Happy Birthday, Gus!

Seriously, is there a cuter cat on the planet?

Today is Gus' birthday.  He's three-ish years old. 

Jim and I always like to do something special for the animals on their birthdays.  For the dogs, we go out for a Culver's hamburger, followed by Dairy Queen.  For the cats...not so simple.

What do you give the cat who has everything?  Hates riding in the car?  Gets everything he wants?  Hates affection?

We instituted a rule that you couldn't give a cat a hard time on his birthday, so in Gus' case, no making fun of his disability.  Not that we do...ummm...

We also decided that since Gus hates affection, we wouldn't pick him up at all on his birthday.  Or pet him unless invited to do so. 

Indiana is playing her part and allowing Gus to snuggle with her whenever he wants, which has been quite frequently the last couple of days.  What a kind sister. 

But Q*bert just literally attacked Gus as I am typing this.  Apparently he didn't get the birthday memo. 

So Happy Birthday to my favorite orange cat.  You are evil, but luckily so incredibly adorable.

New Heights of Laziness

Gus in a sleep coma

It's been hot around here, and today, so far, is the worst of all.  Heat indices in the 100s make for very unpleasant outdoor time.  Yet, I can't get the cats to come in.

Sam and Mr. Squiggles will come in periodically, especially around meal time.  But Gus and Q*bert spend almost every waking moment outside.  I don't get it.  We keep the house nice and cool.  Our house is a playground for cats.  What's missing?  What more do they want?  What makes the hot, sticky outdoors so much cooler than inside? 

I'm pretty sure Gus and Q find nice, cool spots under bushes, in the dirt, where they curl up and sleep in the peace and quiet.  I go outside and call to them several times a day, just to make sure they haven't baked themselves to death.  Sometimes they come, sometimes they don't.  I usually call during meal times.  Cats get hungry, right?  But it's like I have to remind them to eat.  Oh,  yeah.  I totally forgot.  I guess I baked my brain in this 105 degree weather.  Usually, if they do grace me by responding to my frantic calls, I have to walk over to them, pick them up, bring them in the house, and place them in front of their food.  At that point, they do remember how to eat and chew. 

After which, they promptly go back outside, to laze in their super-secret hiding spots.  Until the next time a meal rolls around.  Then we start all over again.  I can't wait for fall.  

Cancer and Things

I will admit that this picture has nothing to do with my post.

But it's cute.  And Isis is in it, which is rare.

Indiana is doing really, really well.  I've written about that a few times recently, and it never ceases to amaze me.  She's got so much energy (for a 13-year-old, arthritic dog), and she's eating like a champ.  And taking her pills.  The other day, though, she chewed a big bald spot on her back.  Ugh.  Just when we'd gotten her hair grown in.  So now she has a small skin infection on her back, but the good thing is that the bald spot made our vet take a closer look at Indy's tumor.  We noticed earlier this year that it had grown.  We were pretty disappointed, but we knew that we had the option to debulk the tumor if need be.  But upon closer inspection, my vet discovered that the tumor actually had a hematoma on top--most likely the source of the "growth."  So, sort of yay on that account.  Hematomas are pretty harmless, and other than giving her a homeopathic med for it, we're basically leaving it alone, to reabsorb on its own.  At which time, I hope to find the tumor still at it's original size.  Fingers crossed.

Thursday marks Indiana's cure date for cancer #1.  That's right, you heard me.  Cure.  Cure. 

Cure.

I can hardly believe it myself. 

I promise a blog filled with pictures, insights, stories, and, if I'm doing my job right, a few tears.  After all, cancer #1 made me who I am today, the kind of mother I've grown to be, the person I am evolving into.  That day, June 30, 2006, was one of the worst days of my life.  I relive it every year.  But maybe this year will be easier, knowing we've finally conquered the beast.



Mea Culpa and Bon Voyage

Gus and Indy

I've been horrible about posting this week.  I got busy, spent too much time away from home.  Did you miss me?

If so, I have bad news for you: as of tomorrow, I'm taking a 4-day blog break.  That means no adorable pictures and funny stories of my animals until Thursday, June 23.  Don't miss me too much, 'kay?

I Spoke Too Soon

Remember yesterday?  Where I'm all, "Things are great!  My animals are all healthy and happy, blah, blah, blah."  Well, I noticed last night that Gus had a lump on his tail, and when I touched it (what was I thinking?), he got even more angry and growly than usual.  He's still holding his tail up as usual, and it's moving as it always has, so this "injury" isn't affecting how he uses it.  But I still don't know what happened (is it broken?  is there a cut?  a bug bite?) and I don't know if I should take him to the vet or not.  Today is the worst possible day to discover something like this as (a) I am babysitting for a friend all day and therefore have no opportunity to get into the vet, and (b) it's almost the weekend, meaning the vet's office will be closed should I decide he needs a vet tomorrow. 

Ugh.  This is the way of pet ownership, isn't it?  With 6 pets, I really should be glad that we had so many sunny, smooth days.  Someone was bound to get injured or sick eventually.  Gus is still being his normal self (though, to be completely honest, "normal" Gus and "crabby, sick, injured" Gus both act pretty similarly).  He's eating as normal, running around as normal.  So, probably normal.  I'll keep an eye on him and take him in Monday if need be.  And, knock on wood, no one has anything life-threatening going on, so there's still that.  Knock on wood. 

