Boy did it hurt!

OK, so what do you write after your ex-husband comments on your blog?

Actually, I’m silent because I believe in jinxes.  Good thing I’m on my way to have three science degrees that certainly will make me calculated , rational, and above that crap.  Sure, two didn’t do it, but the third ones the charm, right?

Until then, I believe in jinxes.  And I’ve had a few things happen this week that have created a lot of stress but if they pan out, could be very good.  I just can’t talk about them yet otherwise the boogie man will tell the tooth fairy who will put a hit out on my happiness with the snap, crackle, pop guys of rice krispie fame.  (I bet you didn’t know they had a side gig, huh?)

I can tell you we got a new cat this week, although perhaps that will jinx things in the event that no one has been in a huge fight yet.

She’s a bit…different.  She lived inside one point long, long ago but became an outside cat and pretty wild.  She spent the first two days here in the 2nd bathroom, to get used to inside (and using a litter box again, which she did readily.  Yay!) and just take in the smells of all the other animals.

Yesterday, when I came home to check on her I just left the door open.  You should have seen her confused face.  She obviously thought I’d made a mistake.  The other animals paraded in and out, until she finally made a break for the laundry room.  She’s been trying out different perches/hidey holes in there but at least she’s moving around and no blood has been spilled (neither of us have even got to touch her yet).

I think I mentioned that she has cancer.  That’s the reason for a shift in habitat; to give her a more comfortable home and an environment where changes in her lifestyle can be more closely monitored.  Everyone has expressed how strong we are to accept an animal into our lives whom we know will pass away soon.  But the thing is, we accept everyone into our lives knowing they will leave us.  To me, it almost makes it easier to know a time frame rather than sit on that inevitable someday.

Right now she’s on top of the dryer, and took a few bites of dry food when the other monsters got their breakfast.  Another hurdle because 1) she’s not had a dry food diet before and 2) she let me push the bowl right under her nose.  I snapped some pictures and planned to share, but discovered fuck me if I know where the computer cable for the camera is.  I checked the logical places like kitchen cabinets and tucked in with my nail polish.

Ah well.  Such is life.

For those playing along since the beginning, you know the quote that started my blogging:
 
“I can’t stand drama queens, but I am unable to relinquish the crown.”
 
At time when my life was in turmoil, but necessitated a very put-together façade, I turned to writing again to unleash all the emotions I couldn’t share.

 
And I wrote about emotions.  The specific details were often exaggerated.  For the most part they were true to some degree – although not always.  While I think the school-girl (and completely harmless) crush I had on a new friend while in the middle of my divorce would probably make him laugh, I’m not so sure his now wife would share in the chuckle.  (Actually, she probably would.  She has one of those tight-faced laughs for when she’s uncomfortable.)
 
If you read what I wrote about him?  You wouldn’t think so school-girl and harmless.  Or maybe you would.  That’s the beauty of writing.  Half the time the things I put down I don’t know what they mean – I turn to the readers to set me straight.
 
But as the reader myself, going over those old posts?  I cringe at the idea of him reading them.  Of trying to explain I was lonely and fanciful and I would sometimes grab onto a person to tie those fancies into words.
 
I really viewed blogging, for myself, as writing.  And I mostly write fiction.
 
But off and on, it’s become more, well, blogging to me.  If I’m going to write fiction, it shouldn’t be between trips to Ireland and school applications, right?  I started to feel that I was hiding behind that “fiction” label – a get out of jail free card.  Don’t like what I wrote?  Don’t like the person portrayed in it?  Don’t worry; it’s not true.  It’s not me.
 
When the new boy and I broke up, it seemed blogging enhanced the drama.  I still remember reading about his brother-in-law’s suicide for the first time.  I remember checking my stats to see if he’d stopped by.  It felt coy and junior high and looking back, I really don’t see what the big deal was.  We had a thing, nothing serious, and it ended.  Yes, it ended with bad timing and confusion and a lot of other shit going down in my life then, but still.
 
Of course, blogging also has enhanced the good as well as the bad.  TG fell for my eyes, my tits, my sarcasm, and my words.  I loved to stretch the euphoria of a good date out on the screen without worrying what the guy might think.  But as the relationship went on, and it was more than just a date, the junior high feelings crept back.
 
