20 miles!

Two things:

My tennis ball is my new favorite massage therapist when it comes to therapeutic massage and "fixing" my legs. (I'm sitting on it right now--it's in my left deep rotators--yum!)

And Ibuprofen. 400mg. Yes, I know. It's western medical pharmaceuticals. It's diabolical. But, , I remembered the old guys on PT test days in the Army and I remembered them talking about how awesome Ibuprofen was and how it made the run so much easier. And I guess I was feeling desparate to have a decent run.
_________________________________

Eric and I ran from my house down the lakefront to just shy of the Field Museum. Pretty awesome. It was sunny! It was just below freezing! Sometimes it was icy, but most of the path was dry. I was in a good mood throughout which I attribute to eating the night before, eating that morning, eating a LARA bar after 5 miles, a Hammer Gel after 10, and another Hammer Gel after 15. AND, drinking plenty of water that Eric was awesome enough to strap around his waist. I experience fatigue and discomfort but no out-and-out PAIN!, so...awesome. I had very little discomfort the next day too, so...yea, awesome!

Planning a Life - Thoughts

I leave for Europe a week from this evening. I'll be there 3 weeks. What do I want my life to look like when I get back? It'll be spring, or almost spring. A good time for growings and beginnings.

We're expanding into two more rooms at work which means there will be an increase in flexiblity of hours. I could change my schedule dramatically, if I so choose. Do I? I like working on Sundays, I like that my week ends early--on Thursday, I like that I only work one evening a week, and I think I like that it is Monday. I like that on Tues-Thursday, I usually get there after rush hour in the AM and get home before rush hour in the afternoon. So...? The only change I really consider would be working Tuesday-Saturday instead of Sunday-Thursday. But...given the choice, I think I really do choose my work schedule as it is. What a nice fuzzy feeling that is.

I'm wanting to start West African dance (WAD) classes again, but the next session won't start until April 29th. This is Tuesday nights. I can start going to the Friday drop-in classes sooner than that.

I would like to do Tai Chi. I'm looking at this school.

I'm considering trying this class

Writing Workshop – Ages: 18 & Over
Berger Park & Cultural Center6205 N. Sheridan Rd.60660 (Map It)Phone: 773.761.0376Th,7:00 pm - 9:00 pm 3/31/2008 - 6/8/2008

again, because ultimately I want to be writing more, and need a kick in the pants. It's inexpensive. It's nearby. It cuts to the heart of how to write productively. It was scary enough that I quit it last time I tried it--which somehow makes it appealing.

But I really want to guard against overbooking myself. It is the thing I know how to do best but that causes me the most grief, because I also want to maintain my relationships, have time to myself to do nothing, and have time that is unstructured to allow for random fun things to happen.

There is also the possibility of going to Iowa for Easter, Hands Free Thai Bodywork the following weekend, Meditation retreat the weekend after that. BUT. I think I'm not going to do any of these things. I really dislike rushing from one thing to the next. I started saying to myself at one point, "if I had to rush to get there, it's not worth going to," and I still agree with this.

Story of Dad - Part 2

So, now, it's been a year since I wrote "Story of Dad - Part 1." A lot has happened in the last year. But, also, a lot has not happened. Perhaps this part, the real part, has proven itself difficult to get out, but I wonder still if it needs to come out. Like it's an invisible and intangible but very present plug in my throat that's preventing me from saying and expressing something important.

_____________________________________

Eric knocked on my bedroom door... It was our senior year in college, we lived with 3 other people in a Vegetarian Co-op we had called Figrund, a name derived from the digits of our phone number. I had painted a big sign that hung on the front porch that read, "Figrund Vegetarian Co-op." We had house meals every Wednesday, rotating who would be doing the cooking, and we'd each invite a guest to come to dinner. It was fun. He and another housemate lived downstairs, I and two other housemates live upstairs. It was a goofy house; though it had two kitchens, there wasn't much community space, so we ended up hanging out in Eric's room a lot. He had a big TV and good sound system. Plus, he was fun and often up til the late hours of the night.

