I wouldn't call the time between when I last posted and now uneventful by any means, but I've simply not been writing. I have not written a single thing in the past few months with two general exceptions. The first is a handful of short emails, blog comments, forum posts, and IM conversations, but in all honesty, those don't count for much. The other exception is these two entries you see below. They were written roughly one and two months ago respectively. It's about time I've posted them. My apologies for my absence to anyone who's been wondering about me. To those of you I owe anything written, I hope to get around to writing it soon. For those of you who read this, I hope to give you and explanation in similar time. Now to the entries. Note that date references are now old.
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Patches, the elder feline denizen of our household, passed away nearly two weeks ago. He was a fourteen year-old badass of a cat who, even though he had been diagnosed with FIV (The feline counterpart to HIV) years ago, still managed to give us no end of sass and/or compassion as he felt the situation warranted. Just a couple weeks ago he was pilfering chicken from people's plates without his victims being able to figure out when it was done. My brother found him as a stray when he was not one year old and somehow convinced our parents to let us take him in. Some years later, he moved out with my sister when she got her own place. Just under one year ago, when she moved to LA, he stayed behind and moved into my humble abode. I had been worried about him recently, as I have written, as his spasms in his sleep, which I understood my sister to be aware of and indicative of no threat to Patches' health that his vet could discern, had gotten more frequent and he, even more recently, began to seem fatigued. He was fourteen years old (at least officially; though more than one person who knew him since the first year we found him, which was the year of his birth, says they remember him to have been older) and had had FIV for years, so, while his apparent condition was not unexpected, I was concerned. Unfortunately, my sister whom he had lived with for years before moving in with me, had yet to give me his vet's info, so, since he had shown no real signs of illness until these past few days, I let the need for the knowledge slip my mind more often than I should have.
His then-current state in mind, one of the first things I did when I got home the day of his death was to look for him to see if he was all right. I found him lying down with his eyes open, breathing but not moving. I was worried once I saw him. He either slept with his eyes closed, or he sat in a different position. He did not lie down with his eyes open. When I approached him, he gave no response. I pet him briefly and asked if he was okay, and he meowed. He rarely ever meowed, and though I am no expert on feline linguistics, his meow now sounded scared. I proceeded to look for help for him as quickly as I could and thanks to the impressive and greatly appreciated efforts of both Vicky and Corina I got him to Oak Park Animal Hospital quickly only to be informed by the vet that Patches was in what they referred to as the final stages. He was going, and there was no way to save him. I called my brother and sister to consult with them on the decision to put him to sleep, was unable to reach my brother, but was able to put my sister on speaker over my cell phone so she could say her final goodbyes. According to the vet, his body was going, but his heart and brain weren't letting go. She expected it could be hours before he finally let go. Within minutes of hearing my sisters farewell, he passed away.
We had a private cremation service for him at St. Francis Pet Crematory last Saturday. James attended. I was extremely grateful for both the sentiment of his attendance and his company, which proved to be of significant comfort. I would recommend St. Francis wholeheartedly to anyone who finds themselves in need of such services. The service they provided was thoughtful and well performed in every way. I found myself only distressed at the fact that their sole washroom was a port-a-potty, and so there was no place to wash my hands. This is because I am a bacillophobe, however, and is not a rational basis to think ill of their services. For my part, this simply meant I discovered Clorox wipes were not meant to be used on human skin. In arranging the cremation I had completely forgotten to consider the very Catholic nature of my parents meant they would be taken aback by the notion of cremation, especially my father, but the majority voice was for cremation and did not want to bury Patches in our back yard as my father wished to. (Not having known at the time that it was illegal to do so.) He has since come to terms with Patches' cremation. It is at times odd to see how much Patches is missed. I know the notion of him being dead to me seems just wrong. Finally, it saddens me that the little cues that would once have made me pause to look around for him have all but ceased to do so.
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That was initially written the week of his cremation/funeral, but I felt is was not satisfactory. I would later edit it perhaps one week later. I can still remember every moment involved in both his death and cremation vividly, two memories I hope will never leave me. It was odd to see his remains before the final process involved in cremation. It was far from a pleasant sight, but I felt obliged to witness it. I chose to inflict this extra violence on him after his death, whatever the reason. It would have been poor of me to shrink back from being a witness to everything my decision had resulted in. I owe James a great deal for choosing to see his remains in this state with me, something he otherwise might not have done. Finally, my sister flew in from California to attend the ceremony. She was devastated by the loss and further devastated because she could not be with Patches in his final moments. We both agreed the service helped a good deal to heal whatever wounds Patches' death had left.