ST fell for all those things too, of course.  (Oh, and the gray streak in my hair.)  And  with him, I’ve never felt the need to censor or pass notes in study hall.  (See, right there?  Fiction!  I’ve never attended a study hall in all my life.  I had “free periods” in which I could do pretty much whatever I pleased.)
 
But also with him, I’ve felt a peace I’ve never had before.  There is no drama to share, despite the fact that sometimes I feel my life is more pressured and hectic right now than it ever was.
 
So have I truly relinquished the crown?  And if so, can I ever be a good writer again?

Things and stuff:

1) I got a 92 on my first bio II test.  Considering he doesn’t offer review sheets, old exams, or even post his slides on the course website, I’m pretty proud of that.  And now that I got a taste of how he tests, I’m sure I can do better.

2) My first organic chemistry test is on Monday.  I am sweating over this.  I feel very unprepared.  I see many flashcards in my future this afternoon.

3) No news on the job front.  Discouraging.  I had a bite, but jobs I’m most qualified for (and would bring in the most money) are strict Mon-Fri places.  With the way my classes are staggered, I can only come up with about 12 hours to dedicate to a job.

4) We are considering taking in another cat.  She’s terminal with cancer.  I’m not so much worried about going through the death process again as how the critters would all get along while she is alive.

5) ST and I continue on with only the smallest of bumps.  I’m beginning to believe that I really want to get married again.

6) Very little news on the condo.  One guy evidently liked it the best of all 2/1s for sale in that complex, but he’s still looking around.  I cannot tell you how much this hangs over my head – the money would make a huge difference right now, not to mention that I feel like I’ve got just one too many irons in the fire.

7) Crap.  Time creeps away from me in the mornings.  Bye!

I am 3 days away from finishing the Costa Rica recap!  By three days, I mean three days of the trip.  I will probably finish the recap sometime mid-December.

It’s on my mind quite a bit because my project proposal for the rest of the class is due on Monday.  I am interested in doing a study on bird populations around the Tampa bay area.  I’m worried that the project will be too simple and too difficult at the same time.  Too simple in that the research I plan to conduct has probably already been done.  Too difficult in that I know nothing about bird populations, how to study them in the wild, etc.  But at the same time, I’m very excited.  This is what I want a grant to do someday – populations, diversity, etc.

Tonight, I have done no studying.  I’ve made sangria (a pitcher of “sangria” wine plus a splash of tequila and triple sec), been beaten in scrabble, and had a debate of laptop versus desktop while eating perogies.

Yeah, you’re jealous.

Thank you to all who left comments and reached out about our little girl’s passing.  It’s been hard, but I have constant reminders around me how much she was loved.  She had a very good home with me, with us.

ST writes.  It’s sort of gone unsaid that I’d do my thing, he’d do his.  But after reading this, I asked if I could share.   

Sheba

She was 18 when we met. Or at least that’s what I was told. It’s so hard to tell, and nobody really knew her birthday. If she did, she wasn’t talking. She might have been 18, maybe younger or maybe older. Some days you’d guess either way, depending on how she acted.

She survived both a wild animal attack that gave her serious injuries and cancer, or at least one round of cancer. She really loved going out on the patio, but hated going by the boys, who are brothers, both younger and larger than her and act like larger younger boys, to get there.

Her name refers to an Old Testament character or place, depending on how you look at it. Either way, it doesn’t matter because she took it and made it her own. Sheba was a queen in her own right. And this was her realm. (No offense intended to Roark, but he’s more of a princess than a queen.)

Scritching (yes, scritching, not scratching) her was most approved on the back, near the base of the tail, forward abut 1.5 inches. A devoted scritcher could get her to lick air, which indicated approval of one’s existence for the moment. The chin was also approved for scritching, though it was more of a standard issue sort of attention and reaction.

She was too polite at feeding time, and special care had to be taken or she’d go hungry. Others would shove her to the side and she’d just wander off instead of pushing her way back in. So she had a different bowl from everyone else and we kept it a bit apart. Celeste was usually the squatter I’d have to kick out in order for Sheba to be able to eat but the boys weren’t above trying it either. Fortunately, they are all too lazy to try to guard more than one dish so once transplanted away from her bowl to another with food, they’d stay away.