There was an Undressed marathon going on at the time. Undressed was a TV show on MTV or some similar station. It really was a bad show, but we loved it. On any episode there were always three story lines going on, one taking place in high school, one in college, and one among 20-somethings. The story would follow the characters until they got "undressed," the significance of which varied a bit depending on their age. We rationalized that it was an okay show to watch because there were gay couples, unattractive couples, etc. You know, they weren't all just attractive straight couples. The producers were trying to be open-minded, or probably just trying to avoid criticism.

It was late, probably one o'clock or so in the morning, maybe even a little later, and I had gone upstairs to my room. I don't recall what I was doing. Perhaps I was wasting time on my computer, perhaps I was getting ready for bed, or perhaps I was even watching QVC or more Undressed on my little TV with the purple spot in the corner. I do have the vague sensation though of being in my bed when Eric knocked on the door so I vote for watching television. I had never had a TV in my bedroom before; it was quite a novelty.

"Dude, your uncle is on the phone." Or maybe it was, "Dude, the phone is for you. It's your uncle."

Perhaps my first thought was of surprise that my uncle was calling.

Perhaps my first thought was, "which uncle?"

Perhaps it wasn't a thought at all but a feeling that I already knew.

Except I didn't know. Thought I knew, I know, that I have a flare for the dramatic so...I might have known but had discarded it as me being dramactic. But there wasn't much time to have had many questions.

I took the portable phone from Eric. I shut the door. He presumably went downstairs. I probably said hello to my uncle. I do remember sitting down on my twin sized bed that was positioned on the floor against the far wall. I very much valued having my beds on floors in those days. It made me feel grounded.

My uncle started talking. He said some stuff about...well, I guess I don't remember. Something about my dad's health, and something had happened, and the doctors had tried this or that. It was exactly the sort of thing that you know, that you just know as soon as the person starts talking, what it is that they are trying to say. Like if you have a loved one overseas at a war and a military uniform shows up on your doorstep. You know as soon as they are there and the words start appearing out of their minds what it is that they are preparing you to hear. They are stalling, working up the nerve for themselves, or perhaps giving you some acclimation time. This is going to be bad. Are you sitting down? I'm sorry I'm about to change your life forever.

So my uncle, my dad's youngest living brother, must have said some stuff about his health and the doctors. Probably something about they did everything they could do. And I said, "so he's dead?"

"Yes."

"Okay, what does this mean? What do I do?"

I had a sense of what a hurricane must feel like in the eye of itself. Knowing pain and chaos had already happened, knowing that awful times where to come, but possessing a sense of serenity and peace that can only ever really exist in the now, but also seems to exist when one goes into shock.

"Let me put your Aunt Kathy on the phone..."

Okay.

What do I do? I should come home. Should I take the train? How long will I be gone? How much clothing should I pack? How long will I be gone for?

That was the biggest question on my mind, how much clothing, how long would I be gone?

She suggested I plan on being gone a week. This meant that I had to do laundry (though I am realizing just now that I could easily have done laundry at my mom's house), but I did have to do laundry. She had Uncle Rich were going to drive down to Urbana to pick me up after they took my family home from the hospital.

The next hours passed.

I remember I called Dave, my ex-boyfriend, but still someone I felt very close to. But he refused to come over. (Well, that cemented the extent of our friendship.)

I took two loads of laundry downstairs to the basement to do.

I emailed all of my professors emails that read something like:

"To x:

"My dad just died. I'm going to be going home for at least a week. Please let me know what I need to do to makeup the work/lectures I'm missing."

Something like that.

I remember feeling really powerful and in control. There was a clarity of mind at some points about what I had to do to get what I had to do done.

Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself. After I got off the phone with my uncle, I think I called Dave right away. When he refused to come over, I left my room. Ruxandra's light was on, she was presumably awake, but I didn't want to disturb her, or something, maybe I didn't want to talk to her about this. I went downstairs.

I don't remember what I said to Eric. Probably, "my dad died," or something equally direct.

I'm not sure what he said, if he said anything at all. It probably would have been weird if he had said nothing, but I know he didn't say anything stupid like, "I'm so sorry to hear that" or whatever. Maybe he said, "shit, dude." Or, "how?" or... I don't know. But I remember him being present. He didn't hug me. He didn't try to get me to talk about it. He didn't give me any advice. He was just there.

