Beauty matters. I am about to make a bold statement but I believe it to be true with all my heart. If you ask any person on this planet if they want to be beautiful (or handsome, gorgeous, attractive or any other such adjective) and they tell you "no," they're a liar. And no, I'm not talking about "inner" beauty, although that matters, ultimately, far more. I'm talking about shallow, superficial outer beauty, the kind that takes people's breath away, that makes them think, "wow, I really like looking at this person." You know, the kind that is oh so hard to define and almost impossible, I suspect, to truly feel.
I think the first time I felt, for lack of a better work, "unbeautiful" was when I was about eight or nine. My best friend at the time told me that her sister, who was a year younger than me, had entered some sort of "Little Miss" pageant. I don't recall how she placed. This was the early 80s, a very small local pageant, nothing like the insane kid pageants of today, at least I'm assuming. At any rate, it wasn't about how well she placed but the fact that HER mother had thought that SHE was beautiful enough to enter her into a pageant. I could not possibly imagine my mother having done that with me. Not that I'd have enjoyed it. I fought her, tooth and nail, when she tried to "dress me up" and with the exception of one dress that I liked to wear, once in a while, when the spirit moved me, I don't think I put on a dress voluntarily until I was a teen. But that was beside the point. On that day, for the first time, I felt "less than" regarding beauty. If I was beautiful, surely my mom would have entered me, too. It was a crushing blow.
Years later, I was at a cousin's house, swimming in the pool. This cousin is quite a few years younger than me but at the time, my family didn't have a pool and she and I were having fun together. Then, seemingly out of the clear blue sky she asked me a question. She looked over at me, stared directly at my face and said, "Why is your nose so big?" To say I was crushed is a massive understatement. I had determined, by having a working set of eyes, that my nose was, let's just say, larger than most. It was something I was quite self-conscious about though, up until that day, I don't recall anyone specifically mentioning it. However, after this day, I could never say that again. The jig was up. It was officially out in the world. My big nose, exposed. And, sadly, I never could get that genie back into the bottle.
Fast forward again. I was thirteen and absolutely HATING life. I was now in junior high which was, in my town, a separate wing of the high school. Quite a big change from sixth grade, when my grade "ruled" the elementary school. It was a time of so much change and it seemed to me that unless you were one of the "pretty" girls, it was a fairly miserable place to be. Or maybe that was just me? Anyway, I was thirteen, totally self-conscious, completely unhappy and struggling to get through my days without spontaneously bursting into tears at any given moment. I was headed for the lockers in between classes when I noticed something different about mine. It wasn't until I got closer that I realized what had happened. Someone had taken it upon himself to write, in HUGE black permanent ink letters, "BIG NOSE" on my locker door. I...was...gutted. I stood there, in utter shock, unable to move, to speak, to breathe. I tried rubbing the letters off with my hand but that was useless. I tried scratching over it with my ball point pen, again, an exercise in futility. I don't remember if I cried but somehow, I don't think I did. My pain was beyond tears, beyond understanding. I never learned who did this but I have always had a theory and really, that is beside the point. All I knew, then and now, was that these two completely unoriginal and uninspired words had cut into my soul, exposed the one thing I was most self-conscious about and marked me, not unlike the scarlet letter. All in all, a very bad day.
There were other incidents, I'm sure, relating to my giant honker, though none I can specifically recall. And I'd like to say, the decision I came to was NOT based on some offhand remark made by a child in a backyard swimming pool or even the cruel actions of a heartless teenage boy. I felt, deep inside, that my nose was hideous, that it was destroying any shot I had at confidence and that as long as it remained I would never, ever be able to look in a mirror without feeling utter disgust, misery and shame. I begged and pleaded mercilessly for a nose job. "Please Mom. You just don't understand." However, my mother, "blessed" with almost the identical nose, did understand. It turns out, she had always hated her nose, too. So, though it was a financial hardship, my parents decided that if it was really that important to me, they would find a way to make it happen. I was fifteen years old.
I remember waiting until the summer between ninth and tenth grade to have the surgery. I did not want ANYONE to know about it. I naively hoped that if it was done during the summer, I would return to school in the fall, changed, better, but that no one would be able to pinpoint what was different about me. I'd just be more attractive than before for some undefinable reason. The surgery itself was awful. Well, I should say, recovering from the surgery was awful. I had never had anesthesia before and I can clearly recall, after surgery, hearing a really loud and grumpy-sounding nurse saying, "Kari, WAKE UP! You need to wake up, NOW." Bitch please, I'm trying. "Kari, WAKE UP!" I guess, eventually, I woke up enough to satisfy her and soon headed home, in the worst pain I had EVER experienced. I remember being so sore and uncomfortable for days. My mother, in a twisted moment, took a photograph of me, looking like someone beat the hell out of me, lying in bed with a small stuffed animal perched on top of my head. I didn't recall this until about ten years ago when I came across the snapshot in a huge Rubbermaid tub of family photos. I looked at this picture in amazement and then, in a rash moment, tore it to shreds. In retrospect, I kind of wish I had kept it. I would have probably never shown it to anyone, ever, but it captured so many different things. I guess it hardly matters now.
I'd love to say that this was the first and last time I suffered for "beauty" but if I did, I'd be lying. Just after high school, my acne (because, of course, I was blessed with that, too, as well as braces, and glasses, naturally) became severe and a dermatologist ultimately diagnosed it as "cystic" meaning, in part, that it would leave scars. I tried every topical cream, every pill available. I can clearly recall one cream that needed to be refrigerated. I had acne on my shoulders and back as well as my face so I would put on an old flannel shirt, which I would remove in the bathroom so my mother could slather the cold cream all over me. It had to stay on for a while so rather than sit in my room topless, I'd put the loose flannel on over it until it was time to wash it away. It was, not surprisingly, not fun.
