Goodbye to a family member

Please note: This was written a couple of days ago. My uncle's body lost the fight yesterday morning, on my one year wedding anniversary. Some of the information here has been changed for the purposes of privacy, so events may vary slightly from reality.

J's ankle was really bothering him. It hurt quite a bit, and wasn't getting any better. He got the brush-off from doctors who said the x-ray was fine, so there's nothing to worry about.

My aunt (J's sister) and her husband had a feeling that it was something fairly serious, and they suggested that the doctors test for infection--specifically a staph infection, because that was what his symptoms pointed to. My uncle's doctor did a CT scan on the ankle, and declared that there was nothing wrong. My uncle grew progressively worse, and started to have some back pain as well.

As you may know, you don't diagnose a staph infection with a CT scan. The usual method is to sample blood or fluid from the suspected site or do a nasal swab and run a culture--which can take 2 to 3 days to give results. I'm not exactly sure how they finally manged to talk the doctor into doing the test, but he finally did. The results revealed that my uncle was infected with MRSA, Methicillin Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus.

MRSA is living proof of the existence of evolution. It is a strain of bacteria that has evolved to become resistant to many antibiotics, making it very difficult to treat, especially in already-compromised individuals. It kills more people in the US per year than AIDS, and it is a lot easier to transmit than AIDS. It is a very nasty microbe.

A few months ago, my uncle was hospitalized and very ill because he has liver disease. He was not expected to survive, but he rather miraculously pulled through and was able to go home. It was predicted that, as long as he never took another drink, and didn't take drugs (legal or not) that were damaging to the liver, he could expect to live a fairly normal lifespan. He had just enough liver function remaining to survive and eventually get well again.

The problem is, most of the antibiotics used for MRSA are also pretty harsh on the liver and other organs. Not only does the liver get damaged and possibly shut down, but the lack of liver function leads to shutdown of other organs, especially the kidneys. My uncle's kidneys began to fail; he retained a great deal of fluid (over 50 pounds of it), and metabolic wastes were building up in his system. When my mother called to tell me this, my first question was, "Why aren't they doing dialysis?" She didn't have an answer for me, except to call later and tell me that they decided to try it.

Now, the whole time he's been in the hospital, my family--grandma, aunts, etc.--has had to pretty much be there in the room non-stop. Not just because they wanted to be there for J, but because the staff kept doing idiotic things like giving him the wrong medications, refusing to do proper wound care (they passed the buck to about four different departments before the radiology department finally did it because they were exasperated at his dire situation and lack of care), and a lot of other little things. There were several instances where my grandmother had to interrupt a nurse who was beginning to administer a medication and ask her what it was, and who prescribed it, and the nurse looking at the chart to see that she was not giving him the right thing.

J had been struggling pretty hard, but Sunday afternoon, the doctor decided that he isn't responding to treatment, and so they are switching over to palliative care only. Color me cynical, but I wonder if he would have had a better shot at survival if they'd started dialysis sooner instead of waiting until the last possible minute.

His fight has reminded me all the more painfully that we must be vigilant and well-educated in regard to our health status, and that we need to have the courage to strongly advocate for ourselves and our loved ones, even when medical staff don't want to hear disagreement. Dr. Ego may feel a little bruising to his pride when we do so, but his mistakes and pigheadedness affect OUR bodies, to the point of possibly maiming or killing us. If you are not getting anywhere with a medical problem because a doctor is brushing you off, talk to another doctor. If that one won't listen, get educated about your possibilities, and then make them test you for what you believe is the most likely problem. Know what those tests are, and be specific--MRSA is not detected by a CT scan, and brain tumors are not found in pap smears. YOU live in your body, and YOU know better than anyone else what you are experiencing. Don't let someone belittle your experiences and blow you off. It could save your life.

My sweet love

I have been very busy of late. Last week was spent preparing for a surprise birthday party for the love of my life. It went perfectly, and he was quite happy. I wanted to talk about how much I love him, because I don't say it enough.

Brian works from 10am til 2am with a two hour break inbetween.

