It’s six months to the day since my operation, a medial thera-something-oscopy, which means “cut open a slit across your throat, stick a camera and a cutting tool down into the middle of your chest, and scrape that lymph node to see if it’s malignant or simply an over-achiever.”
It was, in fact, not lymphoma, but rather, sarcoidosis, which Peter remembers how to pronounce by calling it “sarcastic doses,” which is probably a hint about my attitude around the office. Instead of being fatal, it’s just damned irritating:
Sarcoidosis is a systemic disease that can affect any organ. Common symptoms are vague, such as fatigue unchanged by sleep, lack of energy, aches and pains, dry eyes, blurry vision, shortness of breath, a dry hacking cough or skin lesions. The cutaneous symptoms are protean, and range from rashes and noduli (small bumps) to erythema nodosum or lupus pernio.
(No, I don’t know what that last sentence means, either, but it sure is impressive.)
I know it’s been six months, because when they were wheeling me into the operating room to at St. Mary’s Hospital to slit my throat, I looked at my ID band, and noticed the date on it was 05/05/05. As I counted backwards, as instructed, while the anesthesea flowed into my arm, I looked to the clock on the wall on the right: 10 until six.
Then I woke up, hours later, with Jenn and my mother-in-law at the foot of my bed. Actually, I’d apparently been semi-conscious while being wheeled in, and had already been told it wasn’t cancer: I told Jenn I owed her money, since I’d lost the bet I’d made. (Hey, I figured, if I got cancer, at least I’d get some cash out of the deal.)
My body is now well underway on a relapse of my earlier symptoms, but knowing that they are not likely to be life-threatening makes hobbling around, falling asleep at my desk and all the rest a lot more bearable.
People ask for the update periodically, and there it is. Invest heavily in Wyeth: The way I’m sucking down Advil to combat the swelling in my joints, the stock price is going to shoot through the roof.
 Motley Sue was put to sleep today.
When a cat gets as old as she was — she was 20, and nine months away from being able to legally drink alcohol — it turns into a race as to which worn-out part will end up killing her. For a long time, it looked like kidney disease was going to win the race, but in the last few days, her colon, in a stunning come from behind upset, passed her failing kidneys.
This morning, she spent more than 10 minutes in the litterbox, straining, her little back muscles rippling, trying to get the tissue paper of her intenstines to work, but only succeeded in sprinkling drops of blood on the litter. She moved throughout the house, trying over and over. In my study, she suddenly hissed loudly in pain and frustration. This is a cat who, in 20 years, has bitten three times total and probably hissed fewer than a dozen times.
I’ve always said that when her age and infirmity became a burden to her — remarkably, she adapted to the blindness of these past six months quite well — I wouldn’t be selfish, and would do the right thing. The hissing told me: It was time.
So, at a little after 3 today, our veterinarian, who’s always marveled at how healthy and down-right tough she was for a cat of her advanced years, gave her a strong sedative, followed by two super doses of tranquilizers that slowed her breathing, and then stopped it.
In her 20 years, Motley had gone from Maryland to Virginia to California, back to Virginia, then to Wisconsin, right back around eight or nine weeks later, around Virginia, over to Egypt, back to Virginia and finally, back to California.
She was my brother’s confidante when he was a high school freshman trying to readjust to America after five years overseas.
She was my comfort when my first love dumped me, and then got engaged five months later to a guy she’d only met just as we broke up.
At some point along the line, Motley decided I was hers, and she was mine, and would walk across roommates and family members, just to be with me.
She lived alone for a month in a national forest, when she went walkabout, as all cats want to do at least once.
She knew over a dozen words of English, and used to race up the stairs of the townhouse I shared in Springfield, Virginia, and leap four feet through the air to land on my bed when I called her at bed time.
When I came down with a mystery illness earlier this year, she curled up against me, there when I fell asleep from my fatigue, and there when I woke up.
At the end of her life, she nuzzled my hand, getting her cheeks a good scratching one last time.
