Wanting to Keep Her On My Chest

**this entry is strictly for me. a sort of cathersis and a step in healing. a need to put into words feelings that are bouncing around in my heart. that is all.**

I'm sure everybody by now knows my cats are pretty much the most exciting thing in my life. And I think everyone knows I had to put my oldest cat, Calley, to sleep last week.

I picked Calley out from a litter of kittens at my girlfriend's house the day she was born. The other cats were crawling over each other, mewing, and then there was Calley. She had a look on her face like she had just finished a hard night of partying and all she wanted was peace and quiet and would you other fuckers just SHUT. UP. She looked like MY cat.

I took Calley home with me the night I moved out of my parents' house. It was the day after Christmas, and I was 19. Subtract that from my current age, and Calley and I were together, um, uh, 9 years? No? OK. 17. She was mine for 17 years.

Fast forward through a good cat's life and how she added to my life WAY more than she aggravated me, no matter what I said.

Fast forward through her kidneys failing and UTIs and losing weight and vain attempts to fatten her up.

I worried when she was sick. When the vet called with her bloodwork results and told me her levels were through the roof and any treatment would be a longshot, I worried. I worried most about what was the best thing for my cat. Not what I wanted, not what the vet wanted, what Calley deserved. I always thought it would be about the money, but it wasn't. I didn't blink an eye at all the tests they ran to find out what was wrong with her. Once they knew, I didn't want to put her through the treatments because they, in and of themselves, would be a big stressor for her. And if it's a longshot for a maybe, why make her miserable for sure?

The vet couldn't tell me how long she'd last with or without treatment. It could be weeks, months, a year or two. We clashed over my choices, but I stuck to my guns and told her I wanted whatever time was left, to be the easiest on Calley.

The vet did tell me that Calley wouldn't be in pain from the kidney failure, but not to let her die naturally from it. Then I worried again. How would I know when it was time? How was I going to be when I was faced with that decision? Everybody kept saying I'd know, I'd know. Yeah. Me and my infinite lack of whatever commonsense most other people have. Me and my utter lack of intuition. Me and my weak emotions. Crap.

Calley had bad days, but she had good days, too. She started letting me do things like kiss her on the head, where she would have convulsed and struggled to get away from them before. She loved to be held and pet and brushed and cuddled since she was a kitten, but God forbid you try to kiss her. You might as well have The Plague.

She started laying on my chest with her FACE facing my face, and not her ASS, for a change, and I would pet her softer and longer and talk to her. Instead of yelling at her for being in the way of the TV, I just moved the chair and cocked my head to the side.

But she also started doing other things. She stopped sleeping in the bedroom. She spent all of her time in the living room. She started sleeping in a cardboard box left over from an order that had been sitting on the couch and I was too lazy to do anything with. I looked at the cardboard box I had set up specifically for them to sleep in on the other side of the living room, that neither had gone inside of in the months it had been sitting there and thought of the irony.

And just days after I made the conscious decision to throw that box away, she started sleeping in it.

And sleeping.

And sleeping.

If I was sitting on the recliner, she'd run out of the box on her little legs across the living room and jump on the chair and lay with me, on my chest. When I got up, she'd run her little legs right back to the box.

Then, over the weekend, I noticed she wasn't doing much of that. She, at one point, tried jumping on the chair, but she missed.

She never tried again.

I hoped she was just having a couple of bad days and gave her space, brought food to her, and put the litter box close to her. When she finally came out of the box, she wobbled back and forth. She walked to the kitchen and on the linoleum floor, her legs slowly slid out from under her. I picked her up and it was like she lost half of her already low weight in the past 2 days. I was upset, but there was also a calm over me.

It was time.

And I knew it.

The next morning, I made a call and raced home when they told me the vet wanted to come THEN. I wanted to spend just a little more time with her. I wanted hours and hours, but it felt like minutes before I heard the knock on the door.

The vet was probably one of the most compassionate, patient, and kind people I've ever met. And I needed it. She needed it. She deserved it.

Fast forward through all the unpleasantness, which the vet made as un-unpleasant as one could imagine. He told me she was gone, and without me realizing it, so was he. It was just me and Calley.

I made the decision to have Calley put down at home for several reasons, and I'm so happy I did. I didn't have to put her through the stress of a car ride. I didn't have to put her through the coldness of a examination room. I wanted it to be comfortable for her. I wanted to try to give her in death all the love she gave me in life.