In time, it became clear that my acne was even beyond what this refrigerator cream could do so the suggestion was made that I try a drug called Accutane. Apparently, this prescription only drug was quite powerful, so much so that I would be required to have blood drawn monthly to make sure it was not affecting my liver. When I look back now, I wonder what in the fuck I was thinking and, even more so, what in the fuck my mother was thinking, but we agreed to try it. I was eighteen, still feeling oh so shitty about myself, and this was lightning in a bottle...err...jar...whatever. I wouldn't have to worry about any more painful cysts on my back and my standard everyday facial acne would disappear too, how fabulous! So, I did it. I used it for six months and it did, in fact, prevent me from getting any more acne cysts. Sure I still got the occasional pimple but it was nothing like before and when it went away, it left no traces behind. Well worth it, right? WRONG. Unfortunately, one of the wee little side effects of Accutane was that while it dried out your skin, preventing the cysts from forming, it also dried out your nasal passages. To be fair, I was warned about this potential side effect. It was suggested that I use saline spray in my nose and even Vaseline on a Q-Tip to keep my nasal passages lubricated. I did this, as instructed, but apparently, that was just not enough. I am now thirty-nine years old and since stopping this medicine at eighteen, I have had a nose bleed almost EVERY SINGLE DAY. Not to get too gross but basically, what happened is that my nose is raw inside. Scabs form which are extremely uncomfortable so I blow my nose. This subsequently pulls off the scab, causing my nose to bleed. I have gone as long as three days, desperately uncomfortable, before blowing, hoping that in that time, the scabs will come off themselves and the tissue will heal but it never works. I blow my nose on that fourth day and the whole cycle begins again. Imagine feeling something "foreign" in your nose that you are conscious of every waking minute of your life. You can't stop breathing so the constant friction of air against your raw nose is unavoidable. All in all, not a fun thing. The great irony, the great cosmic joke in all this? I fixed the outside of my nose so the inside had to have its revenge. Funny how life works out, ain't it?
I am happy to say that after this second let's just say "challenging" experience, I have not done anything to achieve beauty that has physically harmed me. Do I regret the nose job? Not for one minute. It did not make me "gorgeous." I still never got asked out all through high school, or college, for that matter. I was not voted "best looking" in my yearbook. But did I feel better about myself afterwards? Without question. Though I still see imperfections when I look at my nose, I feel so much better about it than I did before. It suits my face and I am reasonably happy with that feature. Now, do I regret this Accutane business? You bet your ass! Though I do not relish the idea of having acne scars across my back and shoulders and, quite possibly, even on my face, the discomfort of what I now deal with inside my nose is definitely not worth it. That choice, made by my mother and, in all fairness, an eighteen year old, fully legal adult me, is one I will have to live with for the rest of my life.
Today, I still do not feel beautiful. I have rare fleeting moments of feeling that I look "okay" or "not hideous" but, as I've discussed before, feeling beautiful is something that eludes me. It is not nearly as important to me as it once was. I do know (though I sometimes forget) that I am beautiful inside. I have a good loving heart. I am very aware of how powerful and devastating words can be and I try, so hard, to choose mine with great care. I am extremely loyal, very supportive and honestly, a great friend to have. These things matter far more than outer beauty, this I know.
So I can say, with near certainty, that despite how things begin to wrinkle or sag in the years to come, I will grow old gracefully. Clearly, I feel that the decision to have plastic surgery, dermatological procedures or anything else "beauty related" done to oneself is a personal choice, one, upon which, I pass no judgment. Everyone has to decide for him or herself what is an "acceptable risk" or "appropriate amount of pain."
My overall conclusion, at least for me, is that fixing the outside does NOT fix the inside but it can help. Of course, fixing the inside is FAR more difficult and that's where the real work begins.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Friday, September 7, 2012
Spencer
Today, I'd like to tell you the story of how I met my best friend.
It was Easter Sunday, April 4, 1999, and I was in a bad place, seriously bad. I had recently broken up with my fiancé, who also happened to be my very first boyfriend. I had initially instigated the break up by throwing the ring at him but, at the time, NEVER thought for a minute that I wouldn't get it back. After all, this was me, hysterical Kari, well-known for irrational behavior and histrionics. But I never did get that ring back and soon, our engagement officially ended. I was wrecked, drowning in what was the most searing, devastating pain I had ever experienced up to that point in my life. I was in a deep, dark, despairing place and I was lonely. I needed someone, someone who would love me unconditionally, someone I could love back, without fear or reservation, someone I could take care of who would never, ever leave me. I needed a cat.
I started out at a small rescue shelter, suggested, ironically, by my ex fiancé. Accompanied by my entire family, (I think. I know my parents were there. It was Easter so I have to assume my brother was, too.) off I went. I quickly found the cat I wanted, cream-colored and seemingly super easy-going. He seemed so ready to be loved, just perfect. So, I went to fill out forms, answer questions, attend to all the formalities and bring my boy HOME.
Everything was going splendidly until they got to the question, "Will this cat be an indoor/outdoor cat or indoor only?" Now, I knew, having lost our family cat seven years ago when he was killed, on our very block, by a hit and run driver (our neighbor witnessed the whole sordid affair) that I had NO intentions of letting my cat outside. But, as so often happens in my life, I let my mother's "You can't not allow a cat to go OUTSIDE, that's CRUEL," influence me. Therefore, I casually answered, "indoor/outdoor." Suddenly, time stopped. "Oh, I'm sorry. It is against our policy to adopt cats out to owners who will let them outside. Have a nice day." WHAT THE FUCK? I had been born and raised on Long Island. Almost every cat owner I knew let their cats outside. What in the holy hell was happening here? "Okay then, I won't let him outside," I assured them with a smile. After all, I was a nice 26 year old woman, accompanied by my entire family, on Easter Sunday. How could they deny me the opportunity to give an animal a loving home and a fantastic life based on one hastily given (and not truthful) answer. "Well, I'm sorry, miss but it's too late, now. You already said that you would and that's against our policy. You cannot adopt a cat here." Now, I was LIVID. "You mean to tell me that you would rather leave this cat lingering in a cage, denying him a loving home, because I answered your trick question incorrectly? You're looking at a police officer of twenty two years, here," I stammered, gesturing towards my father. "He saved people's lives. Do you really think ANY of us would harm this or any other animal?"
"Miss, that's our policy and yes, under the circumstances, we would rather have him here."