He Loves That Dog

For anyone who reads my blog regularly or has met Gus in person, you know one very important thing about him--he's cute, but he's crabby.  Gus is the cat of my heart, which is probably a good thing, since he's the one who gave me osteomyelitis.  Granted, that was totally his fault, but still, it kind of fits his personality.

Gus is adorable, which makes you want to cuddle and snuggle with him.  This assumption would be a big mistake.  Gus is capable of being cuddly, but most definitely only under his own terms.  (As is typically the case with any cat, but with Gus, the stakes are much higher)  Gus is most friendly when he is (a) hungry or (b) asleep.  The second one is most ideal because it is also the moment in time when he is least sharp, i.e. less dangerous, so I often take advantage of his sleep-induced cat coma to kiss and snuggle him.  And also to sniff his breath.  Is that weird?

Gus also isn't much of a lap sitter.  You certainly can't pick him up and put him on your lap and expect him to stay.  What you can expect is a growl, maybe a hiss, and almost certainly a claw or two.  So, basically, never pick Gus up.  Though we do.  Usually when we're feeling sassy.  It's kind of like gambling with your life though, so when you pick him up, you get this rush of adrenaline, because anything can happen--maybe you'll make it out alive, and maybe you won't, but in that moment you feel so ALIVE!  Okay, it's not quite that bad, but still, picking him up is a risk.

About once a day, Gus does get the urge for lap time.  It's a huge coup for whoever gets him.  You can actually pet him and stuff, and he stays for, like, a really long time.  So when Jim and I are on the couch, and we see him walk by, we both make our laps as cat-ready and appealing as possible, and then we mock whoever doesn't get the cat.  Because, you know, we're supportive of each other and stuff. 

The other night, we had a friend over for dinner (and to try to finish watching this miniseries we had started--do you know how hard it is to schedule time to watch an 8-hour miniseries with someone you don't live with--we're dying to finish it, and it seems like we'll never be done!).  Gus came into the room and immediately walked over to snuggle with Indiana.  That's how he rolls--the dog is his best friend.  Our friend saw it and made the most accurate, spot-on observation of Gus: "Awwww.  He hates the world, but he loves that dog."  And indeed he does.

Hopefully the Sun Will Make All the Difference

Indiana looks possessed, but you can totally see my sparkly shoes

It's been raining for 300 days straight here in Illinois.  Okay, maybe not that many, but it sure feels like it.  The sun is out today, sort of.  It's not raining.  Right now.  And tomorrow and Saturday are supposed to be beautiful, so yay for that!

I do love me some rainy days, because they make me want to hunker down on the couch, and snuggle up with a cat and read a book or watch TV and generally be really lazy.  That's been kind of disastrous this week, because we have Indiana's big birthday party on Saturday, and I am so behind.  Seriously, I need like an extra 24 hours to get everything done.  I woke up in a panic in the middle of the night last night and couldn't get back to sleep for hours (and that's not an exaggeration), because I was convinced that there was no way humanly possible to get everything done that I want to get done. 

Do you do that?  Wake up in the middle of the night, worrying about this or that?  I do that every few weeks or so, and when I wake up again in the morning, I think, "What the heck is wrong with you?  Why were you freaking out?  It's not that big of a deal."  For some reason, nighttime makes everything worse.  For example, in the middle of the night, I might think, "Oh My God I Have To Make Cupcakes For Tomorrow Night, And I Will Never Get Them Done, And When Am I Supposed To Make Cupcakes, Oh My God, It's The End Of The World."  But then when I wake up in the morning, I'm considerably more lucid, and capable of thinking things like, "Well, I have two hours between my appointments, so I can make cupcakes then, and then after my second appointment, I can frost the cupcakes.  Easy peasy."  But these things do not occur to you in the middle of the night. 

Anyway, I totally got off on a tangent, because my whole point about my night worries is that I think in this case they are totally founded.  I woke up this morning feeling slightly better than at 1am, but still...there's a lot to be done.  And I have standards to live up to.  Eh, sleep is totally overrated.

Another thing that has made my week weird, is that the rain has kept my four cats inside, for the most part.  They'll run outside while it's raining to potty under the deck, and during brief periods when it isn't raining, they'll explore for a little while, but overall, they've been in the house a lot more than usual.  Which means a lot more energy, and a lot more fights. 

Yesterday morning, Jim woke up and found a bag of dog food on the floor, filled with holes, probably attacked by Samson.  Who brought in a snake two days ago.  And Gus has been trying to make Mr. Squiggles play, which Mr. S hates.  And Gus and Samson have been stalking Q*bert all around the house, and Q*bert has been annoying the heck out of me during meal time, running around my legs and then biting me when I dare make contact with him.  All I can say is that I am sooooo glad that it's supposed to finally be getting nice outside, so I can get these darn cats outside, where they can work off their energy and take their aggression out on, I don't know, butterflies or something.  Sorry butterflies, but better you than me.

Flaking Out Today to Make Tomorrow Awesome

Here.  This oldie of Gus will tide you over.

