, walking, and I will sense her through the sunlight. I don’t know how that’s going to be when it’s winter, but I will take it now.
I am also quite certain that she is a spirit guide…something that I wasn’t sure I didn’t really buy (even though I really wanted to) for the first 44 years of my life.
Since her death, I have changed so much. I am very much the same person, but I was carrying around a bunch of stuff that weighed me down and made my world SO small.
My world is still very much a bubble–and that’s something to work on. But, I’m more in a position to do this. I’m more in a position to be something positive to other people, and I feel more emotionally, mentally, and energetically capable of it. It’s starting with tiny things: getting comfortable with my voice and face on video, picking up my ukulele again, getting my piano tuned and pulling out the books.
Hell, I’ve even felt uncharacteristically comfortable with my own body over the last week or so.
Those tiny things led to small things, like talking to my friends. I even socialized (outside–COVID is still here and still lethal) for the first time since February, and I stayed up (and slept in) late to enjoy the dark moon.
I have more free time to get involved in things that benefit people other than myself. I mean, me working on myself as a musician and teacher helps my kids, but there are glaringly urgent things. I gave money, but it’s time to show up. Boo’s dad is very involved, and I have a good list of protests that are updated daily.
It’s a tiny start.
I am able to enjoy things that I have rarely been able to enjoy over the last year or so, and I absolutely do believe that this is a gift from Lu. I had had so little time or energy to devote to anything that wasn’t my kids (feline and human) or work (which I needed to support those kids). That became even more so after March 13–online teaching is an unfulfilling vampire of time, energy, and fulfillment.
In order to survive, I had to find light, even if that came across to others as being ignorant of the dark.
This is a very privileged way to be, but the only way I learn is through loss. I had to honor Lu by finding meaning and good in it.
While time is a necessary component of grieving, it wasn’t even close to enough to get me through the process. Grieving was an active process. I had to DO things in order to navigate it.
That hasn’t always been the case for me and loss. With the exception of my divorce, I’ve dealt with getting “dumped” by leaning on friends and waiting it out. I trusted that it would get better in time, and it always did.
I couldn’t just wait here. I had to do.
I’m not super-proud of the fact that I learn the most through loss. (I think that’s a super-privileged way to be). However, I have learned the most through loss, and I felt driven to honor Lu by finding the light in it.
And a lot of this stuff has no direct connection to my cat. I know that my cat has nothing to do with me eating tacos and laughing at fart jokes last night. There is no line from her death to me feeling chuffed at my tushy being sore because I’d practiced or tinkered long enough for my hard piano bench to make it so. Lu didn’t appear in a dream and tell me “stop identifying as ‘the sad girl’. You are not living a Mitski song.” (Still love your music and wish for a quarantine concert, Mitski). But I am certain that I am getting something from the other side that is driving me and giving me courage to not just to exist, but to be alive in this garbage world.
I’m not happy all the time. I cry when I need to. But I am lighter.
I will try to take concrete action to send back into the world the gifts I’ve gotten in hopes of helping something, someone, somewhere.
(Not through longass blog posts, I mean. By doing things).
I have written in my paper journal every day before bed since April 3, but that’s mostly a quick thought-dump. I finally have the time and energy to do more in-depth journaling here.
There has been so much going on–for everyone–in the last year. I guess I’ll start with the biggest thing that’s specific to me.
It’s my sweet calico.
Her kidney function had (slowly) been declining for a couple years. Also, during that time, she gradually started to vomit more frequently. I stayed in denial of it until it was several times a week, and then the vet wanted to look into it once it was a daily occurrence.
Last August, she was vomiting once a day, and she looked thinner. Her vet didn’t like the sound of it, and she had thickening of her intestines. That tends to mean either inflammatory bowel disease (IBD) or GI cancer. We started her on prednisolone 2x a day and Cerenia while we waited for a sonogram.
Sonogram didn’t reveal much, just the thickening of the intestines. Sometimes, you can do a biopsy with a scope, but the only option if we wanted to know if it was cancer was full-on, exploratory surgery. She was 16 at that point, and on the border between stage 2 and stage 3 kidney disease, so my ex and I agreed that it was best to just treat it as IBD and manage the symptoms.
It was going great for the first few weeks, and even weaning went great until I got down to once every other day. Then, daily vomiting returned.
I ended up keeping her on prednisolone twice a day for the rest of her life. It was liquid, which is good, because I don’t know how to pill a cat. But it was gross, cherry-flavored stuff (the same stuff my kid had to take when she had pneumonia), and she HATED it.