I walked out shell-shocked, in tears and completely, utterly decimated. The thought of this innocent cat, MY cat, being left here, for who knows how long, maybe the rest of his life, because I STUPIDLY ignored my own heart and listened to my fucking mother, AGAIN, enraged me and I was devastated. Subsequently, I swallowed my pride, called my ex, tearfully told him the story and begged him to go get the cat for me. To his credit, he tried. He went to the shelter shortly thereafter, found the cat I had described and was about to do the paperwork when someone said, "Hey, weren't you here recently with a blonde girl?" (He had been. Before our break up, I was already thinking about adopting. We looked around but I was not quite ready to make the commitment yet.) He, I assume, said "no" but this fucking asshat with, apparently, a photographic recollection of anyone who had ever entered the shelter, was not giving in, not to mention that two different people wanting to adopt the exact same cat on Easter Sunday had to be more than a coincidence.
What the fuck was I thinking? Clearly, I wasn't. I was, as usual, Veruca Salt. "Don't care how, I want it NOW" you son of a bitch. Thus, that was the end. They refused to allow him to adopt this cat either, convinced he would just give him to me. This cat was not to be mine. I was in a much worse place than I was before I started. My family, figuring we were done with the ordeal for the day, prepared to go to my aunt's house for Easter dinner. But I wasn't finished. Oh no, not even close.
My parents and brother looked at me like I was insane (possible). "Are you sure you're not coming? This might not be the best idea," my mother said.
"I'm sure. You guys go, I'm fine."
And off they went. I had another plan.
I drove to another shelter, this time the North Shore Animal League where at least half the people I knew on Long Island had adopted their pets. The fact that I was doing this BY MYSELF, me, over-dependent Kari, who had a meltdown making ordinary phone calls like to schedule a doctor's appointment, that I was setting out alone to make a decision that would change my life completely, hopefully for many many years to come, was literally mystifying. I'd like to say I felt brave and empowered but I was probably just scared shitless. Still, I made the thirty minute drive, took a deep breath and went inside to find my cat.
I was quite surprised at how easily I found him. It typically takes me twenty minutes to decide whether or not to buy a shirt, for Christ's sake, but this decision was made the minute I saw him, the smallish grey, black and white tabby, hiding in the corner of his cage, looking completely terrified. If he was not me in cat form, I don't know who was. The sign on his cage said, among other things, "Name: Snapdragon. Age: Approximately one year."
The instant our eyes met, I knew. This sweet boy had chosen me as much as I had chosen him. I asked to see him and they took him out and placed him on a table. He scrunched down into a tight ball in the farthest corner. He looked SO fucking scared. "He's a bit feisty. That's why we call him Snapdragon."
"I'll take him."
Soon, I had my boy in a cardboard crate and was filling out papers (no one even asked if he was to be allowed outside), being given his meds (apparently he had an upper respiratory infection) and paying his adoption fee. Then, it was official. This beautiful terrified cat, who I named Spencer (keeping Snapdragon as his middle name to honor his past) was mine.
We got out to the car and I told him we were going home, me and my little angel cat. When I started the car a song came on. It was called "Angel of Mine" - clearly the exclamation point on what I knew, with my whole heart, was meant to be.
For days, at least a week, Spencer hid. When he stopped hiding, he was frozen. If I picked him up and carried him across the room, that's where he would remain, for hours, until he needed to eat, drink or use his litter box. When I took him to the vet for his follow-up exam (to check on his infection and make sure he was healthy overall. He had already been fixed before I got him,) he, once again, cowered in the corner of the table. The vet said that this was typical for him. He had clearly been abused before he arrived at the shelter (no wonder he looked so fucking terrified when we met) but his health was great. In time, he slowly began to warm up to me. He would explore the house (I still lived with my family in the house I grew up in) and allow himself to be petted and loved more frequently. He knew he was home.
Fast forward to now, over thirteen years later. Over the years, Spencer has become an absolute cuddle bug, still only with the people he knows and trusts (my husband, my mother and myself) but, in his own unique way, super-affectionate. He loves to give what I call "mooches" (smooches), especially when I'm in bed (he hops up onto my pillow and licks pretty much my entire face) or when we come home (licking legs, feet, whatever body part is easily accessible). He is my absolute joy, my heart and soul and my very best friend. I could not possibly love him more.
Yay! Happy tale, right? Wrong! (You must be new here so I'll let it slide.) My husband and I learned yesterday that our beloved boy is in some serious trouble. Let me set the scene. A few weeks ago we took him to an emergency vet, twice, when he was having trouble going to the bathroom and, after $600 worth of tests, we were told that he has, "mild kidney disease, barely on the charts, easily treatable with a special diet. We MAY want to consider injecting him with subcutaneous fluids a few times a week at some point but, for now, just change his food and follow up with your regular vet in a few months." Okay, that sucked. I never EVER expected that our having a constipated kitty would mean he had a disease. He had had this issue once before, a few years prior, and at that time, he was given a cat laxative and sent on his merry way. I had expected the same outcome this time around so I was in a bit of shock. Still, the disease was "very mild," no reason to freak out. Change his food, see the vet in a few months, we've got this. At our second visit in as many weeks to the emergency vet, it was suggested that we find a regular vet for him, follow-up, and to learn how to give him the subcutaneous fluids at home, probably twice a week. The next day we scheduled the appointment for my husband's next day off, yesterday.
I'll be blunt. We do NOT have much money, at all. This is not to say that I wouldn't give up cable or the Internet, sell my fucking tv or eat ramen for six months to pay for vet bills if I had to but we wanted to establish ourselves with a "real" vet, compassionate and caring, the opposite of the brusque matter-of-fact folks at the emergency clinic. Brian found a vet online, ironically located just down the street from his job, that seemed really accommodating. The reviews online were primarily raves. Great facilities, reasonable prices and, most importantly, people who cared. Perfect!
So, we took our poor confused boy, who seemed to be feeling just fine, loaded him into his pet taxi, which he despises and drove him, crying all the way, to the vet. I was nervous. I didn't know how I was going to give this boy, who fights tooth and nail against ingesting oral meds, a SHOT twice a week but I'm his mom, Brian's his dad, we'd figure it out. Imagine my surprise when I learned that my boy, a robust thirteen pounds just a few years ago, down to eight pounds a few weeks ago, was now down to just over six pounds. I didn't understand. He eats every day. How could he be losing so much weight? Little did I know I was in for worse. Much worse.
