I'm now dating the upstairs neighbor -- a white republican named after a controversial black sports star. Of course "O" much more than that, but the irony of it does hit me in our most intimate moments. What also hits me though is his declaration that he knew he'd fallen for me at the moment of our first meeting, a time when I was sweating and moving furniture in attire befitting the situation. Turns out those "she's wonderful" eyes weren't exuded from a gay man after all, or from someone disinterested me in romantically -- just a man afraid of dating someone in such close proximity. A cousin had a bad experience dating a neighbor, a friend ended up marrying hers, so where this will go is anyone's guess.
What I like about O is the way we can talk for hours, laugh and tease each other as if we are already the best of friends. Not to mention that fact that he already knows about my fibromyalgia/seizures, and was told last night of my surgery (see my first entry) and my desire to wait until the time is right. Gone is the girl from five years ago who'd attempt to go all the way and stay the night. Now I leave with a kiss when he wants me to stay and sweetly announce that we need to actually leave the apartment complex together before taking things too seriously. O respects and understands all of this, and I look forward to spending more time debating left wing politics versus right wing and teasing him about his sports obsession as I watch televised games from the crook of his shoulder.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Enter the black man
I adopted Oscar knowing that he had FIV. He was 8 or 9, all black, and I fell in love with those pleading eyes looking back at me in the Craigslist ad. Sure, he had his setbacks, but that made me love him even more. After all, I know all about having illnesses that render you far from an ideal creature and somewhat challenged in finding someone to love you. I took home by black baby and we've been best friends ever since.
Nine years ago I had the hardest two weeks of my life. My estranged father was dying of lung cancer and I flew a couple hours to see him and say my goodbyes. What I found was a man on the verge of death, far worse than he was during our phone conversation, and it was up to me to take care of him at home until he died. I slept an hour or two every night and spent every other waking moment helping my father pee, cleaning soiled linens and his soiled behind, giving him five different medications and various intervals, fixing his oxygen tank that always seemed to have some problem, and sitting by him waiting for his last breaths. His death was less than alarming. He'd been in poor health for as long as I can remember, and until he died at 71, he always warned me that he didn't have long to live.
Perhaps that's what drew me to Oscar. I knew that his days were numbered and I wanted to take him into my care. That care has turned out to be of a little bit different nature than what I was expecting to give. Contrary to humans with HIV, cats with FIV can live normal lives, and when death comes, it comes quickly. Oscar was on no medications when I adopted him and I took him on knowing that I would love him until his body stopped working and I had to say goodbye.
Instead of an instant insurgence of FIV, what he's had instead is a series of health conditions due to old age. The first was prediabetes, the second chronic constipation, and the third high blood pressure, not to mention that he had been hit by a car sometime in his youth, needed six teeth pulled, and recently developed a heart murmur. The cost of these ailments increased by sly percentages: more expensive food here, a medication prescription there, until finally he vomited three times in one day and I had to pay $1000 at the emergency vet to get him cleaned out from his newly diagnosed megacolon condition.
I made these purchases without blinking an eye. Even though, because of my own illness, I am very short on funds, I don't think twice before taking care of my cat. I take care of him the way others take care of me, the way others believe in me and my worth despite my ill health. When I'm in flareups (which we've now discovered are probably seizures), Oscar is at my bedside purring and keeping me company. When I can't leave the house for days for the same reason, Oscar doesn't leave my side. While I have to depend on others to drive me to doctor's appointments, I can strap Oscar to my side and walk him to the neighborhood vet. In a nutshell, Oscar is an extension of myself -- an underdog who needs someone to vouch for his worth. He is also like me in the sense that no matter how hard things get, he never stops purring.
Because of Oscar's megacolon he is on even newer food, takes a pill twice a day, and may need costly surgery in the future to remove the colon. When this day comes I don't know what I'll do. Two weeks ago, when he wouldn't stop vomiting, and a week ago when he wouldn't poop, I was sure that that decision was eminent. I went through all the stages of grief: denial (I'll put thousands of dollars on my credit card, no problem), anger (why does Oscar have to be so sick at a time I can't provide for him?), bargaining (maybe I can get the money somehow), depression (I don't know how I'm going to live without him), and finally acceptance--knowing that if I did have to put him down that I wouldn't have failed at taking care of him and wouldn't be forcing him to die unnecessarily.
Fortunately his vomiting has stopped and his pooping has resumed. He is in no way out of danger, but for the time being his body is working. Oscar has been my companion during some of the hardest times of my life, and I can't bear the thought of me getting better and him having to die. One morning as I started to wake up, I thought of the similarities between Oscar and my father. Both lived a hard knock life, both faced years of poor health but rallied against it for as long as possible, both possess a certain charm that not many other men or cats possess (everyone is enamored with Oscar and my dad had women falling in love with him until the day he died). Both Oscar and my father are men that have come in and out of my life. Both have lived for a period of time under my care and both have received that care with everything I have to give. I have wiped their poopy bottoms, given them countless medications, taken them to doctors, and have had to deal with their potential losses of life. When Oscar dies I will be putting another black creature into the ground. I'll be the one who decides when it's Oscar's turn to go just as I decided when my dad needed to enter a nursing home. I will have another hole in my heart caused by the love and loss of a male who touched my life briefly and whose life before I entered it remains a mystery.