My brother offered to be with me when I had it done, and I had fully planned on taking him up on the offer, thinking I wouldn't be strong enough. But with all the rush, I didn't even think about it. And I'm glad I didn't.

After the vet left, I had her all to myself. I sat in the recliner, with her on my chest and just stroked her fur and told her I loved her. I have no idea how long I sat there, I just remember feeling more peace for her than sadness for me. And I remember it feeling like one of the most intimate moments of my life. As much as I love my brother, he would have ruined that.

When I was done and knew she was really gone, I wrapped her in the shirt I had been wearing that morning and put her in the box I had for her. She always loved to lay on my clothes (don't most cats), and I wanted her to have something of me with her forever. I kept the little piece of fur the vet shaved off from her.

I took Calley to my brother's house, and he buried her in their yard under a tree. It was the ideal solution to the second intial panic I had, of what to do with her when she was gone. She had a real resting place, and she was with family.

I thought it would upset me, that I would cry uncontrollably when I realized it was really over. But when my brother was done, I looked down from the deck and saw where she is buried, and a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. She was finally finished with her journey, and I had been with her through the whole thing. Or rather, she had been with me, for surely I gained more from our partnership than she did.

I miss her something fierce, and wonder if I gave her all the love I could have. If she knew how much I loved having her for a pet. If she knew part of the reason I don't want any more cats is because I know they won't be as easy as her. And I caught myself waking up the other night when Sebastian, my younger cat, jumped on me in bed, thinking in my half-wake state it was Calley, finally coming to sleep again on her favorite spot.

But it wasn't.

I don't have some fancy or tidy way to sum this up, other than to say I had one hell of a pet and if I could change any of my time with her, it would be to hold her just a little longer and break out that brush she loved so much a little more often. God, I could brush whole other cats off that girl! So that's it.

Goodbye, Calley. I love you.

Oh, Yeah, Sure I Will

I've been really stressed about a lot of things lately. I discussed it with my doctor and told him while I do have Xanax, if I use it every time I get stressed, I'll be hooked in a week. So he gave me some other daily medication. He said, "This should help with that. Just be careful and let me know if your mood gets too elevated. We can adjust that."

Let me get this straight: I've been miserable lately and you're telling me I might get really happy taking this stuff, but I need to tell you if that happens so you can stop it.

Oh, yeah, sure I will.

Nice to know he's spending my office visit dough on smoking crack.

OK. So I Suck

I said I was going to try to keep this more up-to-date, and I haven't. I also said I'm going to start working on my weight loss blog, Weighing In, more, and I haven't done that either. Poop-oop-ee-doop.

What to talk about, what to talk about... Not much. I'm finding myself wishing I had a man for the simple practical reason I want a pantry for my kitchen, and whether I buy one new or buy one used, I can't lift and move it myself. It looks like my option will be: have the guys at Home Depot load the carton into my car. Drive said car back to apartment. Back into parking spot. Make 50,000 trips up and down the steps, taking one piece at a time. Yeeeaaaah. You can see why I'm SO looking forward to this. But I WILL do it. I just have to summon the desire.

I had a doctor's appt today. I have another tomorrow (different doc). I think we're falling into the 'doc appt every week' trap again.

My feet have been swelling for the past couple of months (don't be a mother and give me shit for not going sooner) and I finally paid the bill for all of the visits from LAST year, so I made the appt. Woke up this morning, and guess what. My feet weren't swollen. 2 months they're swollen just about every day during the week (mysteriously, they're not bad on the weekends), and the day I have my appt, they're fucking FINE. It was like all the fluid in my feet crept into my bladder and I peed it out from all the excitement of going to see Dr. Hottie McHottie Hot. Grrr... he told me he believed me, but still...

Ah, and it gets better. Now that I'm back at the office, they're starting to swell.

I fucking hate my body sometimes.

Rock On With Your Bad Self

I went to the M3 Festival with my girlfriend today. It was all 80's hair bands. All day. It was friggin awesome. Except for the fact I left my phone in the car so I couldn't call my friends and let THEM hear how awesome it was.

I don't know what I enjoyed more - being taken back in time, or seeing how the band's changed, like I have. Most of them couldn't scream like they could back in the day, but that's okay, because I can't not bitch about having to sit on a blanket soaked through from the wet ground courtesy of yesterday's downpour. Especially once the sun goes down and it gets friggin cold.