When he comes home, I like to watch him sleep, because he is so beautiful, and I like to look at him. I don't see him very much anymore, so every moment I get to be in his presence is precious to me. I don't want to sleep through those moments. I kept him up a bit late last night, first by having him help me clean Graycie's ears, then by making love to him, so I let him get to sleep right away tonight (he took a few minutes before going to bed to say hi to Graycie. She loves him).

I love to see him sleeping, so peaceful and lovely. His face is just so endearing to me, and I love cuddling up to him, sliding my hands over his smooth skin, feeling his muscles, stroking the little patches of body hair. I especially love the patch right below his navel; his body hair is very fine and smooth. He also has a patch right on his sacrum that I enjoy petting. Of course, I also play with his long, lovely head of hair, stroking it back from his face and clutching a lock of it while I press myself against him.

He's so warm and smooth and soft, and he smells so good. He doesn't understand that part; he isn't very big on smells, but his natural scent is intoxicating to me. I've never been able to date someone who didn't "smell" right to me, even if they were perfect in every other way. I also love to nuzzle my cats, enjoying their individual scents. Aakhu smells like a dry, dust summer breeze. Dom smells kind of like a fresh bandaid out of the package. Ptera, oddly enough, has a sweet vanilla odor--one that even Brian was able to detect.

Nuzzling Brian's back, neck, shoulders, chest...the scent of him just makes me want to eat him up. I have to restrain myself from nibbling on him when he needs to sleep; I want my sweetie to be rested enough to work safely, although I do want him to know how much I love him, and how much he turns me on.

And his sweet sleeping face, so guileless and relaxed. I adore his face, the strong nose, his full, well-defined lips, the high cheekbones, the naturally arched eyebrows, and, most of all, the beautiful smile. The smile is the first thing I noticed about him, so sweet, charming, and friendly. It reflects his kind, gentle heart. If I kiss his cheek, forehead, or, best of all, that little birthmark on his temple, he smiles in his sleep. That gives me a little thrill, a shiver that feels like it's deep in my body.

And then, there is his tendency to be surrounded by the feline family. His sleeping form is a cat magnet. They love him so very much; they see him as I do, as a gentle, tender soul who can be trusted not to cause harm. At the moment, little Ianto, just a troubled child of a cat, is pressed against Brian's hip, sprawled on his back, with a paw covering the face. Morgan is in her usual spot, tucked into the bend of his knees. Earlier, Dom was on Brian's pillow, a plush, purring hat, and sweet little Anya was snuggled against Brian's back. Ptera, at least, prefers me, and is frequently curled up in my arms, or under my blanket, pressed to my side. If she were here right now, she'd be in my lap, between me and the keyboard.

We all love him so much. His gentle touches, his harmonious voice, his snuggly body. He is so willing to cuddle and be cuddled. He is so unwilling to cause harm, purposely or inadvertently. He is always eager to use his hands to soothe aching muscles, give loving caresses, provide food and water and shelter to all of us. He is the most generous man I have ever known--generous with his material possessions, his body, his strength, and his feelings. I am the most fortunate person in the world to have chanced upon him; I could not ask for more, except to wish I'd met him sooner.

Too little time

I grew up with an aunt who was only a couple of years older than I. We played together when we were young, but had different interests as teens. As we entered our twenties, I didn't spend a lot of time with her, but always admired her for having the emotional fortitude to work at the local humane society, a kill shelter that euthanized a large number of animals.

There was a day when I had kittens to vaccinate for distemper. The vet showed me how to do it, and gave me the pre-filled syringes. When it came to it, I had a hard time, so I boxed up the kittens and went to my aunt's house, where she did it for me. She told me that the vet had provided needles that were too large to easily and (for the kittens) comfortably give the shots, and that they were probably used to draw the shots, so were already dulled by at least two sticks. She quickly and skillfully injected them, and gave them some cuddles before sending me on my way.

The shelter valued her so much that, when their mascot, a sweet, adorable dog named Shannon, was retiring, she went to live with my aunt. Loving and working with animals has been the one main thing that we have in common, but I didn't spend nearly enough time talking to her about it.