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So, I did mention I would talk to people again come May, so before the month slips by I suppose I should let people know how I've been doing, which, over all, is not too badly. As it stands, I'm sitting around filling out multifarious applications, though not, perhaps, as many as I could be, waiting for for responses from several of them, and trying to teach myself how to draw, which is, in turns, more difficult and less difficult than I had ever thought it would be. Also, I've learned how to use a swing. That might sound odd, but I never actually learned how to use a swing as a child. I would just sit there and give myself run start and, as the momentum wound down, make frantic efforts to keep my it going while I watched my brother and sister swing themselves. After a while, my dad or one of my siblings would push me on the swing for a while so I wouldn't be completely left out of the fun. Curiously enough, this is something neither of my siblings remembered.
My sister, who was once told by doctors she might not ever walk again, has recently taken to mountain hiking. Something to do with living near mountains had made the prospect oddly compelling to her, that is, when she's not busy climbing them. She was in town for almost two weeks not too long ago, having stopped by for my graduation and Mother's Day. Being the workout junkie she is, we took the occasional miles-long walk together while she was here. On one of these walks, we passed by a the neighborhood park.
"You know, I still don't know how to swing." I said off-handedly as we passed the swing section of the park by.
"Whaaat!?" She responded, horrified.
"Yeah." I said, not realizing her horror was due mostly to the fact she did not remember my childhood inability to swing. "I tried again just a few months ago at the park by my school. I was walking by when I saw the swings and just decided to give it a shot, but I still couldn't get the hang of it."
"You never learned how to swing!"
"Um...no. I thought you knew. Don't you remember, as a kid, you guys always had to push me?"
"No! I don't remember at all. Oh my God. On the way back, we are stopping at the swings and I'm teaching you how to swing."
And that she did. I would like to say I took to it like a natural after all these years, getting it deftly on my first try, but I did not. I can honestly say, though, once I did get the hang of it, the movements to keep the swing's momentum going just seemed intuitive. It left me surprised I had never gotten it before. In fact, I began swinging high enough to worry my sister, but I wasn't worried at all. I felt in no danger, and I was enjoying myself far too much. It wasn't swinging that had caught my mind at that point but rather that brief moment you hit while swinging forward where you hover for just a moment, moving neither forward nor back, and can see nothing but sky.
------------------------------------
Patches, the elder feline denizen of our household, passed away nearly two weeks ago. He was a fourteen year-old badass of a cat who, even though he had been diagnosed with FIV (The feline counterpart to HIV) years ago, still managed to give us no end of sass and/or compassion as he felt the situation warranted. Just a couple weeks ago he was pilfering chicken from people's plates without his victims being able to figure out when it was done. My brother found him as a stray when he was not one year old and somehow convinced our parents to let us take him in. Some years later, he moved out with my sister when she got her own place. Just under one year ago, when she moved to LA, he stayed behind and moved into my humble abode. I had been worried about him recently, as I have written, as his spasms in his sleep, which I understood my sister to be aware of and indicative of no threat to Patches' health that his vet could discern, had gotten more frequent and he, even more recently, began to seem fatigued. He was fourteen years old (at least officially; though more than one person who knew him since the first year we found him, which was the year of his birth, says they remember him to have been older) and had had FIV for years, so, while his apparent condition was not unexpected, I was concerned. Unfortunately, my sister whom he had lived with for years before moving in with me, had yet to give me his vet's info, so, since he had shown no real signs of illness until these past few days, I let the need for the knowledge slip my mind more often than I should have.
His then-current state in mind, one of the first things I did when I got home the day of his death was to look for him to see if he was all right. I found him lying down with his eyes open, breathing but not moving. I was worried once I saw him. He either slept with his eyes closed, or he sat in a different position. He did not lie down with his eyes open. When I approached him, he gave no response. I pet him briefly and asked if he was okay, and he meowed. He rarely ever meowed, and though I am no expert on feline linguistics, his meow now sounded scared. I proceeded to look for help for him as quickly as I could and thanks to the impressive and greatly appreciated efforts of both Vicky and Corina I got him to Oak Park Animal Hospital quickly only to be informed by the vet that Patches was in what they referred to as the final stages. He was going, and there was no way to save him. I called my brother and sister to consult with them on the decision to put him to sleep, was unable to reach my brother, but was able to put my sister on speaker over my cell phone so she could say her final goodbyes. According to the vet, his body was going, but his heart and brain weren't letting go. She expected it could be hours before he finally let go. Within minutes of hearing my sisters farewell, he passed away.