He said he was working on some thing so he'd be up anyhow, I don't know if that was true or not. Probably not. Much of the next few hours I spent sitting on his futon watching the Undressed marathon. Sometimes the phone would ring and I'd go into the dark kitchen, sit on the floor, and cry with whichever family member was on the other line.

My mother. I remember crying with her. My siblings? I forget if we spoke. I heard the story of them going to the hospital and not knowing what was happening until the elevator doors opening onto his floor and Anne seeing mom crying. And Anne collapsing in the elevator. I felt bad, guilty perhaps, that I had not been there. But also jealous that I had not been there. Angry that I was so far away when something so important to me and my family was happening.

Back in Eric's room we'd watch Undressed. That felt normal. When my laundry was done, I'd fold it. That was normal. When the phone would ring and I'd retreat into the darkened kitchen--not normal.


I guess I'm going to need a Part 3.

Goodbye to Indy

Today was a challenging day. So was yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. And the day before that. That makes February a challenging month.

Feb 1st. The seventh year anniversary of the night that Dad died.
Feb 2nd. The seventh year anniversary of the early morning that Dad died. Groundhog Day.
Feb 3rd. The day before I was taking Indy to the vet and deciding how to approach this.
Feb 4th. The day I took Indy to the vet, made an appointment to have him put down, told my fam that this is what I was going to do.
Feb 5th. I took Indy back to the vet, put him down, told my mom and bro about it.

The 1st. Damn. It was really hard, actually, after Joey left after hanging out for the day deep cleaning my apartment and after I got off the phone with my uncle. I was fine up until then. And then, standing in the middle of my living room, I felt my.........that thing some might call my chi or energy or soul or heart.........drop through the floor. And I sort of fell, sort of sank down to the floor and laid my forehead down. Damn. Dad. Damn. I got out his box of letters and laid on the floor for awhile reading them. I always come away knowing he loved me absolutely unconditionally. I'm grateful for the time I spent away so that now I have more letters than I can read in one sitting. I wrote in my journal to him. After he died, I started a journal with the understanding that everything in it was a letter to him. With the idea that, if somehow possible, he's receiving these letters. So I wrote to him. I cried a lot of tears. Big ones that rolled off my cheek and splashed. It's nice when they roll and they don't get lodged in your throat. It felt cathartic and therapeutic. I felt really lonely. No, not lonely. Just really alone. And I didn't want to be alone. I got Becki on the phone and we talked for awhile until I got into bed and it was time to sleep. I don't generally feel lonely, and don't generally mind being alone, but sometimes it feels really nice to feel present with someone. To be present with someone.

The 2nd. Groundhog Day. Dad's day. Eric and I went for our run. Not so bad really, the hard part was the night before.

The 3rd. I worked. I went to Eric's for his superbowl party and left a bit before halftime. I gained some clarity about Indy. It was my decision to make, because it really was about what was best for him, not best for my fam, or what they wanted. This made all the difference and made the next two days much easier to cope with.

The 4th. I took Indy to the vet and she and I discussed his health situation, deciding that it was best he be put down. I called my mom, bro, and sis and told them this is what had been decided. This was the right way to do it, I know. If left, as I've been saying, to committee, a decision would never have been made and he would have suffered longer. Maybe it's not a bad thing I can be "autocratic." (sort of kidding)

When talking to my brother, he thanked me more sincerely than anyone has ever thanked me for anything. I was very grateful for this. I think I tend to think of apologies and forgiveness-es as being powerful. But really thanking someone is a very powerful thing. I'm not sure I can explain it. But I had been feeling very resentful and somewhat angry before that about the situation, but when he thanked me, it all changed. I could say "you're welcome" and feel somehow empowered. Now I could just feel sad and grieve and I had more love to give Indy. Maybe I've never so needed to be thanked before so I never really paid attention to a sincere thanking. This gives me something to think about.

