Rebuilding My Family

Wednesday night I thought I might swallow an entire container of Atavan and fall asleep in my hot tub and drift off to the big spa in the sky. 

The day began with a dog walk. That was fine. Then I left for the ferry for Nanaimo and went directly to the vet’s. Total bill to date: $3,800! Poor Ethel. She’s been through so much. I drove as quickly as I could and missed the first ferry by one car. I had to wait another hour with poor Ethel howling.

As soon as I got home, I cancelled next Monday’s trip to Vancouver. I’m a wreck. The stress of the past few days has me barely coping. Sheba’s eye infection exploded, Fred has disappeared and caring for Ethel is non-stop right now. It’s as though my birthday didn’t happen.

Fred emerged very late in the evening. He was in the house hiding the whole time. I thought he’d gotten out when I brought Ethel in. I’d been feeling sick and processing losing him when he came down from the loft. I was absolutely thrilled to see him, but something was wrong.

He hisses and growls at poor Ethel whenever he sees her. He’s totally freaked out. There are signs he scared of her and that he hates her. He returned to the loft and he stays there except to come down and to periodically be a shit. I just don’t get it.

I do nothing but watch the three of them. A fight would be disastrous; he is twice her size. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.

I went to bed a mess, happy to escape into dreams. “One day at a time,” I think to myself. “Thursday will be better,” I tell Sheba. “We’ll get through this,” is my mantra. It comes to mind every ten minutes. I knowhope that down the line, all will be well again.

I reached out to every pet sitter I know but they are all busy. I will have to do this on my own. 

It’s now Thursday morning and no one is happy. Ethel is, perhaps, in the best shape. Fred is prowling around growling and hissing, Sheba is outside pissed at my lack of attention and I want to get out of Dodge. At least Fred hasn’t attacked Ethel and Ethel’s wound is still closed. Plus: I got her medicine into her and I feel I can endure the day. And tomorrow.

One hour at a time.

Inequality

This is a real cover featuring a photo of George Clooney.

This is a real cover featuring a photo of Josh Brolin.

This is a real cover featuring a photo of Nicole Kidman.

This is a real cover featuring a photo of Sandra Bullock.

This is what Josh Brolin might look like if magazines
Photoshopped men as they do for most women.

This is what George Clooney might look like if magazines
Photoshopped men as they do for most women.

Ethel Comes Home Today

I called the vet at 1:00 pm yesterday and Ethel was still in surgery. The clerk told me that the vet said it went “fairly” well. I did not like the word, “fairly,” so I went into the village and bought a carrot cake to eat. Nothing boosts morale better than a pastry .

When I got home, I remembered it was my birthday—all I thought about all day was Ethel and lonely Fred. Of course this little piggy can have cake on his birthday!

At 3:30 the vet called. he removed the blockage in her intestine (it had moved there from her stomach) and left her kidney intact. I will take her back in a month to have another ultrasound. If her kidney grows, it will have to come out. If it’s stable, they will leave it in and, I guess, there’ll be periodic checkups. I’ll know more after I go in today.

I paid constant attention to Freddy and by the evening he seemed more at ease. He stopped the constant crying. He’s right beside me right now; we are in constant touch. He’s a huge bundle of love. I can hardly wait for him to see Ethel later today.

I’m off to Nanaimo again to fetch Ethel and pay a Queen’s ransom for her. Sheba is coming with me. Tomorrow: Getting treatment for Sheba’s eye.

The above graphic is a developing draft for a promotional image for the Self Portrait Exhibition(and party) we’re going to do as an arts council fundraiser here. I’ve proposed we solicit self-portraits from as many people as possible and that we assemble them (salon style) in a massive panel to create a ”portrait of our community” at a big party.

The idea was my suggestion; the subcommittee, of which I’m a part, loved it.

This is a preferred position for Fred. He loves to lie spread eagle on the back of the chaise, close to the fire where he can either turn his back to us to face the flame or, by facing the other way, monitoring his domain.

Surgery

That's Ethel, on the right.

I just got the call. Ethel is going into surgery soon. It's 10:40 am. Soon she will be out of pain. They will remove the foreign object from her stomach and they will check her kidney whilst she is open. They hope to see signs to indicate some function, in which case they will leave her kidney intact. If they have to remove it, they will call me and talk me through the decision. It is risky surgery.

Ethel is Very Ill

We are devastated at Pinecone Park—well, Fred and I are. Sheba is fine. I’m deadly sad.

Ethel started moaning and vomiting yesterday early morning. She took to roosting under my bed. Fred followed me around meowing, lost without his sister to play with. I got a 1:30 pm appointment at the vet.

The vet said she could feel something in Ethel’s stomach and decided to take an x-ray. She seemed fearful. The results showed Ethel’s kidney was hugely swollen and so the vet said the best option for her was for me to take her to the animal emergency hospital in Nanaimo.

It felt like forever getting there. Ethel was howling and vomiting in her carrier. But once we got there blood tests were taken and I had to wait half-an-hour for the results.

I was in my car waiting when another car arrived. A man and woman got out and gently lifted a beautiful big Poodle cross from the car and into the clinic. Moved by their care and attention to their dog, I got out of my car, picked up blankets that had fallen onto the ground, put them in their car and shut their rear hatch.

I returned to the clinic waiting room and was gutted by the sight of the Poodle lying so still on the floor in a treatment room. The man and woman were down there with them. The TV was broadcasting one of those seasonal crackling fireplace videos. I felt totally empty and sick.

The blood test results for Ethel, however, were good. I wanted to hug, Nick, the vet. He recommended an ultrasound and overnight hydration and to prepare myself for a massive bill. 

As I was paying a deposit, the man and woman emerged from their treatment room alone. Their faces tore me apart. And then a beautiful, wonderful thing happened. 

The man—a huge truck driving, massive, burly man’s man—walked up to me, opened his arms and engulfed me with his body. We hugged each other like Stanley and Livingston; not a thing was said.  

I got into the car uplifted by relief and headed home. I called Saint Patsy who’d come to my house to babysit Fred and Sheba and suggested she call Woodfire and order us a big pizza that I picked up on the way home from the ferry. We devoured it. I hadn’t eaten at all during the day.

I was incredibly grateful to come home to Patsy. I did not want to be alone for a bit. Ethel is just a kitten and I lapse into grief on my own. My loving little baby girl is so sick.

Life can be truly wondrous. The man’s hug, the unexpected and marvelous empathy exchange with a stranger, has provided me with rich emotional compensation for this hideous experience. (Plus, of course, I’m hugely relieved Ethel didn’t have to be euthanized. Nick had prepared me for that outcome if the problem proved congenital.)

This morning, Nick will call with the results of the ultrasound. I’ve deduced a surgical solution may be ahead but I’m definitely anticipating getting Ethel back (and being a lot poorer). I miss her terribly and so does poor Freddy. He’s been howling all morning.

There’d been absolutely no sign of any problem until yesterday morning. Her sudden fail was a devastating shock. It hurt terribly to see her in such a sorry state.

I told Nick as I left: “Tomorrow is my birthday. You know the only present I want, right?”

Part of me is missing and it hurts. 

Now I wait for Nick’s call.

Fred is in the living room under the chaise. Sheba has hunkered down beside him and he is purring so loud, I can hear him even though the radio is playing.

I close my eyes and focus on the purr. Together we can do this. 

We need her back.