Contemplating Change

Tomorrow is an anniversary, a major anniversary. I might not get to blog tomorrow because this gigantic project in the city requires that I be there at 9:00 and work pretty much on my feet for most of the day. I came home on Thursday with aches in places I haven't ached in years. It's a lot of walking but it has to be done. Yet, I resolved to mark tomorrow because it's very important.

My dad died 20 years ago on January 3, 1991. He suffered from pulmonary fibrosis. He was a truck driver for CRST out of Cedar Rapids, Iowa. He had been in declining health and knew that his time was limited, but he continued on because he loved doing what he was doing. Driving a semi allowed him to fulfill that wanderlust he had. He went all over the U.S. He bought a camera and took pictures of his travels. Every time he was in Chicagoland, we would get together. I probably got to see him more in the last 4 years of his life than I had in the 4 years before that.

But he fell ill coming back from a run to Houston in December of 1990. He was having problems breathing and stopped at a small emergency room at a town outside of Tyler, Texas. They felt they couldn't treat what was ailing him so he was taken to the University of Texas Medical Center in Tyler. Mom got a call that he wasn't doing well. My mother, sister and I took the train from Chicago to Tyler to be with him. I couldn't stay for the duration and returned home on December 30th. My brother, Dan, took the train to Tyler, arriving there as I arrived in Chicago. Dad died at 2 p.m. on the 3rd. Iowa had been in the Rose Bowl that year, but they lost. Mom remembered that he seemed to be aware of the game on the TV in his room. The funeral was the 8th and his body was donated to the University of Iowa for research into the disease that claimed him.

My dad's death changed everything. That's a big statement but, as I look back across the landscape of 20 years, it's the truth. My mother remarried a year later, to her high-school sweetheart who had lost his wife in May of 1991. Carole really doesn't remember my dad. Dale has been "grandpa" to her. I used to get really upset when she'd call him that because he isn't her "real" grandpa. I don't know when it hit me that he's "grandpa" because he's real. My dad is someone whose photo hangs on the wall.

The real change came in my immediate family life. There were things we glossed over, things that bothered us. Grief was not unknown in my life. My father's parents came from large families. I never knew my dad's mother, she died in 1944, but I knew all her sisters. I knew all my dad's father's siblings. The extended family that got together for July 4th picnics was upwards of 50 people. As people passed on, there were funerals. I have memories of at least one a year for a time. My spouse, on the other hand, came from a very small family. Death was not something he had experience with. He had gone years without seeing the inside of a funeral home.

The death of a parent is unlike any death I'd experienced. Experts agree there are 7 stages of grief; shock and denial, pain and guilt, anger and bargaining, depression and reflection and loneliness, the upward turn, reconstruction and working through, and finally, acceptance and hope. How you go through these stages is up to you. Grieving is a highly personal event and no one is allowed to tell you to "get on with it". That last statement is the crux of what happened over the next 10 years.

I couldn't grieve in my own way. Years later, our marriage counselor said the depression my spouse had lived with all his life couldn't allow me to be depressed as is natural with grief. His depression had to be cared for first. If there was anything left, my needs would be met. It was a mix that could not sustain a relationship. Unless something changed, the outlook was grim.

My therapist said Dad's death and the natural grief that accompanied it, started the chain of events that ended with divorce. Grieving a marriage is like grieving a death. Sometimes you go through those stages while you're married in an attempt to hold it together. I remember trying to bargain with God to get dad well enough to die in Iowa surrounded by his entire family. I remember trying to bargain with God to get me to the next therapist appointment without screaming at my ex.

In the 20 years since Dad's death, things about him have faded. I can't hear his voice anymore. I used to be able to call up the sound. I see CRST trucks in Chicagoland. He would have been here more and more until he retired, probably in the mid-to-late 1990's. I used to start crying every time I saw one. Now, I say, "Hi Dad!" and count myself lucky that my dad is with me today. Sometimes, if I'm particularly troubled, I'll ask a question. "What do you think I should do, dad?"

I bought a bottle of his aftershave and I used to keep a cotton ball under my pillow for the first few years. The scent was a comfort. Now, I open up the bottle for a whiff when I'm dusting.

The plant I received from his funeral still thrives in the NE corner of the living room. I water it every week. It seems to be happy and blooms regularly. I rarely think about where I got it or how long I've had it. I turn it periodically to try to keep it growing straight. If it outgrows this pot, I think it will have to be on the floor. At one point, it lost a lot of leaves and I thought it was dying. But it recovered. Carole's cat, Faux, used to lie in the pot when he was a kitten.