Tomorrow is Indiana's 13th Birthday.  This is a huge feat for any large-breed dog, let alone one who has survived cancer, hypothyroidism, adrenal disease, kidney disease, and cancer again.  Plus, becoming a teenager is a big deal for everyone, right? 

So tomorrow's blog post is going to be awesome.  I have something really cool planned, and I think you'll enjoy it.  I'm sorry to flake out today with a lame post, but I promise to get started right away on tomorrow's post.  So it'll be worth it, I promise.  Check back again tomorrow, 'kay?

Until then, friends...

A Shameless Plug

This cute little kitten wants you to donate money to Paws 4 A Cure

Is it fair to use a years-old, heartbreakingly adorable picture of Gus to promote something near and dear to my heart?  My cat, my picture, my rules.  Besides, Gus hates animal cancer just as much as I do, so he's totally on board with this post.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the Paws 4 A Cure walk, founded by my good friend Keri, a fellow dog Mom.  Founded in honor of her son, Nikko, Paws 4 A Cure raises funds to provide treatment for pet parents who cannot afford treatments on their own. 

Anyone who has ever dealt with animal cancer knows it can be shockingly expensive.  Some cancers can be removed surgically or treated with drugs.  But other cancers, like lymphoma (which require months and months of multiple drugs) or osteosarcoma (bone cancer, which often requires surgery, radiation, and chemo) take months, or even years, to treat.  These costs add up.  And some families can't afford even the simplest of treatments.

Through nearly five years of battling cancer with Indiana, we've always been fortunate to be able to afford anything we wanted.  We've never had to make a decision based on finances.  But I've seen it happen.  Sitting in the lobby of the Purdue University Small Animal Clinic, waiting for Indiana to finish up some tests, I heard a conversation between two distraught parents and a vet.  Their dog was dying, currently in the ER, awaiting a much-needed surgery.  After a quick discussion with the vet, they left, only to return a short time later.  They had crunched some numbers and made some calls, and come to the realization that they couldn't afford the surgery for their dog.  They were both in tears, heartbroken over this.  The vet left to stop the surgery.  It was the saddest thing I have ever seen.  I don't know how it ended up, if the family found some way to help their dog, or, if in that moment of decision, their dog's life was ended.  I honestly couldn't bear to find out what happened.  I wanted desperately to help, but my own finances don't allow for taking on thousands of dollars of another pet's care. 

This happens more than we realize.  Loving, committed families forced to make awful choices because of money.  Wanting to save their pet, but having to decide between risky surgery or feeding their children.  No family should have to make that decision.  Paws 4 A Cure makes sure that they don't. 

If you are financially in a place to do so, I encourage you to visit the Paws 4 A Cure website and make a donation (no size is too small).  I'm already committed to the walk, and I'll be making a donation too.  The care we give Indiana should be available to everyone.  Please help Paws 4 A Cure make that a reality!

The Short List

Our first picture of our photo session.  See how he loves the can?



Our second photo.  Now this is getting a little old. 
I think Q*bert was walking past the doorway, which is waaaaay more important.



Ok, seriously, at this point, he's had enough.  See the eyes?  See the ears? 
It was time to put the camera down and walk away.



Everyone knows about the daily struggle Jim and I have to get Indiana to eat.  Some days leave me in tears, but since we discovered Evanger's canned "Hunk of Beef" food, it's made our lives sooooooo much easier.  It used to be, we had a list of maybe 4-5 canned foods that Indiana would eat.  Today, that list appears to be one.  And it's Hunk of Beef.

Evanger's is a good company--all natural, human-grade ingredients.  They stand apart from other companies because they actually make their food right in the can.  Plop in ingredients.  Cook in can.  Done.  So the texture of their foods is more like "people" food.  The Hunk of Beef is literally that.  A hunk of beef.  It has the texture of beef cooked in a crockpot.  No veggies.  Just beef.

Indiana will always eat it, which is good, because it's one of the few things that we are guaranteed to get into her.  Jim just expressed concern this morning about what we would do if it goes off "The List."  I told him we can't think about that.  But then I thought, "What would we do??"  And then I pushed it out of my mind, because, geez, it's not a pretty thought.  There's always something, I'm sure, but I don't know what it would be.  Thank God I work at a pet food store.

I definitely recommend this food to anyone with a picky pet.  The Evanger's rep I talked to several weeks ago at the IKC Dog Show said it is their top selling canned food.  I can see why. 

Grant Me Patience

Do you ever have days where you just feel like the next person to complain is going to drive you off the deep end?  I don't have human children, but I'm guessing it's the same whether your children have fur or not. 

Indiana and I prepare for battle against each other three times a day: breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  Some days she opts for peace, and that's happy.  Other days, we only battle over part of the meal.  And some days, oh my gosh, are a full-blown nightmare. 

Luckily, today, so far, is just a partial battle day.  She ate her breakfast well, which I was grateful for.  Then she took her pills, which went okay, but not awesome.  We already have to wrap her pills in liver sausage, and no more than two pills are allowed at a time.  And if you put too much liver sausage on it, she'll spit it out.  Or if you don't pack the pills right.  Or if she hears a squirrel fart out in the yard.  Whatever.  I haven't figured out all of the rules yet.  But Jim did discover that if she spits out the pills, then you can pick them back up, dip them in cat food, and she'll take them.  Which is true.  But it's totally gross.  Not only do I now have a handful of wet, slobbery liver sausage, but I also have to dip it into canned cat food.  And touch it again.  Yum.  But at least she'll eat it with no complaints.  So, there's that.