She spent a lot of time on the couch, both on the arm and on the back. She wasn’t shy about getting up on the bed either. She liked to sleep near, but not on or touching my feet. If jostled she would emit a near silent but wide-mouthed squawk of objection. Quite endearing. If jostled twice, she would deliver the cat stare equivalent of a raised middle finger, gather her dignity and move elsewhere, away from restless bipeds who didn’t know better than to disturb her beauty rest.

She seldom put a claw in the dog. Around here, that’s saying something. He’s not aggressive (unless you’re a rodent, meter man, cow, or pit bull in heat) but he is very much an in-your-face sort of chap. Specifically, he will lick you in-your-face. Right after licking his ass. And right before licking his ass, too. I find that to be insulting. It’s as if he’s trying to get the taste out of his mouth and then decides that the rectum actually tasted better than your face. He’ll walk right up to a cat and lick them in the face, too. Everyone has SOME redeeming qualities. The feline crown around here approves of being licked in the face even less than I do. Probably because they’re on a good height to smell his ass. Yet Sheba hardly ever put a claw in him, even at his most annoying. Sainthood is not good enough for that kind of charity.

We bathed her. It was my idea and a mistake. I know that it contributed to the timing of her death. She’d lived for years on a 3rd floor location, as had the boys. No fleas around. But when we all moved here, on the ground floor, fleas became an issue. I dragged my feet about getting Frontline and tried to cheap my way out. I treated the entrance areas and bathed the dog several times since he’s the one who goes outside. No dice. So finally I suggested we bathe everyone. We started with the boys. With Frisco and Roark both taken care of, I suggested Sheba as the next victim. She’d never, to our knowledge had a bath in her life. She acted like a cat getting their first bath ever. We did out best to keep her calmed but she just panicked too much. She fell over on her back, and I actually grinned because it was comical to see her on her back, belly shining at the sky. No dignity for the queen behind this closed door! But after she tried to flip over and failed not once or twice but four times, I began to panic. She lay still, exhausted. We righted her and called the bath to an end. She still had shampoo on her upper body, the only place we’d managed to apply any. We’d wipe it off; it was the mild stuff anyway.

She acted as if she couldn’t catch her breath for all of that evening and most of that night. We set her up in our bedroom closet and she made no attempt to leave. She seemed exhausted. It took a couple of days before she seemed halfway right again. She just seemed so TIRED and she wasn’t eating much. We speculated heart attack, shock, ulcers, all sorts of things. All speculation. In the end, with us watching her almost constantly, we could tell that something lingering was wrong and it was getting worse, not better. Tuesday, she was very bad. We’d discussed it and a trip to the vet was in order because some things just are beyond the scope and depth of a couple of laymen.

I’d had a migraine for 7 days straight. I’d been through several Imitrex and experienced zero relief. Go to sleep hurting, wake up hurting. Shower hurting, shave hurting. Go to work hurting, come home hurting. Sometimes less, other times more, but always hurting. I was tired, snappy, and somewhat dazed. I talked my way into the Dr.’s office for that afternoon and waited for an hour and a half to get some precious face time with the physician in hopes of some alternative form of relief. Preferably generic, too since my insurance picks up the total tab on generics til the end of the year. Twenty seconds before the doctor entered, I got the phone call. Jessica was calling me from the veterinarian’s office. Sheba had taken a nosedive in health and Jessica took her to the closest vet she could get into on such short notice. She was at the Temple Terrace Animal and Bird Hospital. Sheba was not doing well, would I like to visit her one last time if that’s what it came down to? I responded in the affirmative, got off the phone, and got through my migraine business as quickly as possible.

When I arrived, Jessica was in the waiting area. We exchanged brief words, but mostly sat in silence for the short few minutes before we were asked back to the exam room. Long story short, Sheba had an estimated 30% lung capacity due to a fluid-filled chest cavity. Her cancer was back and running rampant. Even in an oxygen tent, she was visibly laboring for breath. No pain, just constant exhaustion of working so hard to breathe. I could see that the vet did not want to say outright, “There is no hope, you should put his poor dear out of her suffering.” He mentioned that the fluid could be drained but that it would provide very temporary relief only, in all likelihood. He hemmed, he hawed, he did everything but say what we all knew. I don’t blame him for not wanting to say it. Sometimes you don’t have to say it and this was one of those times. All the better when you don’t have to tell someone, “You should take the life of this faithful companion because if you don’t the companion will suffer a lingering death. The price of a clean break is $XXX.XX.” No, the man was spared that indelicate moment because there was no false hope to offer.