Twenty years is a long time. I still cry sometimes when I think of the loss. The change has been huge in that time, some good and some bad. Dad never got to sit in box seats at Wrigley Field and watch his beloved Cubs. He never got to teach me how to build and repair things. I finally threw out the list I kept for years with all the things he knew that I wanted to learn. I've moved on, continuing on the road he departed. I still grieve, I always will. Some things will set me off and I shed tears.

I don't think I'd want it any other way.

Beverage:  China Black tea

Deb

It has been a whole year.

397 posts later, it has been a whole year since I started musing about random things in the blogosphere. I decided to change the look of the blog as I go into year number 2. Everything's still right where it was before, it just looks different. I have the perfect photo for the mast head, but can't get it to lie where I want it to.

I gave myself a challenge to have a post a day, but, as you've come to see, I go on tangents where there are 3 or 4 posts in a day. I didn't set out to overachieve, it just sort of happened. In a year, I have talked about cats and socks and jazz and what irks me and what I like and my family and friends and food. I've gone through a whole change of seasons with their attendant photos. I've met people, lost track of a couple if the return of a letter after Christmas is any indication. I've grieved and rejoiced. I've experienced great kindness and perplexing antagonism. Life has been good and bad but mostly it just is. I think of the "Serenity Prayer":

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change

The courage to change the things I can

And the wisdom to know the difference.

I like to think, maybe it's delusional, that this has been the motto of my life since 2000. I haven't always succeeded in knowing the difference, but I have tried.

In March, I met with a guy from the development department of my alma mater. He was going about the country meeting various alumni, taking them to dinner (which I certainly appreciated) and talking about life, what my alma mater means to me. He asked how I saw life now and where I was going to be in the future. This caught me off guard and I had to think about it. I replied that I thought about the future as I looked at my finances, what can I do to make that part of my life not so rocky. But, really, I don't look that far ahead. I prefer to be here and now, in the moment. I want to see the blessings and the happiness in the moment. I may not have windshield wipers that work but the beading of the rain on the windshield is quite interesting. He said, "Wow. That is really zen." Once again, I was caught off guard.

In this year, I have come to see that life is what it is. I can no more control life than I can control the tides. There are sections of my life I can manage but the rest just is. Life is about fixing holes in socks, washing rugs that have been peed on, making muffins and sleeping. Life is about watching the clouds on a sunny day and walking in the rainy on yet another heavily overcast one. I'm thankful you have chosen to come along with me on the journey. I am indeed blessed.

Beverage: Huckleberry tea

Deb

Working forward

"We think we 'pick out' our pets, but I think they pick us out."

My sister's words in a card to me.

I think she's right. Shakespeare fell asleep in my arms when we went to see him at the pet store. Penney rolled over and let me rub her belly the first time we met her. Half-Pint followed us around my mother's kitchen when we met her and Betsy chose to give birth to Rascal in the junk pile of the people next door to us. I think they all 'picked' us because they knew they would be cared for and about.

All the dry cat food is gone, eaten by the denizens who inhabit the neighborhood. I did find partial bags of treats while looking for something else. I will put those out tonight and they will be gone in the morning. The last cans of Fancy Feast have been sent to where they can be used.

I removed the litter box and used litter and have washed the floors in that room, my bedroom and the hall. I have this office, the bathroom, the livingroom and the kitchen to wash.

I need to start washing litter boxes. I do that by sprinkling Oxy-Clean over the bottom and a smattering of dish detergent and then putting the box in the bottom of the tub into which the washing machine drains. Soak and scrub and it's clean.

I'm still lonely. I could have sworn last night I heard each cat, in turn, making noise in typical fashion. I got up at least 3 times to investigate a noise that was, at turns, familiar and unfamiliar. Was that someone jumping into the papasan chair? Was that a meow from the kitchen at the back door? Was that footfalls in the hallway? It was a fitful sleep until I think I simply willed myself asleep.

The flowers are starting to wilt around the edges. By the end of this week, I will be putting them in the compost pile. By the end of this week, all the floors will be washed. The ache in my heart is still very acute and I can tear up at the slightest memory. I thought of taking down the photos I have of each one, but I think I need to see those, to remember.

The weather is to be glorious for a few days. I'm taking down the top so I can feel the sun and the wind.

"You will eventually get 'picked out' again." Of that, I have no doubt.

Beverage: real cherry Coke

Deb

6 P.M.

What do you see to the left? It's my papasan chair. It sits in the livingroom. I've watched many an Iowa Hawkeye football and basketball game, read many a book, stitched many a counted cross-stitch project, slept many a nap in this chair.

It's empty.

Shakespeare claimed it when I bought it. When he passed away, it became Penney's chair. After she left, Rascal took over.

I've just come off another crying jag. It got to 5 and I was working on a Christmas project. I set it down and started to stand to go into the kitchen to feed the cats.