But during these times, I get so frustrated!  And then I feel guilty.  For eleven and a half years of her life, she never complained.  Not during chemo.  Not at vet appointments.  Not even when she had a biopsy without sedation.  So, if she wants to be picky now (and I'm sure she has a good reason, I just don't exactly know what it is), then I should thank my lucky stars that she's still alive to be picky and shut the heck up. 

But still, I'm human, and it's hard not to get frustrated.  Especially when one of your cats is inside wanting to go outside while another is outside wanting to come inside and instead of just GOING THROUGH THE FREAKIN' PET DOOR, they stand on either side of the pet door and smack at each other and make annoying (but kind of adorable and funny) spitting sounds at each other.  Or when you're trying to type up a blog post on your laptop but your cat, who was missing for over a year but miraculously came back to you via a friend and therefore has earned anything he wants for the rest of his life, ever, wants to lay in the middle of your lap, which is where your laptop is supposed to go, so instead your laptop has to go to your side, on a pillow, which makes your left wrist feel really awkward and uncomfortable, and it starts to ache after about two sentences, and you make a gazillion typos because you're at the wrong angle.  And it's 9am. 

It's going to be a long day.  But at least I have my family with me, safe and sound.  Alive for another day.  Except maybe for the cats at the door.  They're treading on thin ice.

Lazy Day

I'm feeling pretty lazy today.  I had a busy (and not entirely peaceful) weekend, and Jim's been working a lot.  So today we have a day off with few obligations.  So Jim and I have a date with the couch, the animals, grocery shopping, and maybe a load of laundry.  Otherwise, I'm keeping this day stress-free. 

So in that spirit, I'll just let you enjoy this adorable picture of Gus sleeping on Inexplicably Warm Bed (it plugs in and provides loads of kitty warmth).  'Til tomorrow, folks.

Oh, Brothers

Remember the other day, when I talked about my cats' obsession with Stella & Chewy's freeze-dried treats?  Well, it's gotten worse.  A whole lot worse.

My cats are still obsessed.  They still lose their sh*t over it.  But now, every time I walk into the kitchen, be it for a glass of water, to put something in the dishwasher, or, heaven forbid, to cook, I have four cats flying in from all parts of the house.

Seriously, I set foot in that room, and I have at least one cat there, meowing and looking at me with a crazed, expectant look in his eye. 

When I am actually in the kitchen to cook, that's a problem too.  Because the cabinet where we keep the Stella & Chewy's freeze-dried treats (which I will, from now on, refer to as "crack"), is also in the kitchen, and the cats know it.  Every time that cabinet door opens, the cats come running.  Also, if I should pick up a food product that is in a soft, crinkly package (like shredded cheese or croutons, neither of which is remotely crack), they come running too.  Heaven forbid I should put croutons on my salad, because I have four cats meowing and running around the kitchen, convinced I am putting crack on my salad.  Guys, I'm a vegetarian.  Mom doesn't put raw meat on her salad. 

It really, honestly is very, very funny.  But also very, very annoying, because Mr. Squiggles stands around, meowing at me in this desperate, heartbreaking meow that he has, and Q*bert runs around at my feet, begging to be accidentally kicked.  Gus stands around looking confused (per usual), but Samson tries to figure out how he can get to the crack.  Can I open the door?  Did the lady leave any on the counter?  Maybe if I whine louder, she'll give me some.  Maybe she forgot.  I'll remind her again. 

I've created four tiny monsters.  Now if you'll excuse me, I think I need to go purchase some stock in kitty crack.

Gus is Hazardous to My Health: Part Two

It has come to my attention that I never finished telling the story of my cat bite drama, and because I am super busy this week, here it is for your reading pleasure.

***WARNING!! THIS POST CONTAINS ICKY PICTURES***

(The cat that started it all. He looks so cute and innocent, right? How can you be mad at that?)

A few months ago, I started The Great Finger Saga.  A bunch of crazy things happened, and I never felt it was the right time to finish it.  But because I had already started most of the post, and because it only required a little tweaking, (and because it's lazy blogging week--yay!), here is my tale of raging infectious disease.

The finger pre-surgery. See? It totally doesn't look that awful, does it? I mean, it looked waaaay worse after it happened. I just don't have any pictures of it from then. What was I thinking?

Where we last left off in our story was the day before surgery. Fast forward to the next morning. I was pretty scared but still was feeling uncharacteristically zen about the whole thing. It was what it was. Then I got to the hospital and got super nervous. Still, I tried to see this as an adventure. A learning experience. I've always been fascinated by medical stuff and gross pictures, and here was a chance to experience it first hand. I'd never had surgery before but have watched like a million episodes of "House" and "ER," so I could put all of that medical knowledge to the test. Awesome.