And now, she has been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor.

I've been trying to make up for lost time by sending her letters. I know that this is a difficult time for her; she is having chemotherapy and radiation to extend her time and give her greater function for what is left. So I write often, telling her about my foster kittens, my own cats, funny, happy stories to hopefully provide a few moments of distraction. I also express my admiration for her work with animals, something I should have done long ago. I don't expect replies; I would rather she use her time to be with her husband, and do the things she really wants to do, and have my letters just be something good and fun that arrive once or twice a week. I hope she looks forward to them, at least.

Whom have you written to lately that really needs to hear what you have to say? Do it while times are good, and you can enjoy each other fully.

Thank you

Thank you to everyone who expressed their sympathy on the loss of our kitty. We aren't doing great; there's a huge cat-shaped hole in our hearts, and our family has to continue without her, no matter how much it hurts. It's difficult to face, and it's painful to even think of her in the past tense, let alone speak of her in that way.

She was really cool. When Dom would harass Morgan, usually-sedentary Teya would go over and kick his butt. When she was younger, she learned how to flush the toilet, and would stand on the sink, paw holding the lever down, so she could watch the water swirl around. Brian thought something was wrong with his toilet, because he kept hearing it flush, and caught her in the act one day.

She was absolutely devoted to Brian; it took her a long time to warm up to me when I moved in, because she wasn't a fan of non-Brian people. But I spoiled her with lots of grooming, and she eventually decided that I was tolerable. I brushed and combed her, because she had difficulty grooming herself, and I occasionally bathed her, which she grew to enjoy because the warm water felt good, and being clean felt good too. One pass with the brush or comb, and I had instant purr.

She also loved ear rubs, and the last day she was with us, she didn't want to purr until I gently rubbed her ears. I'm glad I knew her ways well enough to bring her that little comfort. She got plenty of hugs and kisses before she left us.

I suppose time will make it less painful, but I don't want memories to fade. I want to keep her here, in my mind and heart.

Again, thank you all for your kindness.

Rituals of loss

She's gone, on the couch, covered in a cream-colored towel. My favorite towel, soft and thick. Our kitty, his kitty first; our beautiful black cat named Teya, who was only nine years young. Too soon.

Brian's outside, digging her resting place, a spot against the house, by the kitchen; she'll be as close to us as possible.

I awoke around 3:15am, after having slept several hours. I had encouraged Brian to spend the night on the couch with her. She had looked not too bad when we brought her home; a little shaky, but perked up, and she was willing to eat.

I'm moving around the house, searching for the right container. A cardboard box will not do. I find a piece of upholstery fabric from the couch, her favorite place to hang out, and I tuck it under my arm, along with some black felt.

He's running hot water to melt the ground. The stump from a catalpa sapling is in the middle of where he's digging, and it's being stubborn. We'd had to cut it down; it was not thriving, and ants were making it worse. It's too bad; I love catalpa trees.

I came downstairs after waking up and asked how she was. Brian said she'd moaned a lot throughout the night. I sat at my desk so I could drink some water and take a Vicodin. I wish she could have had something like it; I knew she was in pain.

I glide down to the basement, my long skirt swirling around my bare feet. I'd been looking for a certain box, but my eyes settled on another one--a better one. A wicker box that I've had for nine years, with a brass clasp. It's big enough that she won't be cramped, but not too big. The box goes upstairs with me.

He's digging away at the stump. I go outside to check on him, and we come up with the idea to use the kitchen sprayer to get hot water onto the frozen ground instead of trekking buckets in and out. He helps me pop out the screen, and we give that a try. It works.

I sat with her, and I tried gently to give her the medicine, but she's not having it. There was something about the way she's clenching her jaw that just seemed wrong. She'd been sleeping, and I had awakened her. We stroked her and held her feet, her head, her ears. I cried, while Brian just touched her. She started to cry out in deep howls that seem to take every effort, and her breathing was labored, so I called the vet's emergency number. We were instructed to take her to the emergency clinic in Latham, so I gave them a call.