For 23 years, there has been a cat in this house. For 8 years, there has been a stripey cat sitting in the window of the living room at 4:15 when I got home from work. She quit doing that in May. That was a signal Rascal was not well.

I have tried listening to music. When Rascal died, I played Old Blind Dogs that evening. Now, the music feels like it's covering up the quiet.

I took a 2 1/2 hour nap this afternoon. I cried myself to sleep because there was not the warmth and purring of a cat. I can hear Rascal. I can hear Shakespeare. I can almost see Penney and Half-Pint in the spots where they used to be and I expect to see Betsy in the kitchen looking for me, waiting for another can of cat food to be opened.

There were times when the house was quiet like it is now. After a meal, everyone would settle down and sleep. There would be activity at 9 and Carole and I would find our attention divided by 5 cats. But that too would settle down and everyone would sleep. This is a wholly different kind of quiet. The only thing here is me and my sobs when the grief overtakes me.

I need to eat, but there is nothing I care to eat. I lost 3 pounds after Rascal died. I just didn't feel like it. For all the pots and pans and dirty dishes, the kitchen is empty. I don't want to be there.

I am trying to keep myself active. Work will help in that I have things I have to get done this week. I have done a great deal on this Christmas present today. And I know the feeling that my world is crashing in on me is just that, a feeling.

Beverage: English Breakfast tea

Deb

Alone Now, 1996-2009

It's not a good photo of Betsy. She wasn't the most photogenic of cats. She often looked like she had a perpetual scowl. She was tiny, never more than 8 pounds. But she was a lover-cat, demanding of attention.

I made the incredibly hard decision to let her go today. She had deteriorated over the weekend. She did not want fluids and had almost bolted on Saturday. Giving her a pill for her kidney disease made her gag so I quit doing that. She was peeing on the floor. She ate everything but had quit gaining weight, losing what she had gained over the summer.

Part of me thinks she missed Rascal.

Early this morning, we had a bad thunderstorm come through. She was not in bed with me but came when the lightning got bad. She couldn't jump up onto the bed anymore so I picked her up. She immediately snuggled next to me and started purring. This has been our routine since February. She sleeps right next to me, purring both of us to sleep.

But this past week, her sleep had become so deep, I was not sleeping well because I was scared she would pass away at night. Over the weekend, she would come to me and give me a look that almost asked, "Why?" I had no answer.

This morning, she was not in bed when I got up for work. She came running when she heard me and ate everything I gave her. She follows me around, meowing, not pitifully, just meowing. I had a small shard of hope that if we just got everything under control, she could be better. But when I came home to take her to the vet, she was lying on the office rug. She looked at me, but never got up. And as Dr. Labek and I talked, she slept. She was ready however unready I was. I told her I loved her, kissed her forehead and let them take her away. They will call when her ashes are ready for pick up. I picked up Rascal today.

Now my house is empty, really empty. No cats. No daughter. I have not begun the clean up. Her food dish still sits on the floor. The litter box is still in the back room. The towel she slept on with me today still on the bed. I have gone to get tea and find myself looking for her. I had to wait as I don't think she could see very well anymore nor could she hear me well. I looked down to make sure I wouldn't sandwich her between my legs. My face is raw from crying.

This is Shakespeare. He passed away in August of 2005. He was my bud. Everyone loved to pet him at the clinic, which, you could tell, embarrassed him. He was a very beautiful cat.

He was the runt of a litter left at a pet store where we knew someone. He was sickly when we got him but we nursed him to full health. He loved to jump on me when the sun first came up, walk up my body and take ahold of either my lower lip or my chin and bite just enough to awaken me. He always slept on my ankles. He loved to play fetch too, with these bouncing balls we found at a neighborhood pharmacy. He was not a cuddler unless you had food. Then, he was in your face.

These two are Half-Pint, on the left, and Penney, on the right.

Half-Pint was so named because she weighed exactly 8 ounces when we got her. Eight ounces is half of a pint. She was one of the cats at my mom's husband's farm. She was also sickly and we had to nurse her back to health, but she was feisty and very funny. She loved to lie in crazy spots that had sunshine. She would jump on me in the morning and walk the length of my body to put her forehead somewhere on my face and purr, in an effort to get me to get up. She would cuddle but she loved to sit on your shoulders. As this would impede what you wanted to do, we would call out, "I need a 'Pint-en-dectomy!" and someone would come remove her.

As she started life a farm cat, this stayed with her. She was hit by a car when she would not come in one night in April of 2006. I had to go to a meeting for work and I could not get her back inside. I found her in the street when I returned home.