The vet felt his back and belly and said that he had extremely low muscle mass and his kidneys felt hard. He informed us that what we were told was "mild" kidney disease was, in fact, VERY severe. He explained how one number on his chart revealed this and he was baffled as to how the other vet, how ANY vet, could not have accurately portrayed the severity of this situation. When he said "quality of life" I tried, desperately, to tune him out. However, when Brian asked, "what kind of time are we talking about?" I heard his reply, all too clearly. "Maybe six months."
Now when I look at my beautiful precious boy, that horrible fucking number is ever present. Brian, I guess, had a different view of things all along. He was not at the vet with me when I was told "very mild," though I relayed the message to him. He, I guess, just heard "kidney disease," began googling and had a more realistic understanding of this diagnosis. When we heard that news yesterday, he was devastated, like me, but not unsurprised, the opposite of me, who felt like I was hit by a Mack Truck. I still feel that way, like it's happening over and over again. I took an afternoon nap, very unlike me, just to have an excuse to hide from the world for a while, wanting to be numb but unfortunately feeling the pain with every fiber of my being.
I don't know how much time I have left with my boy. I don't know how to reconcile things like "we need groceries" with "but I can't leave Spencer." I realize that I'll have to figure this out, somehow. He and his furry brother, Sydney, are my children, my furbabies, the only kids I am likely to ever have. I cannot and will not fathom life without him. I choose to live in denial, thank you very much, for as long as I possibly can. This cat has my heart. He is so fucking vital to my life. I will do whatever it takes to keep him here with me, for as long as I can, until such time as it is no longer best for him or, lord help me, he decides he has had enough. I will give him what will be, at least for now, daily injections. I will NOT let him go.
Well-meaning folks say, "Just enjoy the time you have left" and obviously, I will try, but right now, all I see when I look at my sweet baby is a ticking clock. I don't know what to do with this. I would give him MY kidney, if I could, without hesitation. But, alas, as with so many other things, I am powerless.
There is no happy ending here, no tidy conclusion, no snappy witticism to finish out this post. Just a devastated mother, wishing, with all her might, for a miracle even though I don't really believe in miracles, nursing her utterly and completely broken heart.
It was Easter Sunday, April 4, 1999, and I was in a bad place, seriously bad. I had recently broken up with my fiancé, who also happened to be my very first boyfriend. I had initially instigated the break up by throwing the ring at him but, at the time, NEVER thought for a minute that I wouldn't get it back. After all, this was me, hysterical Kari, well-known for irrational behavior and histrionics. But I never did get that ring back and soon, our engagement officially ended. I was wrecked, drowning in what was the most searing, devastating pain I had ever experienced up to that point in my life. I was in a deep, dark, despairing place and I was lonely. I needed someone, someone who would love me unconditionally, someone I could love back, without fear or reservation, someone I could take care of who would never, ever leave me. I needed a cat.
I started out at a small rescue shelter, suggested, ironically, by my ex fiancé. Accompanied by my entire family, (I think. I know my parents were there. It was Easter so I have to assume my brother was, too.) off I went. I quickly found the cat I wanted, cream-colored and seemingly super easy-going. He seemed so ready to be loved, just perfect. So, I went to fill out forms, answer questions, attend to all the formalities and bring my boy HOME.
Everything was going splendidly until they got to the question, "Will this cat be an indoor/outdoor cat or indoor only?" Now, I knew, having lost our family cat seven years ago when he was killed, on our very block, by a hit and run driver (our neighbor witnessed the whole sordid affair) that I had NO intentions of letting my cat outside. But, as so often happens in my life, I let my mother's "You can't not allow a cat to go OUTSIDE, that's CRUEL," influence me. Therefore, I casually answered, "indoor/outdoor." Suddenly, time stopped. "Oh, I'm sorry. It is against our policy to adopt cats out to owners who will let them outside. Have a nice day." WHAT THE FUCK? I had been born and raised on Long Island. Almost every cat owner I knew let their cats outside. What in the holy hell was happening here? "Okay then, I won't let him outside," I assured them with a smile. After all, I was a nice 26 year old woman, accompanied by my entire family, on Easter Sunday. How could they deny me the opportunity to give an animal a loving home and a fantastic life based on one hastily given (and not truthful) answer. "Well, I'm sorry, miss but it's too late, now. You already said that you would and that's against our policy. You cannot adopt a cat here." Now, I was LIVID. "You mean to tell me that you would rather leave this cat lingering in a cage, denying him a loving home, because I answered your trick question incorrectly? You're looking at a police officer of twenty two years, here," I stammered, gesturing towards my father. "He saved people's lives. Do you really think ANY of us would harm this or any other animal?"
"Miss, that's our policy and yes, under the circumstances, we would rather have him here."
I walked out shell-shocked, in tears and completely, utterly decimated. The thought of this innocent cat, MY cat, being left here, for who knows how long, maybe the rest of his life, because I STUPIDLY ignored my own heart and listened to my fucking mother, AGAIN, enraged me and I was devastated. Subsequently, I swallowed my pride, called my ex, tearfully told him the story and begged him to go get the cat for me. To his credit, he tried. He went to the shelter shortly thereafter, found the cat I had described and was about to do the paperwork when someone said, "Hey, weren't you here recently with a blonde girl?" (He had been. Before our break up, I was already thinking about adopting. We looked around but I was not quite ready to make the commitment yet.) He, I assume, said "no" but this fucking asshat with, apparently, a photographic recollection of anyone who had ever entered the shelter, was not giving in, not to mention that two different people wanting to adopt the exact same cat on Easter Sunday had to be more than a coincidence.
What the fuck was I thinking? Clearly, I wasn't. I was, as usual, Veruca Salt. "Don't care how, I want it NOW" you son of a bitch. Thus, that was the end. They refused to allow him to adopt this cat either, convinced he would just give him to me. This cat was not to be mine. I was in a much worse place than I was before I started. My family, figuring we were done with the ordeal for the day, prepared to go to my aunt's house for Easter dinner. But I wasn't finished. Oh no, not even close.