They called me to surgical prep pretty quickly, and luckily they didn't offer to let Jim accompany me just yet, because I wouldn't have let him come anyway. He's medically squeamish, and has passed out before, so I wasn't letting him anywhere near needle insertion. I'm not afraid of needles, blood, or urine specimen cups, so pre-surgical was a breeze for me. They let Jim and my Dad (who came to wait with us) back into my prep room, and then the hard part came. The waiting. And the waiting.

Luckily, I got visits from the my infectious disease doctor and my surgeon. That helped pass the time. Finally, the anesthesiologist came in, and then I knew the ball would get rolling. My OR nurse finally came in, and it was time to GO! I was so ready to get it over with.

Being rolled into an OR is a scary experience. They took my glasses off (which meant I was blind as a bat), so my view of everything was fuzzy. That's ok though, because my view was mostly of the ceiling. When I got into the OR, it was cold and bright, as I expected, having watched lots of television. (See? It's totally good for something.) There were a lot of people running around doing lots of things that I'm sure pertained to me somehow. The OR nurse never left my side and explained everything that was going on. The anesthesiologist was ticked off because her computer that keeps track of medications wasn't letting her log in, so they had to bring in some other guy to help her. It was a tad disconcerting, since you want everything to run smoothly. My awesome nurse came in close, touched my arm, and said, "This has nothing to do with you. You are totally fine. It's just a problem with the computer that keeps track of medications for billing. Don't worry." So then the other two anesthesiologists heard her, thought, "Oh, maybe we're freaking out the scared patient," so they both came over and laughed and said, "Oh, no, don't worry, you're totally fine." OK. Let's get this OVER WITH!

The plan, because I'm a sort-of-professional singer, was to avoid intubation at all costs (because they shove a plastic tube down your throat, pushing aside your vocal chords). The plan the doctors came up with was to give me several shots in the nerves of my affected finger, to numb it, put me under heavy sedation, and then do a light dose of general anesthesia over that, but only use a breathing tube that goes to the back of your throat. This was fine with me. I had two criteria: (1) avoid my vocal chords, and (2) make sure I am dead to the world. But not literally.

I was afraid of that nerve block (a needle in your nerve has to hurt, doesn't it?), so both my nurse and I requested sedation prior to that. The doctor said I might feel it just a little, but all I remember is the anesthesiologist telling me she was injecting the sedative, the nurse holding an oxygen mask over my mouth, and then....nothing. Versed, you are a wonderful drug.

The next thing I remember is coming to in the recovery room, or perhaps being wheeled there. I vaguely remember the anesthesiologist asking me to sing...maybe. God only knows, when you're coming out of anesthesia. I do remember coming to, and it didn't take long. My eyes wouldn't focus for a while, and I was dreadfully thirsty, and my throat hurt. Some nice person brought me my glasses so I could see. Then I could watch my vitals monitor, which had the time on it. Large chunks of time would pass, even though it felt like time was going slowly. I don't think I slept, but apparently, I zoned out big time.

I remember the first thing I did after waking up was look at my hand. I had a small fear going in that they would have to amputate my finger, so I had to check to make sure it was still there. It was. It was wrapped up into a giant club, and I couldn't feel it at all, so that was good. I just stared at it for a really long time, inspecting it. It probably looked weird to the nurses, but I suppose they're used to that. I heard all kinds of crazy from the other patients in the room.

An hour or so later, two techs came to get me to have my PICC line inserted. If you're not familiar with a PICC line, PICC stands for Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter, or Evil-Medieval-Torture-Device-That-Made-My-Life-Hell-But-Actually-Allowed-Me-To-Do-My-Own-IV-Treatments-At-Home-Instead-Of-Having-To-Be-In-The-Hospital-Or-The-Nursing-Home-For-Six-Weeks. You see, one of the problems with treating osteomyelitis, which is what I had, is that it requires really strong IV antibiotics daily for six weeks. So in otherwise healthy patients, the hospital inserts a plastic catheter in the fleshy part of your upper arm and threads it through a vein until it reaches your superior vena cava, one of the main arteries coming out of your heart. This is done using ultrasound and x-ray, which was kind of cool, but also super creepy. I was worried I would feel the catheter snaking its way into my heart, but I didn't. I won't say that the procedure hurt, because that's not quite the right word, but let's just say I hope never to have to repeat it.

Once that was done, the techs kindly let me use the bathroom (hours and hours of IV fluids + a normally weak bladder = extreme discomfort). They also gave me a glass of water, so they were at that moment officially my favorite people of the day. (No offense, OR nurse Jody-you're my fav too)

There was some confusion about which room I would be going to following surgery, even though I had been told 325 hours before, and I kept saying, "I was told 325." Eventually, where did I end up? 325.

I was pretty darn awake at this point and feeling no pain. The nurses were really nice and got me set up with a morphine pump (which I saw as a challenge--I WILL NOT USE IT!) and got me as comfortable as possible in my room. My family all came to see me that night, and though I didn't think I was hungry, by the time dinner made its way to me, I was STARVING! My biggest complaint the whole time I was there was a nasty migraine that wouldn't go away. You'd think that in a hospital, they could fix that, but all they could give me was extra-strength Tylenol. Thankfully, I slept better than I expected, and in the morning, after breakfast, my migraine finally eased.