I came to my dad when he had no one, after he had made himself no one to me. Though he remains even more with me in death than he was in life, I've had to exist without him and wrestle through my own health battles, advocating for a diagnosis and recovery in the face of doctors who believed nothing was wrong. I've carried this skill on with my care of Oscar. I discovered he was drinking too much water which lead to the diagnosis of pre-diabetes. I made myself "intimately aware" with his poop cycles which finally convinced the vets that he needed treatment for constipation. If Oscar dies because of megacolon, I at least have the satisfaction of knowing I did everything I could to get him the correct diagnosis and receive the best possible treatment to make his life a better one than it would be otherwise. Every day that I wake up with him purring next to me is a day I've done something for him, for my dad, and for me.
Nine years ago I had the hardest two weeks of my life. My estranged father was dying of lung cancer and I flew a couple hours to see him and say my goodbyes. What I found was a man on the verge of death, far worse than he was during our phone conversation, and it was up to me to take care of him at home until he died. I slept an hour or two every night and spent every other waking moment helping my father pee, cleaning soiled linens and his soiled behind, giving him five different medications and various intervals, fixing his oxygen tank that always seemed to have some problem, and sitting by him waiting for his last breaths. His death was less than alarming. He'd been in poor health for as long as I can remember, and until he died at 71, he always warned me that he didn't have long to live.
Perhaps that's what drew me to Oscar. I knew that his days were numbered and I wanted to take him into my care. That care has turned out to be of a little bit different nature than what I was expecting to give. Contrary to humans with HIV, cats with FIV can live normal lives, and when death comes, it comes quickly. Oscar was on no medications when I adopted him and I took him on knowing that I would love him until his body stopped working and I had to say goodbye.
Instead of an instant insurgence of FIV, what he's had instead is a series of health conditions due to old age. The first was prediabetes, the second chronic constipation, and the third high blood pressure, not to mention that he had been hit by a car sometime in his youth, needed six teeth pulled, and recently developed a heart murmur. The cost of these ailments increased by sly percentages: more expensive food here, a medication prescription there, until finally he vomited three times in one day and I had to pay $1000 at the emergency vet to get him cleaned out from his newly diagnosed megacolon condition.
I made these purchases without blinking an eye. Even though, because of my own illness, I am very short on funds, I don't think twice before taking care of my cat. I take care of him the way others take care of me, the way others believe in me and my worth despite my ill health. When I'm in flareups (which we've now discovered are probably seizures), Oscar is at my bedside purring and keeping me company. When I can't leave the house for days for the same reason, Oscar doesn't leave my side. While I have to depend on others to drive me to doctor's appointments, I can strap Oscar to my side and walk him to the neighborhood vet. In a nutshell, Oscar is an extension of myself -- an underdog who needs someone to vouch for his worth. He is also like me in the sense that no matter how hard things get, he never stops purring.
Because of Oscar's megacolon he is on even newer food, takes a pill twice a day, and may need costly surgery in the future to remove the colon. When this day comes I don't know what I'll do. Two weeks ago, when he wouldn't stop vomiting, and a week ago when he wouldn't poop, I was sure that that decision was eminent. I went through all the stages of grief: denial (I'll put thousands of dollars on my credit card, no problem), anger (why does Oscar have to be so sick at a time I can't provide for him?), bargaining (maybe I can get the money somehow), depression (I don't know how I'm going to live without him), and finally acceptance--knowing that if I did have to put him down that I wouldn't have failed at taking care of him and wouldn't be forcing him to die unnecessarily.
Fortunately his vomiting has stopped and his pooping has resumed. He is in no way out of danger, but for the time being his body is working. Oscar has been my companion during some of the hardest times of my life, and I can't bear the thought of me getting better and him having to die. One morning as I started to wake up, I thought of the similarities between Oscar and my father. Both lived a hard knock life, both faced years of poor health but rallied against it for as long as possible, both possess a certain charm that not many other men or cats possess (everyone is enamored with Oscar and my dad had women falling in love with him until the day he died). Both Oscar and my father are men that have come in and out of my life. Both have lived for a period of time under my care and both have received that care with everything I have to give. I have wiped their poopy bottoms, given them countless medications, taken them to doctors, and have had to deal with their potential losses of life. When Oscar dies I will be putting another black creature into the ground. I'll be the one who decides when it's Oscar's turn to go just as I decided when my dad needed to enter a nursing home. I will have another hole in my heart caused by the love and loss of a male who touched my life briefly and whose life before I entered it remains a mystery.