I also had to give her pepcid once a day (which I could often get in with a Pill Pocket, and then I found an even stinkier product to get it in).
When she had breakthrough vomiting, I gave her Cerenia.
Starting in January, when blood would appear in her vomit, I’d also give her Carafate.
I was doing kitty hospice from August until she died. My head was constantly swimming with planning out medication schedule, worrying about what would happen if she really started to put up a fight with the meds, constant evaluation of her life quality, and worrying about how to manage possible absences from work (after I got a negative review for attendance the year before, due to my own weird tummy issues, and having a daughter who had minor illnesses all the time).
I had to give her her night time dose of prednisolone at 7 am and 7 pm, and I was feeding her Weruva Cats in the Kitchen pouches 6+ times a day (she mostly nibbled at it, but it worked, and it was low in phosphorus). If it was a carafate day, she had to get in 30 minutes before or 2 hours after her tiny meals.
Needless to say, I wasn’t going out much. I socialized maybe a handful of times during the whole hospice period. And that was okay; all I wanted was to treasure every moment with her and lay the groundwork to feel peaceful and without regrets.
This took up all of the mental and emotional energy that I had to devote to anything other than my livelihood and my (human child), and that’s okay. As incredibly stressful as that time was, feel warm and content when I look back on it. I feel like I took good care of her, and it was an honor to be able to care for her so intimately. It was stressful because I worried that I was missing something, or in denial, or that I was going to hold onto her too long, but it was also very cozy.
I vowed to not let her waste away. I would not let her get too sick.
I started poking around for information about in-home hospice and euthanasia. I decided that, since my vet was exceptionally available to me, I’d just save the money on in-home veterinary care (and, one day, put it toward opening my home to another cat). I held onto the information for in-home euthanasia, although it wasn’t priority for me to say goodbye in my house.
She bounced back quite well from a tougher period in January, and her weight was still good (8.5 lbs, which is about right for her).
I felt a more marked, but slow, decline starting around the beginning of March. Even though I talked to my vet every week or two, and she said that she trusted my judgment on what to do, I started to question if I knew what I was doing. I also started to obsess that she was going to get sick enough to die around my daughter’s birthday, or that it was going to be time when my daughter (who didn’t want to be present) was with me.
It wasn’t anything specific, not an increase in vomiting. It’s just that she moved slower, stiffer, and she looked thinner. It was more just a feeling that I got that she was slowing down.
I made an appointment for a “life quality assessment,” and, if she seemed stable, I’d call 48 hours before the appointment and move it back.
I told my friend that she wasn’t going to make it through this COVID wave. I was mostly talking to myself, trying to make sure I wasn’t in denial. I didn’t want to just let my eyes adjust to the darkness as she declined, and then find I’d waited until she was 5 lbs.
The last life quality assessment that I’d scheduled was March 18, and I decided to just keep her home until it was time to euthanize her (however long that would be…I didn’t think it was imminent, or I’d have taken her in) rather than dragging her 30 minutes each way to the vet during a pandemic.
I’m a teacher, and my last day in my building was March 13. We were told the day before that online instruction would not start until March 23 or 24.
On March 15, we found out that our lessons had to be up by 8 am on March 19. I had had no training in anything, unless teaching myself how to use Audacity to record myself counts.
From that point on, I was working a good 10 hour day, 6 days a week.
If you’re a 7th grade English teacher, you are probably teaching 4 sections of the same material each day. But I teach 3 grade levels of chorus (with different music for each) and then a section of what is supposed to be a music theory/keyboarding class.
Part of it is that my kids are young enough that they can’t just independently teach themselves the music–a big part of my job is laying that foundation through sight-singing instruction. So, I had to record myself singing everything.
For 6th, 7th, and 8th grade chorus.
And then there was my general music class. It’s usually a piano class with a lot of music theory built in. I had to completely re-write the entire class.
It took forever.
You wouldn’t believe how long it takes to make four Powerpoints. Most kids didn’t have sheet music at home, so I had to snip each page individually, record the audio (in all three parts), etc., etc. All while attending mind-sucking Zoom meetings, having our requirements constantly change (you must post an assignment every day for every class/you’re posting too much work…you’re not allowed to do live video instruction/you must do live video instruction…you can’t require them to show their faces on Zoom/you need to check in visually on Zoom/you can’t require them to show their faces on Zoom), and trying to learn all these new modes of teaching (Teams, Zoom, Edpuzzle, etc).