Penney was a stray who turned up pregnant at the sister of our next door neighbor. Once the kittens were born, she was spayed and they began looking for a home for her. She was the most mellow of cats. She was a lover. She wanted to be with me all the time. She wanted my lap whenever I sat down, going so far as to jump up on the table and smash the newspaper when I read it in the mornings. We could never get her untrained from jumping on the kitchen table. She would sit on the edge when I did dishes, meow and reach out a paw to touch my back when I would pass by.

She was 3 years younger than Shakespeare and they were the only cats in the house for several years. They would chase each other through the house. It was okay for Shakespeare to chase Penney, but he would hiss and spit when she did it to him. Once he grew too old for the chasing, Penney and Half-Pint played together.

Penney was a gorgeous gray. Photos don't do her any justice. Light danced off her fur. And, like Rascal's, it was incredibly soft. That she was a lovable cat just made it so much more fun to pet her.

I let Penney go in August of 2007.

And here is one more picture of my Rascal cat. It was a warm spring day and I had thrown open the house to air it out.

Yes, I will get cats again. I had already decided, when Rascal died, that I would take a bit to recover, once Betsy died, but I would get cats again. I will get 2. There are always cats who need homes. Val, from the vet, has 2 she wants to get rid of because she's not home to properly care for them. "Ms. Montague, I can't think of anyone who would take better care of them than you would." But the wound is raw and I don't think I should make that decision right now. It is time now to be just me and my memories and move forward.

Beverage: English Breakfast

Deb

And this is why I like them.

I've been going to Animal Medical Clinic since Shakespeare was a kitten. He was 5 months old when we got him, back in 1986. I had no idea where to take a cat and picked them because they were first alphabetically and I had driven by the location many times and knew where it was. The owner of the practice saw us and, seeing this small bundle of cat sleeping in my lap said, "I'm sorry. We just can't treat wild animals like him. I'm just afraid he'll take my arm off." Okay, these are people I can support.

The following came in the mail on Saturday. I couldn't open it because I've received this three other times and knew what it was.

The inside.

And of particular importance to me, the back of the envelope:

Other vet clinics probably do this, but it means so much to me that they are taking care of all the arrangements to have her cremated and returned to me and they care enough to send a card. Betsy seems lost yet today. I came home briefly before getting the hair cut and she seemed somewhat confused about who I was. But I scooped her up and she put her head on my shoulder and started purring. I think that's going to be our official greeting when I return after being gone. I can't think of a better one to reassure both of us that we'll be okay.

Beverage: Ice cold Dr. Pepper

Deb

Day 2 and we move on.

I think it dawned on Betsy early yesterday afternoon that Rascal wasn't coming back. I don't know if she'd gone up to Rascal's body although she was at the back door and meowing at me when I got home on Wednesday. The vet told me, when I had to make the decision for Shakespeare, that having the other cats smell the body is a good way for them to understand the other cat isn't coming back. Animals grieve as we do and it takes various forms.

She was clingy yesterday and stayed in the office with me. We napped a couple of times after I got home and she was content to be next to me in the bed. She nibbled at her food but didn't eat as much as she had been. I guess that's to be expected. I sort of roamed the kitchen knowing I needed to eat but unsure exactly what it was I wanted. I eventually made microwave s'mores but that wasn't really what I wanted. I need to clean out the cupboards and make a comprehensive grocery list. It's time to spend another $183 to forget bananas.

This morning, she followed me all over the house, not that she hasn't been doing that already, but the meow was different. Maybe it wasn't a "Don't leave me alone" meow, but, in my current state, that's how it sounds and it breaks my heart. I'm really hoping the boss leaves early as he is want to do on Fridays because I'm going to the grocery for vittles for tonight's Tempest Keep raid and then heading home and I want to leave early.

I know it's because of my state of mind, but I kept hearing noises that sounded like Rascal Wednesday night and yesterday. I kept hearing things like a cat jumping off the windowsill or out of the papsan chair or her meow from the kitchen or the sound of her footfalls in the hall. I still look for Shakespeare to come up from the basement or Penney to come out of my closet or Half-Pint to walk up my body in the morning to stick her face in mine, "Time to get up. It's light out and I don't care that it's 5:24 a.m." But then, I still sort of expect my dad to call to chat and sometimes, I can hear him clear his throat.

Fortunately, my travels are minimal now so the two of us can be middle-aged ladies living together. I hope the budget allows for her blood work that we can stabilize her. Once we both get through the grief, I have a feeling she should be better. There's no competition for affection or food now and she doesn't go outside without me. Although she gets annoyed with my repeated head scratches, she likes the attention. We will get through this.

I do know that I won't have to share my next Domino's pizza with anyone. Rascal adored Domino's and I wound up getting a large to share the meat with the cat. Betsy sniffs, but she's not interested. Oh! I need grenadine. I need real cherry Cokes tonight and chocolate cake.

Beverage: Blackberry tea

Deb