We had a private cremation service for him at St. Francis Pet Crematory last Saturday. James attended. I was extremely grateful for both the sentiment of his attendance and his company, which proved to be of significant comfort. I would recommend St. Francis wholeheartedly to anyone who finds themselves in need of such services. The service they provided was thoughtful and well performed in every way. I found myself only distressed at the fact that their sole washroom was a port-a-potty, and so there was no place to wash my hands. This is because I am a bacillophobe, however, and is not a rational basis to think ill of their services. For my part, this simply meant I discovered Clorox wipes were not meant to be used on human skin. In arranging the cremation I had completely forgotten to consider the very Catholic nature of my parents meant they would be taken aback by the notion of cremation, especially my father, but the majority voice was for cremation and did not want to bury Patches in our back yard as my father wished to. (Not having known at the time that it was illegal to do so.) He has since come to terms with Patches' cremation. It is at times odd to see how much Patches is missed. I know the notion of him being dead to me seems just wrong. Finally, it saddens me that the little cues that would once have made me pause to look around for him have all but ceased to do so.
---------------------------
That was initially written the week of his cremation/funeral, but I felt is was not satisfactory. I would later edit it perhaps one week later. I can still remember every moment involved in both his death and cremation vividly, two memories I hope will never leave me. It was odd to see his remains before the final process involved in cremation. It was far from a pleasant sight, but I felt obliged to witness it. I chose to inflict this extra violence on him after his death, whatever the reason. It would have been poor of me to shrink back from being a witness to everything my decision had resulted in. I owe James a great deal for choosing to see his remains in this state with me, something he otherwise might not have done. Finally, my sister flew in from California to attend the ceremony. She was devastated by the loss and further devastated because she could not be with Patches in his final moments. We both agreed the service helped a good deal to heal whatever wounds Patches' death had left.
----------------------------
So, I did mention I would talk to people again come May, so before the month slips by I suppose I should let people know how I've been doing, which, over all, is not too badly. As it stands, I'm sitting around filling out multifarious applications, though not, perhaps, as many as I could be, waiting for for responses from several of them, and trying to teach myself how to draw, which is, in turns, more difficult and less difficult than I had ever thought it would be. Also, I've learned how to use a swing. That might sound odd, but I never actually learned how to use a swing as a child. I would just sit there and give myself run start and, as the momentum wound down, make frantic efforts to keep my it going while I watched my brother and sister swing themselves. After a while, my dad or one of my siblings would push me on the swing for a while so I wouldn't be completely left out of the fun. Curiously enough, this is something neither of my siblings remembered.
My sister, who was once told by doctors she might not ever walk again, has recently taken to mountain hiking. Something to do with living near mountains had made the prospect oddly compelling to her, that is, when she's not busy climbing them. She was in town for almost two weeks not too long ago, having stopped by for my graduation and Mother's Day. Being the workout junkie she is, we took the occasional miles-long walk together while she was here. On one of these walks, we passed by a the neighborhood park.
"You know, I still don't know how to swing." I said off-handedly as we passed the swing section of the park by.
"Whaaat!?" She responded, horrified.
"Yeah." I said, not realizing her horror was due mostly to the fact she did not remember my childhood inability to swing. "I tried again just a few months ago at the park by my school. I was walking by when I saw the swings and just decided to give it a shot, but I still couldn't get the hang of it."
"You never learned how to swing!"
"Um...no. I thought you knew. Don't you remember, as a kid, you guys always had to push me?"
"No! I don't remember at all. Oh my God. On the way back, we are stopping at the swings and I'm teaching you how to swing."
And that she did. I would like to say I took to it like a natural after all these years, getting it deftly on my first try, but I did not. I can honestly say, though, once I did get the hang of it, the movements to keep the swing's momentum going just seemed intuitive. It left me surprised I had never gotten it before. In fact, I began swinging high enough to worry my sister, but I wasn't worried at all. I felt in no danger, and I was enjoying myself far too much. It wasn't swinging that had caught my mind at that point but rather that brief moment you hit while swinging forward where you hover for just a moment, moving neither forward nor back, and can see nothing but sky.