I had the nicest nurses while I was there. I have several nurses in my life, so I know they work really hard, are underpaid, and get treated like crap half the time. I know to be really appreciative of all they do. But these women were so kind and so laid back, and I am grateful to them for taking such good care of me!

In the morning, I woke up and knew I needed to go home. Come on, people, let's get the ball rolling. Thankfully, my daytime nurse was behind me 100%, so she did all she could to get me home ASAP. I had several doctors to see first, but luckily, they all came at almost the same time, and I got that out of the way. The nurse unwrapped my hand, and I got to see my incision for the first time. Gag. The surgeon had put a cotton pack in it, so when the nurse removed it (which I thought would hurt, but it didn't), the hole was gigantic! I am not a squeamish person, but I seriously couldn't look at it. Then blood started to ooze out. And the surgeon wanted me to start physical therapy on it right away. That actually didn't hurt at all, even though I had regained feeling in my finger at around 3am that morning. But it was gross that blood would seep out of the wound every time I bent that joint. Ick. Wanna see a picture of it, a couple of days post-surgery? It's kind of gross, be warned.

Gross, huh? But it looked far worse the day after surgery. Plus, it just got unwrapped before I took the picture, so it looks kind of squished and weird.  It only took about two weeks to heal completely, and now I only have a small scar and a small amount of scar tissue.

So anyway, the nurse got me out of the hospital by noon, which I was really happy about. I was useless at home, but at least I was surrounded by comfort and love! I knew there was a lot of crap coming up to deal with, and poor Jim was taking care of me, the animals, the house, and working 72 hours a week. I don't know how he did it. I only know that it reiterated to me how amazing he truly is.

Ok, now it's time for show-and-tell. There aren't any more graphic pictures.

My poor, useless mitten. I changed the dressing on it three times a day. I always made sure to leave three fingers carefully uncovered, or else I was totally screwed. This is, however, the main reason I couldn't drive or bathe myself.

 

My massive blister caused by some reaction to the medical tape on my PICC line. 
I actually have a small scar still from it. .

The tower of medical supplies.

Me making a fist! I hadn't been able to bend that finger for over a month, so that was progress.
It's the little things, people.

My worst enemy PICC line. A temporary/too permanent for my taste IV line inserted in a vein in my arm. It is threaded into my superior vena cava, which for those who don't remember high school biology, is in your chest. And I was awake for the insertion. Good times.

I had to do an IV once a day for six weeks. Plus, I had to make a two-hour round-trip drive once a week for a bandage change and some blood work. But the staff there was really nice, and the drive was easy, so I shouldn't complain.

My nifty little bottle of ertapenem: just plug in and go. The doctor changing my drug after the first week, from the broad-spectrum ertepenem to the more focused ceftriaxone. My finger cultures showed the bacterium Pasteurella growing in my bone, so this new drug will target that bacteria.

I still can't believe one little cat bit caused all of these problems. It took a long time for me to realize that osteomyelitis is a very serious illness, and is potentially deadly (though not if you get it treated--I'm in no danger of dying).  Being sick sucked, because I couldn't lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk until the PICC line was out, which meant I couldn't even pick up my own cats. Or laundry baskets, or bags of groceries. I also couldn't do dishes (boo hoo, huh?), and I had difficulty opening cans of pet food. I also couldn't shower by myself until  I got a nifty contraption that creates a seal over the PICC line to prevent it from getting wet. With that, I was able to put it on all by myself and shower whenever I wanted! Yippee! But I still felt like an invalid, and that depressed me.
Thanks to massive amounts of probiotics I was taking to counteract the massive amounts of antibiotics going into my body, the only side effect I had from the medicine during treatment was extreme tiredness.  My worst day was the day I had to lean against the washing machine and catch my breath after putting in a load of laundry.  This, three months after running a 5K. 

Since stopping the antibiotics, I'm still not 100%.  A few weeks after finishing treatment, I got suddenly, violently ill, two days before Christmas.  I almost ended up in the hospital, and for a while, I might have welcomed that.  My doctor suspected C diff, a secondary bacterial GI infection caused by the die-off of good bacteria in my GI tract.  So I was back on antibiotics; oral Flagyl this time.  That took care of the vomiting and the worst of the other-awful-GI-symptoms-that-you-all-know-what-I'm-talking-about, but the other-awful-GI-symptoms-that-you-all-know-what-I'm-talking-about lasted for about another month and a half.  And I have some memory issues (I can't remember crap right now), which my neurologist thinks is from the antibiotics and should go away eventually.  So osteomyelitis kind of ruined my life.  At least for a while.  But I learned a few things; (1) I plan to take good care of myself and never, ever get sick for the rest of my life, and (2) never, ever pick Gus up when he's mad.

My Quirks as a Parent

(Besides being ok with cat butt in my face?)

I will admit to having some "quirks" as a parent.  Some of this is a product of worry, some of it is born of necessity, and some of it, well, it's because I'm weird. 

Because I do the same thing multiple times a day, every single day, I have to have things a certain way.  For example, when I prepare a meal for my pets, I am feeding 6 creatures at a time.  Their bowls must go in a certain place on the counter, and each animal's bowl has to be in the exact same place every time.  This is partly so I can keep track of whose food is whose (all six of my animals get different medicines/supplements), but it's also because I'm OCD about it.  For instance, it makes my brain explode when Jim feeds the animals and puts the bowls in different places.  It's ok that he does it, I just can't be around to see it.