The 5th. Today sucks. Last night I made Indy sleep with me. He slept up near my pillow after we agreed it wasn't good for him to be on my chest anymore. We cuddled in the morning for an hour or so. He licked my hand. Then he continued to cuddle up with "Mr. Whale," the stuffed animal that Dave gave me 10 years ago or so that somehow I've kept all these years. He, Mr. Whale, seems to reappear from a box when something traumatic happens and comforting needs to be had. Indy curled around him last night and this morning.

I went to work.

I voted.

I came home.

Indy and I spent some time together. He'd been sitting on the bookshelf in the hall closet so he wasn't feeling too bad, I think. I was glad that this wasn't the worst of his days. Then it was 5:30 and I had a 5:30 appointment, so there was no more putting it off. I picked him up and put him in his travel carrier. He didn't resist that much and only complained a little. We listened to Elvis sing "Love Me" on the short drive to the vet. We checked into the vet at 5:40 and we were right away ushered into Room 4. Before we'd always been in Room 3.

I took Indy out of his carrier, sat down on the bench in Room 4 and drapped him over my chest so that his head was right by mine. I leaned back so his body was inclined, so he wouldn't slip off me. I gave him love. He purred. I cried. Some minutes passed like this.

A very kind woman named Liz came in and asked me to sign the Euthanasia Consent form. We discussed what would happen to his body and agreed they would hold onto it until after I talked with my family. She took my payment and brought me a "Dog prayer" in a frame that would apply just as well to cat's, she said. I appreciated her gesture of comfort. It was written in the voice of the animal, basically thanking the human for taking care and doing what's best for them. She touched my arm, gave Indy some love. She said, don't feel bad about crying. We all cry. I appreciated this too. She asked me if I knew about the "rainbow bridge" where humans are apparently reunited with all of their companion animals. I felt comfortable crying in front of her, so this was nice. She asked me if I wanted to be here for it. I said, yes, of course.

She explained to me that it was two injection process. That I'd have time with him to "say my last good-byes" after the first injection. She said she hated that expression, but that's what it is... She left.

I gave Indy more love. He still purred. I still cried. I wondered if this was the hardest thing I've ever done. It felt like it. And nothing else could come to mind.

Dr. Lindsay Miller came in with her assistant. I forget his name. Maybe David. She gave me a hug, she gave Indy some love. She talked to him in that lispy voice people sometimes use with animals. I liked that. She explained the process to me. I told her about Dad, about how Dad had really bonded with this little guy, and that everyone said that Dad was Indy's favorite. I told her the story is that Indy liked Dad's barrel chest and deep slow breathing. That Indy had memories of Dad, even if we couldn't tap into them, and that I thought this made this whole thing with Indy extra hard for everyone. That this weekend was Dad's anniversary so it was espeically difficult for everyone. She said that Dad would be waiting for him "up there," that Dad would be the first person he'd run to. Part of me wanted to reject this kind of talk. But I thought of "Dogma," the movie. I thought that these are nice ideas. One doesn't have to believe or disbelieve them. They're nice. There's nothing wrong with that.

I cried. Indy purred.

She gave Indy some love. We talked about why this was best for him. She mentioned that it's one of the blessings of her profession and unfortunate we don't extend this compassion to humans. Yes. I thought of Craig Ewert. She sent David out of the room to go get a towel for Indy to lay on. It was light blue in color. Before I picked him up to lay him down on the table, he did his characteristic head nuzzle. He tucked his nosed into his neck and rubbed his forehead back and forth into the crook of my elbow. Nuzzling me. Oh, Indy. It's the thing he does that melts everyone's heart. It melts my heart. He hadn't done this recently and I was so grateful for this show of his personality. One last nuzzle.

She may have asked if I was ready. I shrugged. No. But it's time.

I laid him on the table. Dr. Miller and David administered the first injection. This was to make him very relaxed and drowsy. Maybe like you would get if you were at the dentist when you're sort of awake, but very relaxed and not caring too much about what was going on. I picked him up again, sat down, and held him in my lap. He stopped purring. His head rested on my left forearm. His paws were on either side of his face. She told me to not be alarmed when he went limp. It would take a few minutes. She and David left the room.