I'm taking time out to sob uncontrollably. We're out of facial tissue, so I'm having to use paper towels. Tip: Bounty paper towels are less scratchy than toilet paper.

He's still digging. It's cold and sleeting a bit. It's 5:30 in the morning.

I threw on some clothing; a favorite skirt, and a sweater over my chemise. I brought him a shirt when I came down. He got his shoes on, and he was getting some things together. I looked at her, and I called him into the room. I told him to turn on the light, which he did. I told him to sit down on the other side of her. He looked at me, and sat down. Her breath was coming in gasps, and she'd stopped crying out. I took hold of her paw, her beautiful front paw, with the wrist shaved from her IV the night before.

I line the wicker basket with wax paper, then with the black felt. I tuck a red towel in, then scoop her up and gently settle her into the basket. It's tearing me to shreds. I fold the ends of the towel over her, then close the lid without latching it.

He's nearly done. He scoops the water out of the hole and pours it downhill a bit. I go outside to check on him, and ask him to come in and see.

We had our hands on her, and we told her we loved her, and that we were sorry, so sorry. I cried and cried. She stopped breathing, and had a couple of convulsions. Her pupils became dilated. We tried to close her eyes, without much success. We stroked her for a while after that, not ready to let go. Never ready.

We open the box, and stroke her fur for the last time, saying goodbye. I'm nearly throwing up with grief. He's so stoic, so strong, and I'm a wreck. I tuck in a packet of food, and he puts a couple pieces of bread in the container. Bread is her favorite thing to steal. I also tuck in a towel anointed with violet oil. The lid closes, and is latched.

We went outside with the box and lowered it into the grave. Brian removed it, wanting to dig just a little deeper. While he shoveled, I went inside to get the bulbs I'd procrastinated about planting. When he was satisfied with the depth, he had to climb in to place the box on the bottom. He refilled the hole slowly, and when he was nearly done, I sprinkled the bulbs over the disrupted soil. He put a layer of soil over them, and I went inside and returned with a partial bag of cypress mulch, which we spread over the ground.

We came inside; I made tea to warm us, and I sent him off to shower. If I was cold, I didn't feel it. If I was hurting physically, I wasn't aware. And I did the only thing I know to soothe my soul: I sat down and began to write. And now, I'm done.

Fun with painting

My parents are going to be visiting from Saturday through Tuesday, so I figured I'd paint the spare bedroom to give them a nice place to stay. Now, before I go into the painting scheme, let me explain this bedroom. When we bought the house, it was painted a bright neon blue with neon lime green trim, and it had Batman decals all over the walls, with a Batman border at the top of one wall, halfway pulled down, and not very well installed.

The border and stickers came off easily, but after two coats of primer, the neon paint still showed a bit. Here's a photo of the original paint job, with Ms. Charlotte, our fluffy foster feline:


Pretty awful, isn't it? What you can't see in the photo is that they stopped painting the walls approximately 2" from the ceiling, so there was a rough top border of white--they didn't even use tape, just stopped painting. Maybe the previous residents were exceptionally short? I don't know--I'm 5'1", and I could reach, so that is probably not the case. Also, in some places, they had tried painting black over the neon green border, but they did not prime or sand it, so it was just a nasty layer of black, streaky brushstrokes with that neon lime showing through quite glaringly.

Now, I'm not a very good painter. I will be absolutely honest about my skills; the pictures you are about to see are not wonderful work, and I haven't yet touched up or fixed any of the mistakes. Also, I managed to spill a crapton of green paint on the carpet; I got a lot of it out with the steam vac, but I need to get some acrylic paint remover next time I go to the home improvement store.

The first thing I did was layer faux Venetian plaster on two of the walls. I used the trowel method, which was really hard on my hands and wrists, but the results were worth it. Also, their "roller method" would be nearly impossible with the thickness of the paint. It's like creamy molasses. I had just enough for two walls, with a small amount saved for touch-ups. I then painted the trim on those walls wine-red, and painted the other two walls red:




The darker brown areas are just not yet dry. It's hard to see the texture in these photos, but it's a really neat effect. I think it was worth the effort.