My parents and brother looked at me like I was insane (possible). "Are you sure you're not coming? This might not be the best idea," my mother said.
"I'm sure. You guys go, I'm fine."
And off they went. I had another plan.
I drove to another shelter, this time the North Shore Animal League where at least half the people I knew on Long Island had adopted their pets. The fact that I was doing this BY MYSELF, me, over-dependent Kari, who had a meltdown making ordinary phone calls like to schedule a doctor's appointment, that I was setting out alone to make a decision that would change my life completely, hopefully for many many years to come, was literally mystifying. I'd like to say I felt brave and empowered but I was probably just scared shitless. Still, I made the thirty minute drive, took a deep breath and went inside to find my cat.
I was quite surprised at how easily I found him. It typically takes me twenty minutes to decide whether or not to buy a shirt, for Christ's sake, but this decision was made the minute I saw him, the smallish grey, black and white tabby, hiding in the corner of his cage, looking completely terrified. If he was not me in cat form, I don't know who was. The sign on his cage said, among other things, "Name: Snapdragon. Age: Approximately one year."
The instant our eyes met, I knew. This sweet boy had chosen me as much as I had chosen him. I asked to see him and they took him out and placed him on a table. He scrunched down into a tight ball in the farthest corner. He looked SO fucking scared. "He's a bit feisty. That's why we call him Snapdragon."
"I'll take him."
Soon, I had my boy in a cardboard crate and was filling out papers (no one even asked if he was to be allowed outside), being given his meds (apparently he had an upper respiratory infection) and paying his adoption fee. Then, it was official. This beautiful terrified cat, who I named Spencer (keeping Snapdragon as his middle name to honor his past) was mine.
We got out to the car and I told him we were going home, me and my little angel cat. When I started the car a song came on. It was called "Angel of Mine" - clearly the exclamation point on what I knew, with my whole heart, was meant to be.
For days, at least a week, Spencer hid. When he stopped hiding, he was frozen. If I picked him up and carried him across the room, that's where he would remain, for hours, until he needed to eat, drink or use his litter box. When I took him to the vet for his follow-up exam (to check on his infection and make sure he was healthy overall. He had already been fixed before I got him,) he, once again, cowered in the corner of the table. The vet said that this was typical for him. He had clearly been abused before he arrived at the shelter (no wonder he looked so fucking terrified when we met) but his health was great. In time, he slowly began to warm up to me. He would explore the house (I still lived with my family in the house I grew up in) and allow himself to be petted and loved more frequently. He knew he was home.
Fast forward to now, over thirteen years later. Over the years, Spencer has become an absolute cuddle bug, still only with the people he knows and trusts (my husband, my mother and myself) but, in his own unique way, super-affectionate. He loves to give what I call "mooches" (smooches), especially when I'm in bed (he hops up onto my pillow and licks pretty much my entire face) or when we come home (licking legs, feet, whatever body part is easily accessible). He is my absolute joy, my heart and soul and my very best friend. I could not possibly love him more.
Yay! Happy tale, right? Wrong! (You must be new here so I'll let it slide.) My husband and I learned yesterday that our beloved boy is in some serious trouble. Let me set the scene. A few weeks ago we took him to an emergency vet, twice, when he was having trouble going to the bathroom and, after $600 worth of tests, we were told that he has, "mild kidney disease, barely on the charts, easily treatable with a special diet. We MAY want to consider injecting him with subcutaneous fluids a few times a week at some point but, for now, just change his food and follow up with your regular vet in a few months." Okay, that sucked. I never EVER expected that our having a constipated kitty would mean he had a disease. He had had this issue once before, a few years prior, and at that time, he was given a cat laxative and sent on his merry way. I had expected the same outcome this time around so I was in a bit of shock. Still, the disease was "very mild," no reason to freak out. Change his food, see the vet in a few months, we've got this. At our second visit in as many weeks to the emergency vet, it was suggested that we find a regular vet for him, follow-up, and to learn how to give him the subcutaneous fluids at home, probably twice a week. The next day we scheduled the appointment for my husband's next day off, yesterday.
I'll be blunt. We do NOT have much money, at all. This is not to say that I wouldn't give up cable or the Internet, sell my fucking tv or eat ramen for six months to pay for vet bills if I had to but we wanted to establish ourselves with a "real" vet, compassionate and caring, the opposite of the brusque matter-of-fact folks at the emergency clinic. Brian found a vet online, ironically located just down the street from his job, that seemed really accommodating. The reviews online were primarily raves. Great facilities, reasonable prices and, most importantly, people who cared. Perfect!
So, we took our poor confused boy, who seemed to be feeling just fine, loaded him into his pet taxi, which he despises and drove him, crying all the way, to the vet. I was nervous. I didn't know how I was going to give this boy, who fights tooth and nail against ingesting oral meds, a SHOT twice a week but I'm his mom, Brian's his dad, we'd figure it out. Imagine my surprise when I learned that my boy, a robust thirteen pounds just a few years ago, down to eight pounds a few weeks ago, was now down to just over six pounds. I didn't understand. He eats every day. How could he be losing so much weight? Little did I know I was in for worse. Much worse.
The vet felt his back and belly and said that he had extremely low muscle mass and his kidneys felt hard. He informed us that what we were told was "mild" kidney disease was, in fact, VERY severe. He explained how one number on his chart revealed this and he was baffled as to how the other vet, how ANY vet, could not have accurately portrayed the severity of this situation. When he said "quality of life" I tried, desperately, to tune him out. However, when Brian asked, "what kind of time are we talking about?" I heard his reply, all too clearly. "Maybe six months."
Now when I look at my beautiful precious boy, that horrible fucking number is ever present. Brian, I guess, had a different view of things all along. He was not at the vet with me when I was told "very mild," though I relayed the message to him. He, I guess, just heard "kidney disease," began googling and had a more realistic understanding of this diagnosis. When we heard that news yesterday, he was devastated, like me, but not unsurprised, the opposite of me, who felt like I was hit by a Mack Truck. I still feel that way, like it's happening over and over again. I took an afternoon nap, very unlike me, just to have an excuse to hide from the world for a while, wanting to be numb but unfortunately feeling the pain with every fiber of my being.