And the constant emails. I had to track students who were missing work, check in with them, check in with their parents, check in with guidance and their other teachers, call if still nothing (which freaked me out, because if I called someone who had just lost a relative to bug them about their missing freaking chorus work, I was likely to provoke anger), and document everything methodically.
So much documentation.
Oh, and I was doing homeschooling for my own human–who, THANK GOD, was really compliant 99% of the time. She doesn’t have any kind of special need that requires special ed, and she really didn’t care that school was closed. She was just pumped to not have to get up at 6:15. There were only two assignments that were a real struggle–mostly because she has so much anxiety about anyone else reading her writing.
Anyway, I was working a lot. Pud got everything she needed, but I’m sorry to say that a lot of our time together was her laying on the bed and me with her, but struggling to try to figure out why the piano part for a recording turned into 1.5 speed once I layered a vocal track over it.
(Never figured that out, but it was okay once I made sure every piano part was an mp3).
March 25, after I dropped my daughter off at her dad’s house. On the way home, I picked up a big round of meds that I thought would last me for the pandemic, which I had told myself would be a month. (I think that was just what I had to believe in order to get through that time and focus on work).
I came home and fed my girl and gave her her meds, then I finished up my work. She was on the bed with me, and I was working on a borrowed keyboard on the bed.
I noticed her nose seemed a little stuffy. I cleaned it with a warm, damp washcloth.
I finished work early that night, 8 or 8:30, which was wonderful. Then, I took my shower, and she was waiting for me on the bed. We snuggled up and watched Schitt’s Creek. It was a perfectly cozy Wednesday night.
The next morning, she stayed by my side on the couch after I carried her downstairs, but she really didn’t seem well. She had more congestion in her nose, she was noticeably lower in energy, and she didn’t want breakfast.
I pulled out the big guns–tuna. After she barely tasted that, I called the vet.
There was only one vet there that day (not my vet), and he was booked, but they said I could drop her off, and he’d see her when he could and call me. The office was already doing pets-only in the building, so that was fine.
I thought she had an upper respiratory infection. It sure seemed like that. She had a snotty nose, and maybe that was what was making her feel bad and less interested in food.
I took her there, and they came out to the car to get her.
I wasn’t even home when he called me.
He said “boy, that thing on her liver got huge.”
This was something that showed up in her heart sono before dental work in October 2018. The vet said it was benign, and it wasn’t an issue unless it got really big (which it probably wouldn’t).
I thought that was weird. I hadn’t heard anything about that since October 2018…not even after her abdominal sono in August.
He said that that’s what’s causing her to feel bad and not eat, and that he also strongly suspects that her kidney disease had progressed significantly. She had lost a pound (7.5 lbs). He said he wanted to get her kidney numbers, and then we’d talk. I asked him outright if euthanasia was something we’d be talking about, and he said yes.
I went home and numbly tended to the work I needed to do that morning. I don’t know how. I just did what I had to do.
The vet called back, and he said that her kidney function had declined, though not as much as he’d expected. He said “you can try upping her prednisolone dosage [which was already about as high as you get without causing other problems] and maybe try an appetite stimulant.” I practically cut him off to say “no, I don’t want to drag this out. I don’t want to put her through any more.” He said that he agreed, because he strongly believed that any relief we were able to give her would be “very short-lived.”
I think he was basically offering me a few days to come to grips with it, but I’d been working on that for the last 7 months.
I asked if I could be there and he said yes, that’s the only thing they’re letting human clients into the building for. HUGE relief.
I hustled right over there. Once I made the decision, I just wanted to do it as soon as possible, before she could get any sicker. Or before I could change my mind
I had to wear a mask and gloves, but everyone was SO kind. Not surprisingly, I was in the “sad” room with the couch. (They had brought us there in January, but then my vet said that baby didn’t look nearly as bad as she’d anticipated).
They brought her in, and she was already far away. She wasn’t making eye contact, was super muted…beyond normal vet stress. The vet came in, and the first thing he said was “you are doing the right thing.” He gave me as much time as I needed with her–gave me a little buzzer to press when I was ready.
I didn’t spend a lot of time with her, maybe 15 minutes. She wasn’t really there, she clearly wasn’t feeling well, I just wanted to take away her pain.
My only regret is that I didn’t hold her in my arms. I stayed at her head, petting and kissing her, but she was laying on the couch. I didn’t know if it would be okay in terms of staying far enough apart from the doctor, and I just didn’t want to jostle her in any way because she was feeling so poorly.