Left alone with Sheba by the staff, we expressed brief goodbyes to the Queen of the household. She acknowledged us in passing, with affection, but an indication that this was all so tiring; could we please just leave her alone, perhaps back in the box that had the easy air? I cried. Jessica cried. Sheba pretended not to notice.

A few minutes later, she was gently anesthetized and went to sleep a final time with a calmness and dignity that helped to keep us all from sobbing. We did not keep her ashes. What are ashes in comparison to the real thing? A mere bit of grit and a pretty container. No thanks, give me the queen back or don’t tease me with halfway measures.

Our household is diminished. We care now for the living. Everyone has had Frontline applied. I hear no scratching. I see no fleas. That square blue food dish has toured the apartment at least a dozen times, held in befuddled hands. For whom will we fill the dish? It sits even now, empty by my elbow, unused. The queen is dead.

Whoever said that time heals all wounds obviously was shallow enough for that to work on them. For us, for now, all we can do is tighten the ranks to close the gap that has been left in us.

I was working for a defense contractor, my then-husband as an apprentice handyman.  He and his boss heard about the first plane on the radio and he called me.

You’ve heard it before, from almost everyone every where: I did not believe this was a huge deal. 

I looked for a little on the Internet, then went down to the cafeteria where news stations played on mounted TVs.

This was a huge deal.

The President was just an hour or so south of us, reading to school kids.

I went to the bank, withdrew some money.  I went to the gas station and filled up.  I came back to work.

By now, all the conference rooms were playing the news and people were crowded in there, staring and sharing platitudes.  Many did not understand why we weren’t sent home.

The next day, we would know that seven employees of our company had been killed on the flights.  No one from our location.

For me, 9/11 was scary in a different way.  I had been awaiting a government secret security clearance.  It was obvious the government was going to be very busy, and very stingy with handing them out after this.  I was worried I would lose my job before ever gaining any skills – I could do very little actual work without that specific colored background on my employee badge.

(I received the clearance sometime later – November perhaps.  It would weigh heavy on my mind in 2005 when I decided to leave my job because it meant giving up such a valuable, marketable item.)

There was very little about 9/11 that felt real to me.  I didn’t cry that day.  I was too stunned and anxious for the other shoe to drop.  But my daily commute went right past Tampa International Airport.  And I cried when sitting in traffic later in the week and the first plane flew over me.

Everyone has certain tricks – wiggling their ears, burping the alphabet, something that makes them unique and strange.

Me?  I talk to sleeping people.

I don’t know if it’s the timbre of my voice, or that I’ve honed the exact right amount of questioning that should go into a conversation, but give me someone in blissful slumber and I can give you an interesting dialogue.

Me:  Honey, is there anything I can get you?

ST:  Money.

Me:  Money?  Why do you want money from me?

ST:  I need fifty cents for milk.

(ST hates drinking milk unless it’s a newly opened carton.  He drinks chocolate or soy.)

Me:  Where do you get milk?

ST:  Everyday.

Me:  No, WHERE?  Do you get milk at work?

ST:  Kindergarten.

(Pause for my laughter.)

Me:  Kindergarten?

ST:  It’s retro.

(Pause for me to try and ascertain if he’s truly asleep or fucking with me.  Asleep.)

Me:  I was thinking of giving you sex, but if you want fifty cents for milk…

ST:  I’ll take the sex.

Me:  Then how will you get your milk?

ST:  Through the Internet.

Me:  How will you get milk through the Internet?

ST:  The INTERNET.

Me:  No, HOW?

ST:  Through a big pipe line.

There you go people.  Internets got milk?

Shortly after this conversation, I yelled at the dog for drinking out of the toilet and ST asked what was going on.  When I explained, he jumped in with this helpful statement, “Little Dog!  You get in here under this license plate!”

Indeed.

While I mentioned Sheba was back to normal last Monday, she seemed to slowly deteriorate over the week.  Specifically, I’d keep catching moments where I could see her shoulders heave with each breath.

Yesterday, those moment accumlated to an entire day.

Today we went to a vet.  X-rays showed fluid around the lungs (indicitive of heart failure), and tumors.

ST was at his human doctor just a mile away and got there in time to see the X-rays himself and say goodbye.