Another weird quirk:  I am picky about raw food textures.  I like the food to be soft, wet, and easy to break apart.  Isis will eat absolutely anything (she's my only raw-eater right now), so I know she doesn't care about "texture."  In fact, she eats so fast, I know she doesn't even think about texture.  Yet, I will avoid certain brands and/or meats because of the texture.

I also can't stand eye boogers.  Every pet owner knows that all pets get them, and I am constantly picking them off of my pets.  Mr. Squiggles, because he has a cataract in one eye, has a constantly weeping eye, which means a constant supply of eye boogers growing on his face that I am forever picking off, leading to a frequently annoyed cat.

I never play loud music in the house (or car when the pets are with me), because I worry that it agitates the animals. 

I always tell the animals (especially Indiana) when I am leaving; I tell them where I am going, and when I will be back.  Every single time.

Likewise, when we put the animals in the car, we tell them where we are going.

I talk to Indiana like she's people, reasoning (and even begging) with her. 

We sometimes pronounce Q*bert as Cue-bear and speak to him in French.

Each of our animals has a nick-name that is so bastardized that we often don't remember how we arrived at it.  What we most often call each pet (right now--this changes too):

     Indiana: Bear

     Isis: Noodle

     Mr. Squiggles:  Butt

     Gus: PJ

     Samson: Turd

     Q*bert: the aforementioned Cue-bear

We have a pile of dog toys literally two feet high and three feet wide, even though neither dog plays with toys anymore.

Our house is covered with cat playthings, the bigger the better.  We have the Great Wall of China, a tank, and a huge pile of cardboard bricks with which we build a different fort a few times a week.

I think I'm going to end this post before you all think I've totally lost my mind.

Things I Love Today

I had a kind of rough day yesterday (any day that involves jumper cables, police cars with their lights flashing just for you, and a tow truck is destined not to be the best day ever).  My week is already really busy, with me spending all week volunteering at the IKC Dog Show (13-14 hour days, no time to sit down, one 5-minute lunch break,  babysitting an extra critter this week along with caring for my own (beyond time-consuming) clan, a rehearsal and a big concert on Sunday...yikes!  I'm already freaking myself out!).  Now I'm down one vehicle (please, please, please be done by noon today!), and I have to get myself up to Chicago late this afternoon to begin set-up.  *Takes deep breaths*

I'm trying to be zen about the whole thing, because I have control over so little of it.  So in honor of that, today's post is about things that are making me smile today:

I love that Gus tries to play with Mr. Squiggles, and because he plays too hard, it makes Mr. Squiggles mad.

I love Isis won't get into bed until after Jim and I have both gotten out of it. 

I love that Samson has started sleeping with us at night, finally, after being a member of our family for 14 months. 

I love that the minute I sit down on the couch, Mr. Squiggles heads over from anywhere in the house to sit on my lap.

I love that Indiana will always, always eat her freeze-dried patties with her liquid gold medicine.  Good girl!

I love that Indiana has been getting up  on the bed, all by herself!

I love that Q*bert has no self-control when it comes to food, and that he runs around crying like an idiot while we're preparing meals. 

I love that it's getting warmer outside, which means Indiana can sit outside as long as she wants.

I love knowing that I have a house full of kitties, happily sleeping somewhere, usually where I can't find them.

I love that in 5 days, my hell week will be over for another year!!

Blog Vacation

Bye-bye. I'm taking a blog vacation this week. See you on the 14th! Absence makes the heart grow fonder, people.

My Cats And Birds

(Notice the little naughty blob of orange on the bottom, left-hand side of the photo?)

Like every self-respecting cat, mine are fascinated by birds and squirrels. In the summertime, I often find them lying in wait next to the numerous bird feeders we have placed around the yard. It's pretty cute, but I'm unsure about how effective it is as a hunting method, considering the number of birds they're actually able to capture, which is proportionally very low. (Rodents are a different story)

In the winter, bird catching opportunities are limited, because it's not worth your time to go out and stalk one when so many are available for viewing from the comfort of your own home. Dawn is prime bird viewing at our house (apparently), and the preferred spots are in the bedroom or on the cat tower in the living room. I'm a light sleeper and usually wake up when the cats spot a bird, because Gus especially emits the strangest chirping noises I have ever heard. Chirping, clicking, I've heard it described many ways; it's an odd noise that some cats make when they spot prey. All I know is it makes me giggle so hard every time, which I try to stifle so as not to distract my cat. While I heard Q make these noises the other day, Gus is most consistent about it, and I love it every single time. He crouches low to the ground, twitches his tail, and makes very soft chattering noises, his jaw moving up and down. It's really one of my favorite things, ever.

There also is a family of squirrels living in one of the trees in the front yard. There is a perfect vantage point from one of the upstairs bedrooms, and we've (quite thoughtfully, might I add) supplied a comfy blanket for optimum cat viewing pleasure. I'll often walk upstairs to find Samson lying on the blanket, completely enthralled by this family of squirrels. Eyes wide an alert, tail twitching, he is the epitome of a happy cat.