Yes, I am ashamed to admit I begged out of the headlining act (Twisted Sister) because I was tired from sitting in wet shorts and wet panties (not the good kind, either) for 8 hours. My, how the mighty have fallen. (And, of course, on the way home, I'm listening to the radio station who sponsored the event and hear them go on and on about how Dee Snider is one of the greatest frontmen ever. DAMN YOU MOTHER NATURE!!)

And I've also discovered I'm not as thorough with the spray/no rub sunscreen, either. Yes, I have Retard Burns.

Oh, and I suck with the 'rock on' hands. I never can remember what I'm supposed to do. I put my hands up open palmed, then realize waving at the band like you're in school is not cool. Then I make a fist and think I'm not angry, so THAT'S not right. So I stick out my index finger, and even though the band might be my number one at the moment, it's not what I have in mind. Then I let go of my pinky and thumb and shake that for a while before I remember that's "hanging ten", and we're not at the beach, so duh. By the time I get the 'rock on' hands going, the moment's passed and I look like a major league baseball catcher signaling the pitcher.

All in all, most excellent time. I was quite entertained - both by bands and the usual nutjobs on the lawn. They're always a treat.

But the biggest smile of the evening? When my girlfriend complained about her ears hurting and asked how mine felt. I remembered a shirt I saw earlier in the day that said, "If it's too loud, you're too old", and I told her they were just fine.

What Would You Do Without Me?

I went to dinner and then shopping with a girlfriend tonight.

When I dropped her off at her apartment, I waited with the headlights on until she got inside. Another girlfriend does the same for me when she drops me off.

Then it dawned on me - what the hell do we do that for? I have to walk from my car to the apartment at least once a day, every day, sometimes quite late into the evening, and I'm fine. Why think disaster only strikes when someone's there to prevent it?

I remember living with the same girlfriend who drops me off. On the nights she would spend away, I would be in a panic, having the house to myself and all sorts of demons and burglars and rapists and just plain mean, evil people having total access to me - no safety net.

Then it hit me - what the hell would she do if something happened and she were home? Surely nothing I couldn't do myself. Sure, she was in the military and no doubt trained in combat, but I was a bad ass, too. Wasn't I?

In any case, I slept a little better that night, knowing that when someone evil comes calling, we'd both be useless. Kind of felt comforting, in a way.

Beast of Burden

I just did something I knew I shouldn't have done. I knew it, I knew it , I knew it. All it does is get me upset. I know this. I know it, I know it, I know it. And yet I did it anyway.

I told myself it was no big deal, that enough time had passed, I was just curious, and it wouldn't affect me.

Well, just like every other time I've done it, it did. Hairs on the back of my neck stood up, my stomach felt hollow, and I started burping like I do whenever I'm upset. My face was hot, and I was misting up. Not crying, just lubricating my eyeballs. Everything felt like yesterday and it hurt. Seven years of 'getting over it' didn't help. Seven years of ' I'm better off' didn't help. Seven years of 'I'm happy it didn't work out,' and still, when I'm confronted with it, I want to get on my knees and beg him to change his mind, beg him to stay, tell him I'm worth it. Anything he wants me to say, anything he wants me to do, just please stay. Please don't leave me. Please.

I tell myself it's over. I'm better off. I'm happy it didn't work out. I like my life now, even being single. I wasn't really "me" when I was with him. I was some polished up version of what I thought I should be, what I thought he wanted. I'm true to myself now, rusting spots and all. I don't think about what he would and wouldn't have accepted from me. And yet seeing or thinking about certain events in the relationship leave me this mucky mess of emotions. It leaves me like the type of person I want to smack across the face and say, "Buck up! It's over. You're too good for him anyway," when I encounter them acting like that. Fewer times in my life have I ever felt more emotionally stupid than I do when I think about him.

Granted, the time it takes me to get from feeling totally inept as a person to feeling 'normal' becomes less and less each time I sabotage myself like this, but the start of it, that rush of panic and grief, slams into me just as hard as it did any time before. It never ceases to amaze me in my forgetfulness of that fact.

I wish there was some way, ala Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, where you could have memories erased. Just take some comet and a brillo pad and scrub that shit right off your life. That "even though it's over and as bad as it hurts, it was worth it" crap? Yeah, fuck. that. I wish it never happened. It's not worth it. He's not worth it. This bitterness I'm left with has destroyed any trace of something that may once have been sweet. This bitterness sucks.

Even now as I'm coming to the end of this entry, I feel better. I am over it. I am better off. I am happy it didn't work out. And I know this.

I know it, I know it, I know it.