She passed very quickly. They gave me as much time as I wanted with her body afterwards, but I didn’t stay long. I think she’d be on a different plane for hours already, so I didn’t feel like I was leaving her.
I got a lock of her fur and paw prints for myself and her dad.
The decision to euthanize her was easy. Euthanizing her was easy.
Telling my daughter was not. That was the hardest thing to do.
After that, the hardest part was accepting the reality that I was going to live the rest of my life without her, that our love wasn’t so special that it was immune to the laws and permanence of death, that she wasn’t going to be continually coming back to visit.
I may write about that, about the real post-death grief, because that was the real work.
I did such a great job preparing for her death as an event. I wasn’t really prepared for it as a permanent state. I knew that I loved her as my child, but I didn’t realize that what I had with her was a soulmate relationship until after she died.
For now, it’s enough to have told the story.
Much bigger things going on, of course. But I wanted to write this out.
I came here to start blogging again, and I came across a post I had written on May 5, 2019.
THIS IS WHAT I WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:
(1) Fidelity
I’d be okay with dating around in the beginning, but I think it’s reasonable to establish monogamy within 3-6 months of dating. Once you’re there, you can, say acknowledge the hotness of celebrities but only have eyes for each other.
(2) Ideally, I’d be with someone who is fairly demonstrative of his feelings and affection.
Once you break the seal on “I love you,” go ahead and say it daily. I also love to hold hands, lean on, and snuggle. But as long as both of us feel comfortable expressing affection (in words or snugs) whenever we feel like it, it can work.
(3) Transparency and acknowledgment. No elephant in the room.
No one needs to account for every moment and interaction, but we should both know each other and each others’ people. We should feel that we are incorporated into each others’ worlds.
(4) A balance of doing things individually, just the two of us, separately with friends, and as a couple with friends.
I’ve become a bit of a loner in reaction to having been someone who depended fully on her part for social interactions, and maybe I need to come toward the middle a little bit. I don’t have a pie chart ready to go for this. I just know I want some alone time, some romantic time together, and time with friends (both with and without each other).
(5) I know where we stand
I feel like I have a pretty good picture of how they feel about me and what our relationship is, and it’s somewhat close to objective reality.
On a smaller scale, I like to have an idea of when we’ll see each other. I’m coparenting with someone 45 minutes away, so my daughter has to deal with a lot of transitions. One of the biggest things that made this work is that, each weekend, I go over the next weeks’ schedule with her so she starts her week with a mental picture of what to expect (especially if there is a special activity, obligation, or schedule change). I need that, too, if it’s for any kind of couples time, so I can look decent and be somewhat well-rested to compensate for any fun that keeps me up past my old lady bedtime.
One of the few good things about dating was that dates are usually planned out at least a few days in advance, so I could check my mental map of my week and know that it’s somewhat accurate.
(6) I feel positively about them, and they feel positively about me.
This is a given, but I don’t express it if I’m unsure (#5) or afraid (#8).
(7) Emotional passion without codependency. They add something to my life without me needing them to “make” me happy, and vice versa, and we express that to each other.
I’ve gone from a completely codependent marriage and abandonment to believing that I will never again depend on a man for anything. I bet I’d ease up if the conditions were right, but I will never doubt my ability to survive a breakup or take for granted other resources for support (family, friends, my job). Nor will I use a relationship as a crutch to avoid dealing with things I need to address.
The Gestalt of our relationship should be life-enriching. If it’s not, I wish for my partner to either dig in and work with me, or leave to make space for someone who is better suited to them.
(8) I feel safe enough to express my feelings in words, affection, and sex.
I’ve never been able to do all three at the same time, and maybe I never will. In each relationship, there always been either some major imbalance of affection, a Horseman (see #2 below), abuse, or infidelity as a barrier. I truly do believe that if those were absent, I could do it.
IT CAN’T WORK IF THESE ARE PRESENT:
(1) Infidelity
It wouldn’t be the end of the world to find out someone was cheating on me or be left for someone else. I know I can manage that.
My real fears are (1) not finding out about it, or (2) unknowingly being a side piece.
The first scenario would strangle our relationship slowly even if it was perfectly covered up. I can’t maintain attraction to someone longterm if they’re cheating, flirting with other girls, still hung up on someone from the past, or just dumb turn-off behaviors like responding to thirst traps on social media. That would be a real soul- and time-suck.
The second scenario sounds nuts, but it happened to me. I broke it off immediately, but it’s still a source of guilt and shame. I’d never want to do that to another woman, and there’s sort of a pressure among women to be a good detective. If either scenario happens, you’re at fault for not being perceptive enough.