Next, I did a horrifically sloppy job of painting the trim and accents green:




I have a LOT of touching up to do on it, and I might even paint over the green, but I do like the color scheme. I put up some red curtains, but they weren't really big enough, so they might either be added to or swapped out entirely.

Doing all of that took me three days, and it wiped out my physical resources. I am feeling quite exhausted, and I am only able to type this because I took extra pain medicine. My hands and wrists are very unhappy with all the troweling I did, and paint rollers are really, really hard on my whole body (it's too bad they were the only way to get the red on the way I wanted it).

Mom and dad will be arriving Saturday night or Sunday morning (they're driving to Schenectady, NY from Quincy, IL), so I'll probably be quiet on here during their stay.

A sleep partner is a wonderful thing

Last night, I cuddled close to my lovely husband, enjoying his presence. I love to hear him breathing, hear his heart beating, smell his unique scent, and feel his smooth skin and soft hair under my fingers, lips, and cheeks. I nuzzle his neck, arms, hair, and back while touching his hips, legs, and torso with my fingertips. He is warm, cuddly, and does not pull away from me when I press myself against him. He permits me to touch him anywhere, everywhere, anytime; he is completely open to me all of the time, completely mine all of the time. He does not deny me a kiss or a touch, a hug or a smile. We have sex often, without restrictions or conditions attached, in many ways, with both of us enjoying it, neither submitting joylessly to the other.

I want to comment on the joy of sharing a bed with another human being. Somewhere in our recent history, this became strictly an adult privilege, with children left to face the nights alone. I never understood why our most emotionally vulnerable people are the ones who are abandoned nightly whilst their parents go off to share a bed with one another. Most of these parents are, in fact, unhappy and miserable if they have to spend a night apart from their spouse.

If we look at other cultures, the family tends to sleep together. The modern tendency to separate children from parents and one another is a recent phenomenon that occurs in Western culture. Western parents have been taught that they need to drill independence into their kids from birth, and I truly believe that this has emotionally crippled more of us than we'd like to admit. As for myself, I remember being horrifically lonely when sleeping alone, and when I was a teenager, I probably would have been a happier, more secure person if I could have shared my sleeping space--with the person of my choosing, of course.

If I had grown up in an earlier culture, I would have spent my childhood in a family bed, then married young so I did not have to sleep alone. While there are obvious negatives associated with being a woman in those days, I believe that it is completely unnecessary to sacrifice the good of family closeness. I honestly cannot imagine having grown up in a family bed, and the idea makes me cringe--but I believe that it only makes me cringe because of closeness and touching issues I have that are probably less prevalent in people who grow up with the family bed.

I began dating someone in college who became a very serious significant other, a relationship that lasted about three years. We would often take naps together, and the closeness of that was more gratifying to me than sex would have been. I had never before had the privilege of that type of contact since I was a small child. Curling up with another person for naps is a natural, wonderful activity, and I wish there were a way to not deny young people that joy. I know that most parents fear for their teenagers' chastity, but perhaps permitting the closeness of co-sleeping would make young people feel more emotionally secure and less likely to seek out sex out of a craving for basic human contact.

I don't have the answers here, and these are just my opinions and feelings, the things that result from reflecting upon my happy relationship.

I'm fat and I wear Crocs. Deal with it.

You'd think this guy was just kidding, but he's not.

Apparently, Crocs are responsible for people being fat. This is because, according to some guy who makes his money off of "boot camps for brides before weddings", kids "clop along" in Crocs, or shuffle their feet. It makes me wonder if he's ever 1. seen kids walk, or 2. worn a pair of Crocs. I've seen plenty of kids shuffling as they move; hell, I did it, and I remember it being part of an attitude, not because of the shoes I was wearing. If I wanted to run, though, I bloody well ran until the asthma attack happened (before you ask, I was a THIN child and teen--asthma is a disease of the lungs, not the result of adipose tissue). When I was in high school, I was capable of dashing up or down two flights of stairs in high heels.