Sheba actually came to me from the sanctuary in 2000.  We get that every once and a while, people not understanding the types of cats we deal with and leaving a domestic.

She was out there roaming the property for a while.  I don’t remember much about her except she was always quiet.  And one night we had all carpooled to some bar or movie or something and were saying goodnight in the parking lot when Sheba walked up and took the stinkiest shit ever right in the middle of the group.

Heh.  That was my girl.

Instead of a deluxe apartment, I get to sling raw meat.

Yesterday was the monthly meeting for the sanctuary.  It’s when all the volunteers get together, hear updates from the committee, meet new people, and attend training classes.

It’s also when promotions are handed out.

In June, I thought very hard about applying to be a ML (mid-level) volunteer.  I was high from the freedom of my schedule and enjoying myself immensely out there.  I had been told by GM that the promotion was mine to have whenever I wanted.

(Note:  The requirements are 6 months as an LL and over 150 hours logged.  Plus about 8 classes.  They could be waived since I already have 4,000+ hours and 5 years working with exotic cats.  They would never be waived if someone did not have the experience.  I made it a point to get all the classwork done in my first two months back because it seemed rather dangerous for me not to know any changes in protocol.)

I was already doing much ML work – conducting tours, helping guests, training new volunteers and interns, and taking more and more of a leadership role with the enrichment program.  The two biggest things an actual promotion required were 1) cleaning cougars and 2) feeding.

GM and I had talked about this before.  Feeding occurs at dusk, an active time for most animals.  During the summer, this is often the coolest part of the day – an important factor when you’re leaving pounds of meat on a concrete slab.  The animals have the solitude of the night to eat their meal, then cleaning starts around 8am.

During the winter, feeders become scarce because of the short days.  By the time many 9-to-5ers are off work, it’s dark.  He and I had thrown around the idea when I first came back that promoting me and adding me to the feeding rotation would be helpful and also a way for me to keep up hours with the inevitiable wacky schedule of classes.

But in June, I took a hard look at my travel schedule and decided not to apply.  It would look shitty to become a ML volunteer and then skip town for weeks.  I was happy where I was.  It still sort of astounds me how the prestige of promotion doesn’t interest me.  It’s a bug that bites almost every volunteer who sticks around.  I guess because I’ve been there, done that it doesn’t appeal.  I think I’ve gained from this by being able to just enjoy my time out there for what it is, not always thinking about the next step.

Skip to Saturday.  It’s been a rough couple of weeks for me – the car wreck, the school situation, the job front.  I hadn’t been out since the Saturday before and then it was with a sprained ankle so I just limped through a tour, did some computer work, and left before lunch.

Before I even got out of the car, I asked GM for my favorite cleaning assignment.  I wanted to get the most out of the day.  He agreed readily.

I ended up having an intern interviewee shadow me.  It’s been raining every day here, and that plus how much concrete jungle has been built around the sanctuary means that the paths are soggy and even underwater.  (The enclosures have land built up during construction.  I’m not saying they’re bone-dry, but for the most part the standing water runs to the paths between the enclosures.)

Basically, this is one of the worst times of the year to volunteer.  Hot, mosquito-ey, and wet.  But I was loving it.

I got called off one cage short of finishing to conduct a tour.  We have a program where people can come and spend the day getting a bit more of a private experience – a general tour, then some time with various guides doing enrichment and operanant conditioning.  They end with getting to watch some of the feeding take place.  I had a group of seven to do their general tour.

When I got done, I met GM in the parking lot, pondering his volunteer schedule for the next few months.  He asked if I had applied for ML.  And when I said no, he asked if I could go write a letter right then.

This is quite possibly the greatest way to get a promotion – have someone ask you to do it.  I hadn’t even been thinking about it.  But I know that I can help more as an ML.  GM really wants me back in the feeding rotation – something that while more responsibility is also somewhat of a treat.

I grabbed a sheet of printer paper, scribbed a note, and voila.  Yesterday I was promoted.

The actual promotion means little to me, except that it will be nice to walk around with the word “Keeper” on my back rather than “Trainee”.  It always felt a tad ridiculous.  But I am extremely happy to know that I’ve managed to return to the sanctuary in a positive way, earn my dues, and be regarded as an asset and a help.  My goal for volunteering is to make a good life for our animals and teach others about them.  I feel like I’m succeeding at that.