When I follow her into the dark one day, I expect to find her there waiting for me, waiting for me to pop open a cat of cat food already.
She was a hell of a good cat.
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A sure sign that The Sickness is returning, as if the shooting pains and stiffness in my joints weren’t enough: Two people in the space of 30 minutes today raved about how much weight I had recently lost.
Yeah, loss of appetite and fatigue will do that. It’s the diet craze destined to sweep America.
The pain isn’t too bad yet. Imagine some sadist jabbing your joints with needles, especially your knuckles and toes. My left hand, which was one of the most-affected set of joints last time around, feels like someone’s just given it a bonecrusher handshake and ground all the bones of my hand together more or less constantly. And my left kneecap feels like some wag is trying to slip a disc up underneath my kneecap, prying my knee apart.
The good news, though, is that November and December are traditionally the slowest part of the year in the newspaper biz, so if I end up on my back again like I was this spring, it won’t greatly interfere with my work.
Last year, when our apartment (well, duplex, but they insist on calling it an apartment) was new, we had no bug problems. Zippo. This year, the exterior defenses, whatever they might be, have been penetrated. Ants first showed up in my bathroom. I was surprised, but I figured the ants would realize they’d made an awful mistake and leave in despair.
A few days later, they came out through an electrical outlet in the kitchen. So much for them leaving in despair. As you might imagine, finding the kitchen is essentially jackpot for the ants, and we’ve been waging a losing battle against them. We didn’t want to spray the kitchen down with Raid, because of the elderly cat. I went and got some ant bait traps (also by Raid) from Rite Aid, but the ants seem only vaguely interested and certainly still quite alive.
Well, Joe the Orkin Man, who just left the paper after a monthly visit, may have the answer: Windex. Apparently, spritzing with Windex will kill the ants dead due to the ammonia, and also disrupt their scent trails, meaning we won’t have little lines of them all over. He also schooled me on bait traps: Apparently, there are sugar-based traps and protein-based traps, and depending on what time of year it is, the ants will have different needs, and the wrong sort of trap (i.e. the kind I have) will do zippo. There are “dual bait” traps, though, that have both types and he recommended a brand (Grant).
Today, we declare our independence (from ants).
The other day, I mentioned my friend Shylo got married, in a wacky prom-themed wedding.
Although she writes too infrequently for such a good writer, she has written about her wedding on her blog:
People commented on the vows, saying they were geniune and clever. While Brian put his to paper, i knew if I did that i’d just cry through the whole thing. So I just thought about what I’d say and said it. I remember looking at the ceiling. I know I cried. But here’s about what I said, plus a bit of what I forgot to say:
A few weeks ago, we had the perfect day. We got up early and I made you breakfast. And you always like what I make and always eat it with thanks. And then we got coffee at that place that’s always too hot. You know exactly how I like my coffee and make it kitty-friendly. Then we went to the MCA, in the middle of the MusiCircus and all of the noise and spectacle. We enjoyed it all, thoroughly excited by the energy in the museum. And then our walk down Michigan Avenue in the rain, so much like a French film. You kissed me in the rain. We went to that playground by my office. And there was no sound except for the fountains, just the phenomenal skyline and the swings. We went up and down in perfect rhythm, enjoying the moment. Then we happened through Millennium Park, where Barenboim was rehearsing. We sat and listened and just enjoyed the harmony. And it wasn’t all perfect, but it was so close to perfect that I recognized – in the moment – how special that day was. How peaceful. And in a life not always full of peace or harmony or happiness, I was so pleased to be there will you.
Do you promise to give me the room and time I need to grow to be the person I want to be?
Do you promise to be patient with me, always, even when I’m not patient in return?
Do you promise to remain active, always searching for new ideas and experiences?
To each question, Brian responded, “I promise I will try.” We thought that was honest, a standard to which we could rise. I hope to always try, though I know that sometimes I won’t succeed.
That sounds both wonderfully realistic about marriage while being wonderfully romantic at the same time. A very good start.
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