I firmly believe in these. The presence of these signal a huge problem in a marriage, but I bet they don’t just appear at the tail end of marriage…and I basically view their presence in a dating relationship the way other people view fate. It can’t work.
(3) Lies of omission
I don’t want to hear every rude, negative, fleeting thought. I value tact, politeness, and considering things from the other person’s viewpoint before blurting.
I’m talking mostly about interactions or relationships with other people, or addiction. If either of us is obscuring something to avoid trouble, it won’t work.
(4) Never doing things apart from each other, never having one-on-one time, or never doing things together but with other people.
Romance good. Dependency bad. Isolation bad.
(5) The elephant in the room.
The thing that’s in the background all the time but either not acknowledged or never resolved.
(6) One of us, or both, doesn’t understand why we are together.
Seems like a big “duh,” but it can be difficult or complex to get out of a relationship.
(7) Lukewarm, one of us is significantly more passionate about the other, or we don’t know how we’d survive without the other.
We’re all old, fucked up, and full of baggage. Okay. We also already know we can survive without each other, because we did so for the first few decades of our lives. We’ll keep working on our shit individually, accept ourselves and each other, and get on with it.
(8) I’m holding back big chunks of myself out of fear.
I’ve worked on myself quite a bit since my divorce, and while the anxiety still makes me annoying, I have gotten rid of the grossest parts of myself and incorporated much of the ugly into myself. There’s no longer something that I need to hide or stifle about myself in order to feel like I’m worthy of someone who loves only me. I’m also perfectly fine with the idea of being on my own, and I DESPERATELY want to repel anyone with whom I can’t have my “wants” (or if they come with relationship-killers attached). If I’m holding back, it’s because there’s something wrong with the relationship (not necessarily the person, but definitely the relationship).
I woke up this morning sure that I’d accomplished something by having another “recurring place” dream, and I promised myself I’d process it by blogging. I’m way less sure of that now, but here it is:
The one ghostly encounter I’ve ever had was where I worked in college. It was an old house (supposedly owned by the Wright brothers at one point) converted into a restaurant that was mainly for faculty and catered events. The basement was dark wood and tile, sort of a bar and tavern. The first floor was the kitchen, the main restaurant, and “the sun porch” that housed our weekday lunch buffet. The second floor was three catering rooms, a narrow hallway where we kept the coffee station, the bathrooms, and the “oak room” where tables were stored. There was a narrow staircase that went to the oak room, but I was more comfortable with the main staircase. The third floor was just offices.
There were rumors of creepy stuff in the basement, and on the second and third floors.
On my last day of work there, it was just me and one cook doing a Rotary Club breakfast meeting on the second floor. She was in the kitchen and I was going up and down getting the buffet together in the hall. I brought up the coffee pots, and went to put them on the burners in that narrow hallway. I was just about to put them down when I heard in my right ear, and felt the breath of someone saying my name, as if they were within inches of my ear. I just let out this weird sort of moan, put down the pots, and hightailed it downstairs into the kitchen.
I know that really happened. I don’t even believe in ghosts, but I believe that I really did hear and feel that.
Anyway, last night, I dreamt about the haunted house that I have dreamt about for years. It’s always an old house with three stories and a basement; the second floor is haunted. The third floor is fine, but I end up spending most of my time on the first floor to avoid having to go through the second floor.
I think that the 3-floor setup comes from the workplace, but I can’t say for sure that the dreams started after I worked there.
I either never actually dreamed of the paranormal activity before, or maybe just the one time–I just “knew” it was haunted. At some point in the dream, I had to either pass through or deal with the second floor.
So, last night. I think that this was the first time that I actually owned the house. I didn’t know why I had it, and I regretted buying it. I didn’t remember buying it or even know what real estate agent I used, and by the end of the dream I was figuring finding that person was a good place to start.
It was the kind of dilapidated, 19th century house you see a lot in the south–this is the closest thing I could find without falling into a hole of image-searching:
It had windows, and it was a little more Victorian/less boxy, but that’s the idea. It also didn’t have any neighbors.
The first floor was similar to my paternal grandmother’s house: kitchen, living room, bedroom, dining room. (My grandmother’s house had an extra space, like a living room, but this house does not). My daughter–who wasn’t in the dream–and I were living on the first floor.
My bedroom was supposed to be the third floor, and her room and a guest room were supposed to be the second floor.
