Goodbye

Today I said goodbye. I said goodbye to the man who called me Reenie, who told me I was “Soooooooo purty,” every time he saw me. He was a tough man; a navy man, a stern father; he didn’t express his feelings well (we have that in common) but to me he was always just Grandpa.

Sunday I said goodbye. I held his hand and kissed his cheek and told him I loved him. And even though he didn’t have the breath to voice it, I knew exactly what he would’ve sounded like when he mouthed, “I love you,” back.

Today I heard the tinny sound of Taps, the words, “On behalf of the President of the United States of America….for his service in the Navy…” as we placed him next to his wife and the daughter we lost too soon, the son and grandson we lost last year.

Sunday I learned that not only did I get my penchant for writing, and photography, and swimming, and my stubbornness from him, but that we shared a favorite cookie: lemon sandwich cookies.

Today I learned that no matter how prepared you think you are, no matter how long and full of a life someone leads, it’s still really fucking hard to say goodbye.

Goodbye Grandpa. I love you.

Your Reenie.

The Cat Who Cried Cancer

The past couple of weeks have been a wee bit stressful where George Weasley is concerned.

He’s had a small cyst on his stomach since I rescued him. The vet declared it non-worrisome as long as it doesn’t grow or irritate him.

It grew. And I convinced myself it hadn’t grown, because you know how as soon as the doctor’s all, “unless it grows,” and suddenly you doubt everything you’ve ever known about whatever it is that’s not supposed to be growing? Was it dime-sized or nickle-sized? Was it blue or black? Is up really up? Is my name really my name? You know, totally normal behavior.

Eventually we got to the, yeah okay that’s definitely way bigger than it should be stage and I took him into the vet. Who was all, “Yeah, he’s anemic, and he’s lost another pound, and remember his kidney disease and his heart murmur and are you trying to kill this cat?” That last bit may have just been in my head. So, she took him off to get a biopsy of the cyst to find out what was going on and brought my cat back looking like this:

Apparently the cyst burst, or part of it, while they did the biopsy (this is…normal cyst behavior?) and so one of the techs fashioned this shirt out of a giant tube of gauze to keep him from messing with it until it healed.

By this point George was pretty over being at the vet. He’d had a thermometer stuck where no thermometer should go, his ears cleaned with an unnaturally large q-tip, his belly poked and prodded while I was chastised about a: thinking his nipple was another cyst, and b: how many mats he has. Look lady, dude is fairly tame. He lets me dress him up, he let you put that ridiculous shirt on him, he even lets me trim his nails without much fuss. But the brush comes out and he is not having it. So, he was all, “Fuck this shit,” and went and hid in his carrier at my feet while I felt like the worst cat mother of all time.

And then the biopsy results came back as abnormal cells. And not just abnormal cells, oh no no, not my cat, different kinds of abnormal cells, because OF COURSE. And she went on to explain that abnormal cells mean cancer, and different kinds is very worrisome, and we should send the biopsy off to the lab to see if it’s spread or it’s just localized, and blahblahblah cancercakes. And that’s when I sat in a vet’s office telling myself that I would not cry because my cat has cancer.

Now, mind you, before the biopsy and the fur-shirt of ill repute, I was all, “Can’t we just take the sucker out and never ever ever tell me my cat has cancer omg?” To which she replied, “Well yes, BUT remember about his kidney disease, and his heart disease, and his low weight, and his anemia? Yeah, that basically makes him the worst candidate ever for general anesthesia.”

And then I got to ask about what are the next steps, and if it has spread, and the hell is kitty chemo, and holy shitsnacks did you just say, “make him comfortable,” to me, because it sounds like you just told me my cat is going to die and omg this is so much worse than Westley.

So, $300 later (*WEEPS THE WEEPING OF THE POOR*) I took my fur-shirt wearing cat home and we spent a week waiting for results while I contemplated how exactly I was going to pay for kitty chemo, and no putting him down wasn’t an option, and how much do you get for donating plasma again, and I’ve probably got some pretty decent eggs just floating around in my bits not being used, surely that’ll pull in some cash, and unhooking his teeth from the fur-shirt of ill repute and omg seriously, how are you stuck AGAIN, and then putting a sweater over the shirt because it’s harder to get your teeth stuck in, and just watching him breathe at night to make sure he’s still alive, and OMG THIS IS SO MUCH WORSE THAN WESTLEY.

It was a long week, is what I’m saying.

And then we (I) found out that it’s a cystic basal cell tumor and they’re usually fairly benign and we’ll just have to watch it to see if it grows and continues to ulcerate (I have no idea what that means. Continues to explode?) and if it does then he’ll need it removed. But, you know, not before the kidney disease, heart disease, anemia, and low weight are all under control, blahblahblah cancerlesscakes. And part of me was all, “BUT YOU SAID CANCER!” and the other part was all, “SHUT UP OMG WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.”

So, he’s getting two cans of wet, stupid-expensive, special, vet-only cat food a day (he somewhere along the way vetoed the dry, stupid-expensive, vet-only cat food) to help with the low weight, kidney disease, and in my super profushenal opinion the anemia. The heart disease (murmur) I’m not super worried about. Also, it’s $525 JUST TO LOOK AT THE DAMN THING.

And now I’m looking into how much it’ll cost to get him groomed so it’s done right, he has a good experience, and we don’t kill each other, and then I’ll force him into a daily brushing routine because yes! I know! The mats! The first place I called said they started at $120 and if it takes longer than 30 minutes the price goes up from there. STARTS AT ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY REAL-LIFE ACTUAL DOLLARS. I will be laughing for days, lady. FOR DAYS. So, if you know of any reasonably priced long-haired cat groomers in Indy, hit me up.

In sum: yay! no cancer!

I’ve Written Pages Upon Pages Trying To Rid You From My Bones

I’ve having a hard time right now. Everything feels off and wonky and misplaced.

I wonder how long I’m going to feel like I’m just watching my life go by.

I am surrounded by incredibly smart, talented people who are living life. They are loving, and living, and raising children, and partners, and making differences in other people’s lives, and traveling around the world fulfilling their passions. And I’m just, here. Night after night with my cat, and my computer, and a bottle of antidepressants trying to figure out how to survive another day.

I have two jobs that aren’t terrible, and I’m relatively healthy and it should be enough. But it’s not. And I don’t know how to fix it. And I feel so so broken and I don’t know how to fix it. I just want to fix it. I want to be an active participant in my own life again. I want my friends’ success to stop throwing my own failures into sharp relief.

I just want to fix it.