I don't know how much time I have left with my boy. I don't know how to reconcile things like "we need groceries" with "but I can't leave Spencer." I realize that I'll have to figure this out, somehow. He and his furry brother, Sydney, are my children, my furbabies, the only kids I am likely to ever have. I cannot and will not fathom life without him. I choose to live in denial, thank you very much, for as long as I possibly can. This cat has my heart. He is so fucking vital to my life. I will do whatever it takes to keep him here with me, for as long as I can, until such time as it is no longer best for him or, lord help me, he decides he has had enough. I will give him what will be, at least for now, daily injections. I will NOT let him go.
Well-meaning folks say, "Just enjoy the time you have left" and obviously, I will try, but right now, all I see when I look at my sweet baby is a ticking clock. I don't know what to do with this. I would give him MY kidney, if I could, without hesitation. But, alas, as with so many other things, I am powerless.
There is no happy ending here, no tidy conclusion, no snappy witticism to finish out this post. Just a devastated mother, wishing, with all her might, for a miracle even though I don't really believe in miracles, nursing her utterly and completely broken heart.
Pieces of Me
Yeah, yeah, I know. It's the title of an Ashlee Simpson song but it also fits what I feel I am sharing with all of you so, I'm going with it.
I have loved writing for as long as I can remember. I can still clearly recall filling spiral notebook after spiral notebook with "books" (only one of which I ever finished) that I was working on at various points in my life starting at around age 12. I also love writing poetry. In fact, I'm about to share one of my earliest pieces that I recently found during a visit to NY in a "poetry anthology" comprised of the very moving and insightful literary creations of my second grade class. (My mother, fortunately or unfortunately, is a pack rat. Gee, maybe that's where I get it from?) Are you ready? Here goes, with its original capitalization and punctuation.
"I Wonder If"
I wonder if
The moon would be
A place my cat
Would like to see.
Would there be
Moon mice to chase
Way up there
In outer space?
(Hopefully my skills have progressed slightly in the past 32 years but not half bad for a seven year old, right? Please note that I did not, in fact, get my first cat until five or six years later.)
Here's another one, this one written in 1996, the year after I graduated from college. (And yes, there is probably a reason why I'm choosing to share these particular poems at this particular point in time but I genuinely can't fathom what it might possibly be.)
"working girl" (I was going through an e.e. cummings phase so forgive the lack of capitalization.)
an unmatched beauty
quick-witted
and eager to please
walks down sunset.
the thoroughbred gait,
cheshire cat smile
and gleam in her eye
try to protect her soul.
she is quite particular
though less so than before
as she scopes out
her next partner.
soon the dance
will begin again
and if she can
she will lead.
at some point
she will go home
to the place
where she lives.
there she will find
her only refuge
from the place
where she dies.
(That was cheery, no?)
I think it will be a good thing to intersperse my poetry with my "slice of life" tales as it is a different type of reflection of my life, my interests, my fears and my joys and offers additional insight into who I am. More and more lately, I'm realizing that I AM a writer. It might not ever be my profession but it is my passion and one, with which, I am all too happy to be getting reacquainted.
I have loved writing for as long as I can remember. I can still clearly recall filling spiral notebook after spiral notebook with "books" (only one of which I ever finished) that I was working on at various points in my life starting at around age 12. I also love writing poetry. In fact, I'm about to share one of my earliest pieces that I recently found during a visit to NY in a "poetry anthology" comprised of the very moving and insightful literary creations of my second grade class. (My mother, fortunately or unfortunately, is a pack rat. Gee, maybe that's where I get it from?) Are you ready? Here goes, with its original capitalization and punctuation.
"I Wonder If"
I wonder if
The moon would be
A place my cat
Would like to see.
Would there be
Moon mice to chase
Way up there
In outer space?
(Hopefully my skills have progressed slightly in the past 32 years but not half bad for a seven year old, right? Please note that I did not, in fact, get my first cat until five or six years later.)
Here's another one, this one written in 1996, the year after I graduated from college. (And yes, there is probably a reason why I'm choosing to share these particular poems at this particular point in time but I genuinely can't fathom what it might possibly be.)
"working girl" (I was going through an e.e. cummings phase so forgive the lack of capitalization.)
an unmatched beauty
quick-witted
and eager to please
walks down sunset.
the thoroughbred gait,
cheshire cat smile
and gleam in her eye
try to protect her soul.
she is quite particular
though less so than before
as she scopes out
her next partner.
soon the dance
will begin again
and if she can
she will lead.
at some point
she will go home
to the place
where she lives.
there she will find
her only refuge
from the place
where she dies.
(That was cheery, no?)
I think it will be a good thing to intersperse my poetry with my "slice of life" tales as it is a different type of reflection of my life, my interests, my fears and my joys and offers additional insight into who I am. More and more lately, I'm realizing that I AM a writer. It might not ever be my profession but it is my passion and one, with which, I am all too happy to be getting reacquainted.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Teeth Bite
Today is a day chock full of "unfun" things to do but I've got a better grip on things than I expected to. My day began accompanying my husband to a long overdue dental appointment. I'm not one to talk, really, not having been to a dentist myself in about a decade, for many reasons, not the least of which is money (a lack thereof) and insurance (spotty, at best). But the dentist opens up an entirely unique Pandora's Box of misery for Brian. You see, Brian would be the first to admit, he has very bad teeth. It is something that makes life challenging for him and, to a far lesser extent, for me as I very rarely get to see my husband smile. This is not something I have ever discussed publicly and I wouldn't be doing so now without his explicit consent but my husband is a recovering drug addict. His past with drugs has never been a part of our life together. He was addicted to crystal meth but detoxed himself and quit cold turkey about three years before we met. In our twelve years together, I can count on one hand the number of times we've discussed this. That was due, primarily, to the fucked up way I was raised, to believe that matters such as this were NOT to be brought up, and to my fear that it would bring up bad memories for Brian. However, I discussed it with him yesterday, got some brand new insight into his experiences, and realized, once again, how much it truly pains him that his addiction led to what he openly refers to as his "fucked up teeth." He had to have three pulled today and is already missing quite a few others. Ideally, he would love to get them fixed, he has always wanted that, but it is absolutely not financially possible for us right now.