I went up to the second floor, and one of my coworkers was renovating the bedrooms and bathrooms. They were beautiful. I don’t remember what my daughter’s room looked like, but the guest room was sort of a rusty coral color. The bathroom had those expensive, large tiles, and it was big enough to have a small couch in there.
Across the hall from the two bedrooms was a HUGE, room-sized walk-in closet that was unfinished.
Down the hall from the bedrooms was the other room.
This room has been in one other dream, but this may be the first time I opened the door. The door was painted a kind of glossy black, and I couldn’t get it open more than a couple inches. It was an emptyish room with bare wood floors. There were weird whirring and grinding sounds, wind, and something pushing the door closed. Out of the room poured the feeling of every uncomfortable emotion: anxiety, fear, anger, despair, dread. Especially dread. It was nauseating.
I guess that’s more of a demon situation than a ghost situation.
Any time I’ve got demons in dreams, there’s some sort of defiant usage of God or Jesus on my part. I was doing the same thing here in hopes of weakening it (or pissing it off?) enough to get the door open. I wasn’t successful, and at some point, I thought that maybe if I’m going to start using that floor, it’s not the best idea to provoke the demon that shared the space.
Later in the dream, I had people over and started to hang out on the second floor, but then felt a little uneasy, so I moved it up to my room, which wasn’t as fancy as the second floor rooms, except for the fact that it a new kitchenette.
It ended with me on the first floor, feeling foolish and guilty. I wondered why I bought the house (in this dream, I already owned a condo), and how I could get out of it. I felt guilty, because my coworker was putting so much into renovating it, and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. I decided to go through my email to figure out who was involved in the purchase, sell the house, and then pay the coworker for the renovations.
Maybe if I write them down each time they happen (maybe once or twice a year?), I’ll be able to make some meaning to it.
Excuse the creepiness of the head being cropped out. I think a picture was needed.
These pictures came up on my FB memories today, taken about 7 hours before my daughter’s dad left. I look at this sweet little toddler, and think “how could he walk away from this? How could he give up so much time with her?”
I understand why people end up hating their ex or blaming “the other woman.” Anger is a normal part of loss, and I can see why someone might need to sort of keep one foot in that in order to move on without feeling completely broken. This just doesn’t work for me because it’s important for me to have the story I’ve written about our breakup be as three-dimensional as possible. I want to acknowledge the mistakes I made, and I also just genuinely think that my ex is a good and loving person.
It’s easier to blame the other woman for seducing your partner…well, it isn’t for me. I think that the trope of a woman who wants to “steal” your man (or part of him) is just another sexist way to provide deflection and excuses for grown men to not take responsibility for their behavior.
Also “siren” isn’t a thing in real life.
My ex and I are fundamentally kind-natured humans who fell in love. Irreparable damage was done to our relationship early on (his part), and I stayed with him even though there was no way it would ever be okay after that (my part). Problems persisted in our marriage. I was resentful because of past hurt (it’s on me that I was unable to truly forget, but I married him anyway), and I was cranky all the time. Like many do, he looked for a sign from god that we were doomed to start the process of checking out, and he left once he’d found another human to run to.
So, if he’s not a monster, and it’s not on “the other woman” for being such a depraved seductress…what does that leave? How does that explain moving out from the little dumpling in the bunny jumper?
It’s not the father, it’s not his girlfriend, it’s obviously not the toddler.
Me.
That’s what’s left.
He left because I’M THAT BAD.
I’ve worked on myself (and succeeded quite a bit) in the last five years. I have shed myself of so many dysfunctional behaviors, and even some of the negative thoughts. Most days, I feel that I have a long way to go before I’m living my life the way I’d like to live it and how I function in the world, but I think of myself as a fundamentally decent and kind person.
But not today.
And I hate to say it, but I wasn’t really done grieving my three losses (miscarriages) until I had a baby. It didn’t fix anything or undo the past, but it did end that chapter, and it fulfilled my wish to have a child.
I fear on days like this that I’d need to find love in order to be sure that I’m not garbage (at least, in the eye of one beholder). In the last five years, my husband walked out, and then I was: in an abusive relationship, trapped into painful ambivalent/friends with benefits horsehit (or, in one case, both), or I was completely single and not even trying. What has life shown me about how loveable I am in that time?
I truly don’t think that finding love is something that I’m going to do, and I at least have the self respect to save myself the inevitable pain of dating(/being lied to/finding myself trapped in one of these 21st century non-relationships), so I’m just going to have to cope with the discomfort on July 4 and some other times that I’m struck with what a wondrous creature Boo was in 2013.
treeskeepgrowing 