I think I'd love to live as one of my cats for a day or two; It's gotta be pretty sweet.

Update on Indiana: I didn't write much about Indiana this week, because she's doing pretty well. She's been eating well, getting around pretty well, and generally acting happy. She's getting a chiropractic adjustment tomorrow morning, and we're working on getting her therapy pool ready to roll. She still wants to spend way too much time outside (and it's been hovering at or below freezing).

They Are Bored. I Am in Trouble.

(Sam taking advantage of Daddy when Daddy dropped a can of cat food on the floor)

My cats are really bored. The weather here hasn't been awful, per se. Just typical Illinois weather: cold, overcast, occasionally snowy, and, did I mention cold? My boys are pretty hearty. They'll go outside in all sorts of weather, and often I think they're nuts for even venturing past the pet door. But sometimes nature calls, and three of the four will only potty outside, so you gotta do what you gotta do.

Our temperatures have been hovering at or below freezing for a few weeks now, which, according to the cats, is not cool. They will go outside and do their business, but come back in pretty quickly and curl up in a nice, warm spot. Everyone knows cats sleep a lot, which they do. But cats also have to be awake at least a couple hours of the day. Going to the bathroom might take up, oh, let's generously say half an hour a day. And you gotta eat too, which is another, say, hour. (Mom and Dad take FOREVER to get meals made! You have to watch them like hawks.) That's about an hour and a half right there, but that leaves another good half hour or so of awake time...with no plans. What's a bored cat to do?

I'll tell you what a bored cat will do. A bored cat will tear through the house at top speed, for seemingly no reason. You will see a flash of brown in your periphery and think to yourself, "What the heck?" If you're lucky, it won't go any further than that, but if you're not lucky, another streak of brown and a streak of orange will also tear by, trying to figure out what's making the first streak of brown lose his mind. This usually leads to lots of hissing and growling, which requires me to get up off the couch, which I generally don't appreciate, thank you very much. (Mom likes to hibernate when it's cold too.)

Bored cats also like to stare at birds in the early morning hours. The best place for bird viewing is in the master bedroom, because there are two small-ish trees/bushes right outside two of the three windows. One window is a bay window overlooking magnolia bush and a redbud tree, and another window is a plain-'ol window, but it overlooks the redbud as well, plus it has a cat perch. Window number three has a cat perch but no tree, so it's the least desirable of the three. Two windows with good views plus three cats equals trouble.

Bay windows are large, you say. Surely two cats could share that window, you say. But you'd be wrong. Samson always claims the good window with the perch, and Q*bert always claims the bay window. Gus, as usual, is always late to the game, so by the time he's awake and ready for a window, the good ones are always claimed. Sometimes he'll take the crappy window, but if he's not in the mood, he'll check out Sam's. When he sees it's occupied (and Sam has no intention of sharing), he'll move on to the bay window. He peeks his little head behind the curtain, only to be greeted with a hiss and a growl from Q*bert. Common sense would tell you to say, "Oh, sorry, buddy. I didn't know this spot was occupied. My bad." And then walk away. But that's not how it goes down. It's much better to growl and hiss and stand your ground, waking Mom up. And since you're doing this just after dawn, Mom can't fall back asleep.

These events, and many more, happen every single day. It is pretty cute. But I won't deny that I am counting the days until spring arrives.

Apparently He Can Take It AND Dish It Out

(This photo is representative of me hiding my head in shame for forgetting I had already used this photo a couple of weeks ago. It's cute though, so it's worth repeating, right?)

Gus and Q*bert have never been good friends, though I think their relationship is improving, slowly. Very, very slowly. Anyway, they have this little game they play when Gus is trying to come in from outside. Q sits on one side of the pet door and Gus sits on the other, and they smack at each other through the flap. It's kind of funny, but they're not playing, exactly. Yesterday, things got a bit heated, and later that day, we noticed Gus had a huge scratch across his face--across his eye socket, to be exact. I was terrified that his eye got scratched, but miraculously, it didn't. I guess that's a benefit of having eyelids and knowing when to use them.

One of the scratches, the one above his eye, was bleeding quite a bit. He wasn't overly interested in letting me nurse him, so I had to wait until he got sleepy (which, for a cat, is guaranteed eventually). What he was interested in was catching a fly, scratching on his cat tower, and batting at Samson from the top of a chair. I really was marvelling at his resilience; wasn't he in pain? Why wasn't he feeling sorry for himself?

About five minutes later, he curled up in a chair and fell asleep on a pillow. I moved in to clean up his eye, and while he woke up enough to be moderately annoyed, he did let me wipe his wound off with medicated wash and put some honey on it. Later, when I checked on him, the honey had melted a little and was starting to drip in his eye (he apparently didn't notice), and he let me wipe off the excess.

I really was amazed at how strong he is. Even as a kitten, when he had a broken arm, he never complained or acted sick. He was more upset that he was confined to a crate than anything else. But now, here I was, freaking out about a scratch, and he just wanted to play and be a cat. So I took that as a cue. He wasn't going to die from the scratch or even lose his sight. He wasn't worried, so I shouldn't be either. There was time to let him be a cat, and when he was ready to really be a cat (i.e. fall asleep), I could move in and do my thing.