Now that I'm older, and I've been stricken with this stupid disease, I can't wear the heels anymore. I'm not doing a lot of running. But, I do wear Crocs. I've worn them on hikes, and I've run short distances in them without trouble. In fact, they're much easier for me to wear for those activities than other shoes, because they are light, ergonomic, and fit me very well. Wearing Crocs has pretty much eliminated all plantar fasciitis pain, enabling me to be more active than I otherwise could be. "Athletic" shoes have caused me nothing but foot pain throughout the years; I've spent a great deal of time and money trying out different brands, and while a couple brands were less painful than the rest, none have given me the freedom from pain that Crocs have.

Perhaps the big name athletic shoe companies are feeling a bite in their profits due to the success of Crocs. How about, instead of planting little fitness fascists (like the weenies in this article) to insinuate that shoes are making kids fat, they develop competitive, comfortable products that serve the needs of the customers they are losing? How about recognizing that people want to spend money on shoes that don't hurt their feet, don't fall apart within three months, and are simple to clean and care for? Sorry, large shoe companies, but I've thrown too much money away on your products, only to have them give me blisters, not provide enough shock absorption to prevent knee and ankle pain, and to be unsalvageable if I stepped in something disgusting. Learn from your losses instead of badmouthing your competitors.

Here's quote from Junkfood Science:

Crocs are certified by the U.S. Ergonomics Council and the American Podiatric Medical Association and they’re designed to help with certain foot and circulation problems. Will anti-obesity initiatives be coming after nurses, elderly, cashiers, gardeners, diabetics, and those with foot problems next?

Also, the article included a quote from some doctor:

"I have seen 9-year-olds with type 2 diabetes," Hassink said. "Obesity is an indicator. It tells us about our environment, about our culture. It is the canary in the mine."

What she's not mentioning is that this is most likely due to the fact that prepubescent kids have a natural and temporary insulin resistance that is associated with hormonal changes and growth. This is normal and natural, allowing them to have the energy stores needed for growth and puberty. Remember, puberty? When girls get curvy? Remember when it was okay for women to look like women instead of prepubescent boys? Anyway, this (again, temporary) period of insulin resistance in growing children (remember, too, they're supposed to do that--get bigger as they get older) can lead to overzealous practitioners to label the kid with type 2 diabetes. This would be due to the fact that, in the past, no one really bothered checking for it, so kids sailed through that period of development without anyone knowing a thing.

Now, of course, they put on some fat layers as part of puberty, and everyone PANICS! because OMG ADIPOSE TISSUE OMG OMG! So we had to start testing them to prove that it's a bad thing--and of course, a healthy 9 year old kid is just the right age to start testing as insulin-resistant. Instead of waiting it out to see if it's normal puberty changes, we now have to medicate the hell out of the kid, put them on a treadmill, and enforce a 200 calorie per day diet so they don't become socially unacceptable. Because it's healthy, you know.

I'm so old that I remember when kids were allowed to do kid things, without having a mortal fear of food being programmed into them. We got to play, and physical activity was allowed to be fun. Our day wasn't scheduled from dawn to dusk, leaving plenty of room for creative activity. Reading a book was regarded as an acceptable activity instead of a fattening one. We played outside in the worst possible shoes (thongs, aka flip flops!), or even in BARE FEET. Mom gave us cookies, and we thought of them as a wholesome snack because they were fresh and mom-made. Those cookies gave us the energy to build our bodies, our brains, and our spirits, refreshing exhausted little bodies that had been busy and running around for hours; refreshing needy little hearts with mom-love; refreshing tired little brains with a boost of much-needed calories.

What happened to all that? What happened to childhood being fun? Can't we back things up about twenty years and stop this foolishness? I am SO glad I'm not having children in the paranoid climate we have today.

P.S. I highly recommend Sandy's take on this, as well as Big Fat Blog's.

Mom's going to yell at me for this

Story of my life:


I'm the one on the right.