I am SO proud of my husband. He faced his fear today, on many levels. His last dental experience was pure hell, not only physically painful but, on a much deeper level, emotionally painful, as the "professional" staff and dentist made him feel utterly horrid about the state of his teeth. I wish I had realized this at the time so I could have drop-kicked the fuckers but alas, that's neither here nor there now. But today, my husband, the trouper, went into that office, expecting to have one tooth pulled and subsequently lost three. This time, he was treated with kindness, respect and compassion as he should have been the last time. He is in a lot of pain, again, both physical and emotional, but in a strange sick way, for the first time, I can look at his teeth as battle scars, symbols of a war that he fought, and won, with his addiction. Would I love for my husband to have a beautiful, healthy smile that he could show to the world with pride? Absolutely! Do I love him any less because he doesn't? What do you think? Once again, I am filled with awe and utter respect for anyone who has fought a battle with drugs and/or alcohol and won. Each and every day that passes where one doesn't use is a victory, one that should never be taken lightly. I never will, not ever again.
I am SO proud of my husband. He faced his fear today, on many levels. His last dental experience was pure hell, not only physically painful but, on a much deeper level, emotionally painful, as the "professional" staff and dentist made him feel utterly horrid about the state of his teeth. I wish I had realized this at the time so I could have drop-kicked the fuckers but alas, that's neither here nor there now. But today, my husband, the trouper, went into that office, expecting to have one tooth pulled and subsequently lost three. This time, he was treated with kindness, respect and compassion as he should have been the last time. He is in a lot of pain, again, both physical and emotional, but in a strange sick way, for the first time, I can look at his teeth as battle scars, symbols of a war that he fought, and won, with his addiction. Would I love for my husband to have a beautiful, healthy smile that he could show to the world with pride? Absolutely! Do I love him any less because he doesn't? What do you think? Once again, I am filled with awe and utter respect for anyone who has fought a battle with drugs and/or alcohol and won. Each and every day that passes where one doesn't use is a victory, one that should never be taken lightly. I never will, not ever again.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
We the People
I'm going to do something a bit unusual and preface this post with a brief statement. I realize that politics are, and have always been, a very polarizing issue in this country. Though I am happy to discuss my personal political beliefs if asked, I don't generally bring them up in certain situations where I don't feel the time or setting is appropriate (say a wedding or a funeral). This post is not being written to encite a debate but merely as a way for me to share a bit about my voting history and experiences in the political process. As a result, you may or may not agree with the votes I've cast and that's fine. There is a time and place for debating but this is not it, k? Thanks! Now, on with the post.
As an American, an American woman, no less (and I mean that in every way), it has been my honor and privilege to vote in every major election since I became a legally registered voter in 1991 at age eighteen. I had grown up in a right-leaning home (lord, help me) and, as a result, registered as an independent because that was as brave as I felt I could be at the time, in spite of my left-leaning political bent from the time I really started to understand, as much as a white, middle class, Long Island teen can, the political process and voting as a whole. Clearly, I didn't understand enough because I was crestfallen to discover at the time of my first "legal to vote" presidential primary that I could NOT take part, having not chosen a major party affiliation. Utterly devastated, I made sure to correct that mistake as quickly as possible, albeit too late to cast that crucial first primary vote (which, I'll admit with a cheeky grin, would have been for California Governor Jerry Brown).
Casting my first presidential vote in 1992 was a BIG moment for me. It didn't accomplish as much as I would have hoped within my family but it did serve to cancel out my parents' votes that year. Actually, we all cancelled each other out, my mother voting for (it pains me to say) Bush Sr. and my father, bless his heart, was quite enamored with another wealthy Texan. Still, that was the first time I felt like a major player in the political process. I was SO proud to cast my vote for the soon-to- be-elected Senator William Jefferson Clinton and subsequently, each and every Democrat to run for president (and many other offices) ever since.
I feel it is not only my right but my DUTY to vote, one I do not undervalue, even when elements of the political process, as they often do, leave me cold. Like many others, I do not feel TIED to party lines, though it just so happens that my li'l liberal self does generally choose to vote along them. The mud slinging, often on both sides, is quite disheartening. But I will always, ALWAYS, play my small part come election day, even when I feel like my one quiet voice might not truly influence the outcome (aside from maybe canceling out someone else's vote which, in actuality, is no small feat). Though there are things I do NOT love about the United States, knowing that I have the right to feel that way and express it on election day is one of the things I, in fact, most love about it. Attending my very first political rally, standing mere feet away from our soon-to-be vice president in 2008, was definitely one of the most exciting political days in my life. Watching our first lady's rousing speech last night at the Democratic National Convention was another. Though your politics may not be mine, I felt stirred to write this post to reveal some insight into what the process, and voting, means to me. It is a beautiful thing to know that every single eligible voter in this country gets to play his or her part in this amazing process. I cannot wait to play mine.
As an American, an American woman, no less (and I mean that in every way), it has been my honor and privilege to vote in every major election since I became a legally registered voter in 1991 at age eighteen. I had grown up in a right-leaning home (lord, help me) and, as a result, registered as an independent because that was as brave as I felt I could be at the time, in spite of my left-leaning political bent from the time I really started to understand, as much as a white, middle class, Long Island teen can, the political process and voting as a whole. Clearly, I didn't understand enough because I was crestfallen to discover at the time of my first "legal to vote" presidential primary that I could NOT take part, having not chosen a major party affiliation. Utterly devastated, I made sure to correct that mistake as quickly as possible, albeit too late to cast that crucial first primary vote (which, I'll admit with a cheeky grin, would have been for California Governor Jerry Brown).
Casting my first presidential vote in 1992 was a BIG moment for me. It didn't accomplish as much as I would have hoped within my family but it did serve to cancel out my parents' votes that year. Actually, we all cancelled each other out, my mother voting for (it pains me to say) Bush Sr. and my father, bless his heart, was quite enamored with another wealthy Texan. Still, that was the first time I felt like a major player in the political process. I was SO proud to cast my vote for the soon-to- be-elected Senator William Jefferson Clinton and subsequently, each and every Democrat to run for president (and many other offices) ever since.