I cried. When I found a voice, I sang to him "Pretty Indy," adapted from Dad's rendition of Peter, Paul, and Mary's "Pretty Mary" since that is the song I always think of when I seek comfort or seek to comfort. I told him I love him, and Anne and Matt and Mom and Dad loves him. I told him I was sorry. I told him he would be okay. I sang to him and gave him love. He was limp. His eyes were still wide open.

Dr. Miller and David knocked and came back in. It was after six o'clock, when the clinic closes. Any animal noises in the hallway had ceased. Human voices were at a minimum. We laid him back on the blue towel on the table. She asked me if I wanted any of his fur. I said, sure, maybe my sister would like that. Is there a particular part? A place where you like to pet him or a color? We chose the base of his neck between his shoulder blades and a bit from one of his dark front paws. Since he is two-toned. Is this weird? To take some of their fur? She told me she still had fur from her first dog.

He was on his left side. His head was at the end of the table and I kneeled in front of him. I positioned him so that he could see me. I picked out his eye buggers (he probably didn't like that) and a hair off his nose. I pet his head. I gave him love. We watched each other. She inserted a mini catheter needle into an artery in his back leg. She gave him the injection. Essentially it's an overdose of anestesia and would take about 30 seconds or so. His eyes closed a little, though they were still open a bit. I said so. Yes, she said. She listened to his heart. I had my right hand on his head, my left on his chest. I felt a shift. His eyes went dark. He's gone, she said. Yes, I said.

She said, I'll give you some time. Yes. I cried. I thought about Dad. About Indy. About grieving. About our family. Time passed. She knocked and came back inside. Can I have more time. I'll be out in the hall working on charts, just stick your head out when you're ready. Okay, thank you. More time passed. I cried. I pet him. I cried. I wondered if it was weird that I was petting him. Because he was dead. He was gone. I guess I was really petting him for me, not for him. I felt sad. I told myself, it is okay to feel sad. It's good I feel sad. It's right to feel sad. So I felt sad. I was glad I spent so much time studying grief and practicing grieving and I could coach myself through a process. I sank to my knees in a prayer position. I think now, some people like to say that when you are praying to a God, you are on your knees so that you feel vulnerable, so that God can rule over you, in a sense. Maybe that it true sometimes, but I don't really believe it anymore. Because standing, bending over Indy's dead body wasn't as comforting as was kneeling before him with my hands pressed over my heart, or at my mouth, or on his body. It was comforting to me emotionally to kneel. Maybe it is a surrender of some sort, but it is a pleasant surrender.

I was not there when Dad died, or when any of my grandparents died. I'm glad I was there with Indy. And it was nice to be alone. Alone with him. I felt like it was a good-bye to Dad too that I'd never had before. It also all makes me want to get a kitten or kittens. If I was in a relationship, yes, maybe I'd be feeling the baby urge. :) Something about someone dying stimulates, perhaps, that desire for young life and the urge to carry on and witness the cycle of death, rebirth, life, death, rebirth. He was a wonderful kitty and he was very well loved. I'll miss him.

It's Groundhog Day!

Did the squirrel see his shadow?

Considering Indiana

Do you ever wish there were more colors? What color feels good? I'm in a bit of an ornery mood tonight. And I can't sleep.

I'm frustrated. Angry. Resentful. Yet somewhat resigned to the way the world is. Tonight it is January 31st, but technically it is already Feb 1st. And tomorrow is Groundhog Day. (Oops. My dumb computer decided to publish this already.) Maybe that has something to do with my mood today. I'm not sure. I suppose when I do the math it makes sense that it would, but I wasn't cognizant of it until now.

What is present in my mind is that I have a cat living with me who is sick with kidney disease and thyroid disease and will eventually will die of these things. He's living with me, and has been since mid-November, but he is not my cat. Though I love him, I am not particularly bonded with him. My sister and brother and mother are much more bonded with him. I never really lived with him. I'm starting to wonder if I don't attach to animals. Do I attach to people? They seem to come and go. When they leave, there's a terrible ripping feeling, a rupturing of the fabric of my universe, so to speak, and yet time passes. And whatever happens happens. And I become accustomed to them being gone.

