Yesterday I took Roo back to the vet, and I did what I needed to do.
My heart hurts.
I'll spare you the details, and say only that in the end there were no more questions. It was Time.
I guess the heart knows after all.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
We're hanging in there
Today a salt fog rolled over the city and knocked out the power for three hours. And no, I didn't know that could happen either. While it was dark in here I dusted, I put some papers in alphabetical order and I checked over my cable inventory. Confirmation: it's in a sorry state.
Uncle is somewhat stable for someone whose heart has failed. He's on a pump that moves his blood for him through massive tubes sewn to his heart that pass through the front of his chest. He is heavily sedated but my Mom can still make him grin. His body looks a lot different but he's definitely in there somewhere.
Pebbles says he has a broken heart.
His first heart attack was 19 years ago, and they figured he had 5 years to live. There have been many technological advancements in this past decade - there are smaller versions of the pump that he's presently on that can be inserted right into the chest. There is a slight possibility of a transplant. We have hope.
Also hanging in there, my cat Roo. My husband says it's like caring for an infant - he feeds her many times a day, coaxing her to eat and drink, keeping her clean and carrying her to the litter. We laugh and call it Kitty Rehab. He makes her get up and walk around, and he has some medicine he's been giving her. She still wants to be close to us and she seems to be gaining weight and strength, so we hope that a few weeks more will make a big difference. I don't know what we'll do if she doesn't improve. I'm not thinking about that yet.
Uncle is somewhat stable for someone whose heart has failed. He's on a pump that moves his blood for him through massive tubes sewn to his heart that pass through the front of his chest. He is heavily sedated but my Mom can still make him grin. His body looks a lot different but he's definitely in there somewhere.
Pebbles says he has a broken heart.
His first heart attack was 19 years ago, and they figured he had 5 years to live. There have been many technological advancements in this past decade - there are smaller versions of the pump that he's presently on that can be inserted right into the chest. There is a slight possibility of a transplant. We have hope.
Also hanging in there, my cat Roo. My husband says it's like caring for an infant - he feeds her many times a day, coaxing her to eat and drink, keeping her clean and carrying her to the litter. We laugh and call it Kitty Rehab. He makes her get up and walk around, and he has some medicine he's been giving her. She still wants to be close to us and she seems to be gaining weight and strength, so we hope that a few weeks more will make a big difference. I don't know what we'll do if she doesn't improve. I'm not thinking about that yet.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
The sneaky bum.
We're driving home in the car, Pebbles and me. It's dark, it's shitty weather (surprise!) I'm listening to the radio, and hoping that she won't fall asleep on the way.
A little voice came from the backseat: "Mom, my bum is sneaking out."
I turned down the radio. "Um. Your what?"
"My bum!"
I glance over my shoulder. She's strapped in to her five-point carseat, just like I thought she would be. "Oh, well. We can fix that when we get home."
"It's a long way, Mummy."
"Yes, that's true I guess." I turned up the radio, hoping she'd get interested in the music and forget about her little problem.
"Mummy, I need HELP!"
"Allrightallrightallright." I pulled over, went around the back of the car, skidding and slipping on the icy shoulder, went back to the driver's seat to unlock the doors, and finally managed to get where I needed to be. I tucked my hands down on either side of her little self, and sure enough, a soft warm tiny bottom. I tugged up her tights and got back in the car.
"Thank you Mummy.
"You're welcome. No more sneaky bum?"
"No more sneaky bum."
A little voice came from the backseat: "Mom, my bum is sneaking out."
I turned down the radio. "Um. Your what?"
"My bum!"
I glance over my shoulder. She's strapped in to her five-point carseat, just like I thought she would be. "Oh, well. We can fix that when we get home."
"It's a long way, Mummy."
"Yes, that's true I guess." I turned up the radio, hoping she'd get interested in the music and forget about her little problem.
"Mummy, I need HELP!"
"Allrightallrightallright." I pulled over, went around the back of the car, skidding and slipping on the icy shoulder, went back to the driver's seat to unlock the doors, and finally managed to get where I needed to be. I tucked my hands down on either side of her little self, and sure enough, a soft warm tiny bottom. I tugged up her tights and got back in the car.
"Thank you Mummy.
"You're welcome. No more sneaky bum?"
"No more sneaky bum."
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
The Call
Found out today that a family member is in intensive care, in a coma, his heart failing. As I listened to the details, this song was playing on my computer. I thought it rather poignant, beautiful in the most painful of ways.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUO0gd7cr9o
Enough with the dreary stuff! Happy posts coming.
thanks guys!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUO0gd7cr9o
Enough with the dreary stuff! Happy posts coming.
thanks guys!
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