I came to my dad when he had no one, after he had made himself no one to me. Though he remains even more with me in death than he was in life, I've had to exist without him and wrestle through my own health battles, advocating for a diagnosis and recovery in the face of doctors who believed nothing was wrong. I've carried this skill on with my care of Oscar. I discovered he was drinking too much water which lead to the diagnosis of pre-diabetes. I made myself "intimately aware" with his poop cycles which finally convinced the vets that he needed treatment for constipation. If Oscar dies because of megacolon, I at least have the satisfaction of knowing I did everything I could to get him the correct diagnosis and receive the best possible treatment to make his life a better one than it would be otherwise. Every day that I wake up with him purring next to me is a day I've done something for him, for my dad, and for me.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Life and letters
Now, instead of feeling a loss at the possible misdiagnosis of fibromyalgia, I'm excited beyond measure over the possible diagnosis of "absence status epilepticus." While I can't say for sure, treatment for this rare seizure disorder appears possible, and if I do test positive, and I do get treated, my life will change immeasurably. Where will I go? What will I do? While the traditional holdups to the perfect life will still exist (finding the perfect job with the right money, finding a man even when you're well), my life could change in a way I cannot possibly imagine.
If I were well I could move to Manhattan and follow my dream as a full-time employee in the publishing industry. Or I could go back to school and get my PhD. But my most precious dream, if I should have it, is to rent or own a studio on Queen Anne Hill, drive a lime green VW bug, work as an online instructor, and write and edit on the side. My life doesn't have to be much different than it is now, but every day would be different by the simple fact that I would be living each 24 hours knowing that I can most likely keep any commitment and make any plans. I can date normally and have children if I do desire without worrying that my illness will keep me from being a good wife or parent.
In all honesty, the thought of being well does have its share of anxiety. I've lived the past five years wrestling with something inside my own body. Everything I did, I did in the face of an unknown and ambiguous illness. Every success was in the face of extreme odds against me, and every failure was only a soft blow to my sense of perseverance in the face of antagonism. But if this antagonism is taken away -- if illness no longer rears its ugly head in my life, every decision I make and action I take will not be in the face of odds but will be expected and inglorious. If I succeed in anything it will be as a normal human being. If I fail I won't have an illness to cushion the blow.
I've always wrestled with a duality in regards to what I want for my future. As a teen and young adult I often oscillated between wanting to be a famous author and wanting to scrub toilets as a housekeeper. I've wanted to be a missionary in Africa and I've wanted to be a stay at home mom. I've wanted a big career in Manhattan and I've wanted a simple life as a library assistant in a sleepy town. Fate has steered me in many directions, some of them big, some of them small. At some points I chose the easy road and at others I chose the hard. My illness pushed me to write creatively because in my fuzzy states I couldn't do much else, and no matter what I do, the act of writing must remain.
With flareups I've been awarded so many hours, days, weeks of contemplation. This time spent ill has kept me from overextending myself and has afforded me a chance to stop running through life looking for the next big change, and at the same time it has made me change my life tremendously from what I would have preferred it to be. If my EEG shows absence status epilepticus and my doctor finds treatment, I may get my life back in a way that I've only imagined. I will stand at a crossroads and have to decide where that fine balance lies between progress and persistence. I'll have to decide when it's appropriate to change direction and when I need to stay grounded in my current course. The thought of becoming well is like being told you will be pardoned from jail after having been given a life sentence. Sure, you made the most of your time in jail, but in all honesty it was different from the life of others. And when you emerge from behind those walls and breathe in that fresh air, change your clothes and walk down the street, anything could happen. And that is both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.
In all honesty, the thought of being well does have its share of anxiety. I've lived the past five years wrestling with something inside my own body. Everything I did, I did in the face of an unknown and ambiguous illness. Every success was in the face of extreme odds against me, and every failure was only a soft blow to my sense of perseverance in the face of antagonism. But if this antagonism is taken away -- if illness no longer rears its ugly head in my life, every decision I make and action I take will not be in the face of odds but will be expected and inglorious. If I succeed in anything it will be as a normal human being. If I fail I won't have an illness to cushion the blow.
With flareups I've been awarded so many hours, days, weeks of contemplation. This time spent ill has kept me from overextending myself and has afforded me a chance to stop running through life looking for the next big change, and at the same time it has made me change my life tremendously from what I would have preferred it to be. If my EEG shows absence status epilepticus and my doctor finds treatment, I may get my life back in a way that I've only imagined. I will stand at a crossroads and have to decide where that fine balance lies between progress and persistence. I'll have to decide when it's appropriate to change direction and when I need to stay grounded in my current course. The thought of becoming well is like being told you will be pardoned from jail after having been given a life sentence. Sure, you made the most of your time in jail, but in all honesty it was different from the life of others. And when you emerge from behind those walls and breathe in that fresh air, change your clothes and walk down the street, anything could happen. And that is both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)