There's a cat living with me who is not my cat. I've never really known Indy when he was well. When I took a semester off from school, and he had an infected face from some puncture wounds he'd acquired from a street fight, it was my responsibility to hold a warm compress to his face to get the puss to ooze out. But other than that, I'd had very little interaction with him. My family got him after I went to college and I never lived at home after that except for that one semester. In the last few years, I'd never seen him because I always had the dogs with me and he always hid from them. He is my sister and brother's cat in the heart. My mom (begrudingly??) pays his medical bills. My bro and sis don't want to take care of him (they say it's because their respective apartments don't allow pets. But Indy is so harmless and my sister is so good at getting what she wants, I can't help but think she doesn't really want him with her). So I feel a certain responsibility to love this cat since it seems no one else wants to. But I have some weird ideas about death and suffering and companion animals and medical treatments in general.

I have a cat who is sick and dying. My mom pays the medical bills. I think she wants to put him down. My sister resents that my childhood cat lived to be 21 or 22 or so. Perhaps like she resents that I had 8 more years with Dad since I am 8 years older. I don't fault her for it, but it seems somewhat unfair to me as well.

Indy's been putting up such a fight against his subcutaenous drip (a.k.a. juice) that in the last two weeks, I've only gotten about 150cc into him. But there have been days when I've stuck him 3 times, but he does that thing a little kid does when they don't want to be held. He throws his weight around and screams in a way that makes me feel so guilty for sticking him with a needle and then he jumps off the needle. And then I feel guilty that he didn't get more juice. Because I know it's dehydration that has him feeling sick. When I give him a pill to stimulate his appetite, he looks at me and I feel like he's saying, "why are you torturing me!?" And I wonder if he wonders where my siblings are, and who am I anyhow? Who am I to this cat?

I resent that I'm always feeling guilty regarding Indy.

And I think about how weird it is to have animals living at our mercy. It feels like some sort of weird slavery sort of thing, they give us love or whatever it is we want from them, and we give them food and shelter. It's a peculiar arrangment. With many of them, we've breed them, both over time and sometimes in the case of their particular generation, for our own purposes. And we spend lots of money prolonging their lives, putting off their deaths; it's so strange to me. I mean, if you really love a thing and don't want to let it go, I guess you try and keep it going on. But what is life, afterall? We have bizarre and perhaps inexplicable attachments to our egos and the mirage of a universe we've constructed. Is that why death is so challenging to people? Because it is evidence that all of this is an illusion? Or is it challenging because people don't want to see it as an illusion and in the struggle to see it as something real, you suffer? Or have we been taught fear of death so that we keep our elbows off the table and so we stop at red lights when no one is watching.

And what is the life of this cat? Indy. He's a very charming animal--when he's not being sickly. But does he exist for his own sake? Do we keep him living with the assistance of western medicine because it is what he wishes? Is this in his best interest? Does he have the same attachment to ego as humans do? "May all beings be free from suffering." What does this mean?

We say humans have a right to refuse medical treatment. Does a cat?

When I took him to the vet I was struck by all the other animals there. No kidding, right? All the other animals. And their human companions. And I speculate about how many of those human companions eat the flesh of other animals. Here they spend lots of money to care for one animal, which may indicate much love for that animal, and yet they pay 99 cents for the government subsidized flesh of another and eat it un-mindfully while driving a car which is killing the earth and our very selves while they're rushing somewhere un-mindfully... And they eat the fruits of raped and enslaved female animals and think nothing of it. Sometimes it's really frustrating that feminism doesn't imply veganism. Since one may want to shoot the large wild buck who has had a grand time out in the woods, but keep the egg-laying hen in abominable conditions before slaughtering her ruthlessly after her 3 years of egg-laying are up. Which brings me back to Indy, now that I sort of positioned myself on the other side of things. Do he owe him a long decline and expensive medical care because we owe him for the years of loyal service he gave to us?

How is it we see some animals as relative equals and some as machinery that produce us food?

So what is particularly sticky about this, and why I resent the whole situation I find myself in is that it's not my decision to make. It's neither my money nor my heart (as much as it is my fams) nor my relationship and karma to complete. I'm not really involved here except I'm feeling guilty cause I'm torturing him (or so it seems to him) or I'm feeling guilty because I'm not doing a good enough job (of torturing him) in order to extend his life.