I feel it is not only my right but my DUTY to vote, one I do not undervalue, even when elements of the political process, as they often do, leave me cold. Like many others, I do not feel TIED to party lines, though it just so happens that my li'l liberal self does generally choose to vote along them. The mud slinging, often on both sides, is quite disheartening. But I will always, ALWAYS, play my small part come election day, even when I feel like my one quiet voice might not truly influence the outcome (aside from maybe canceling out someone else's vote which, in actuality, is no small feat). Though there are things I do NOT love about the United States, knowing that I have the right to feel that way and express it on election day is one of the things I, in fact, most love about it. Attending my very first political rally, standing mere feet away from our soon-to-be vice president in 2008, was definitely one of the most exciting political days in my life. Watching our first lady's rousing speech last night at the Democratic National Convention was another. Though your politics may not be mine, I felt stirred to write this post to reveal some insight into what the process, and voting, means to me. It is a beautiful thing to know that every single eligible voter in this country gets to play his or her part in this amazing process. I cannot wait to play mine.
And Now For Something Completely Different
I will never be an actor. I briefly studied acting at around age 15 but had to quit class after improv because I just couldn't memorize lines. However, that doesn't mean I can't have a little fun doing that "James Lipton/Inside the Actor's Studio/super-fun-and-oh-so-illuminating questionnaire thing", right? Hell, this is MY blog. I do what I want! Here goes...
What is your favorite word? bliss
What is your least favorite word? goodbye
What turns you on? kindness
What turns you off? cruelty
What sound or noise do you love? the very distinctive "cat sounds" my two cats make
What sound or noise do you hate? landscaping equipment of any kind
What is your favorite curse word? I love so many. Lately, I'm kind of digging asshat.
What profession would you like to attempt? I would love to actually earn money as a writer. I also think I'd make a helluva psychologist.
What profession would you not like to attempt? grief counselor or ditch digger
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? Everyone is welcome here. Let's go find your dad.
What is your favorite word? bliss
What is your least favorite word? goodbye
What turns you on? kindness
What turns you off? cruelty
What sound or noise do you love? the very distinctive "cat sounds" my two cats make
What sound or noise do you hate? landscaping equipment of any kind
What is your favorite curse word? I love so many. Lately, I'm kind of digging asshat.
What profession would you like to attempt? I would love to actually earn money as a writer. I also think I'd make a helluva psychologist.
What profession would you not like to attempt? grief counselor or ditch digger
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? Everyone is welcome here. Let's go find your dad.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
I Just Can't Stop
So, you may be wondering what's gotten me so hot and bothered about writing, lately. I mean sure, in the past I've written sporadically and given you a glimpse at what's inside me but for the past few days, it's like I have this ferocious passion to strip away my defenses and share what makes me who I am. There is a very specific reason for this, a clearly definable catalyst and that is the brilliant book GUTS - The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster and its remarkable author, Kristen Johnston.
First off, GUTS is one of the most powerful pieces of writing I have ever encountered. It resonates with me on SO many levels and, in many ways, it captures the essence of who I was, who I am and who I wish to become. I don't want to reveal too much about the book because, truly, I believe you should read it and discover its raw beauty for yourself but trust me, you will laugh, you will cry and, quite possibly, you will come away a changed person, as I have.
In short, GUTS captures one woman's journey of self-discovery, addiction, near-death and recovery but it is OH so much more than that. Having never suffered from an addiction to drugs or alcohol (but having a family member who does), it was not that aspect that I could identify with though, as Kristen says, "Everyone is addicted to something." It was not just her depression that I could relate to though, as I've said many times before, it is a battle I have fought my entire life. It is not our shared love of lip balm, true crime, profanity and biting wit that enraptured me, though all of these things certainly helped. No, what I think effected me most is Kristen's brutal honesty and fearlessness. This is a woman who did not have to tell her story, she wanted to, not with any agenda in mind beyond sharing her truth and maybe, just maybe, inspiring others along the way. She has done that and so much more. I feel like, for the first time in my life, I can come out from behind the curtain of shame that has kept me hidden for so long. I can know, deep in my heart, that sharing MY story can only do me good and if, in the process, I can touch someone else's life, all the better. It is my sincere wish that everyone will read this book and take away from it all that I have.
It is my great honor to have this book, and Kristen, in my life. The lessons I have learned, and am still learning, are ones I cherish. I feel like, for the first time in my life, just who I am is good enough. Sure, I want to continue to grow and evolve. My work is only just beginning. But having this book as a tool and this remarkable friend in my life, wow. It's one hell of a start.
First off, GUTS is one of the most powerful pieces of writing I have ever encountered. It resonates with me on SO many levels and, in many ways, it captures the essence of who I was, who I am and who I wish to become. I don't want to reveal too much about the book because, truly, I believe you should read it and discover its raw beauty for yourself but trust me, you will laugh, you will cry and, quite possibly, you will come away a changed person, as I have.
In short, GUTS captures one woman's journey of self-discovery, addiction, near-death and recovery but it is OH so much more than that. Having never suffered from an addiction to drugs or alcohol (but having a family member who does), it was not that aspect that I could identify with though, as Kristen says, "Everyone is addicted to something." It was not just her depression that I could relate to though, as I've said many times before, it is a battle I have fought my entire life. It is not our shared love of lip balm, true crime, profanity and biting wit that enraptured me, though all of these things certainly helped. No, what I think effected me most is Kristen's brutal honesty and fearlessness. This is a woman who did not have to tell her story, she wanted to, not with any agenda in mind beyond sharing her truth and maybe, just maybe, inspiring others along the way. She has done that and so much more. I feel like, for the first time in my life, I can come out from behind the curtain of shame that has kept me hidden for so long. I can know, deep in my heart, that sharing MY story can only do me good and if, in the process, I can touch someone else's life, all the better. It is my sincere wish that everyone will read this book and take away from it all that I have.
It is my great honor to have this book, and Kristen, in my life. The lessons I have learned, and am still learning, are ones I cherish. I feel like, for the first time in my life, just who I am is good enough. Sure, I want to continue to grow and evolve. My work is only just beginning. But having this book as a tool and this remarkable friend in my life, wow. It's one hell of a start.
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