About kitty, and Life.
I haven't journaled about Welsey in a while, only because the Vet and I have gotten the skin disease, for the most part, under control. To this point, he has never gotten so much better that he doesn't have fairly obvious sores on his body; unfortunately, they remain hairless which makes them all the more conspicuous. However, he's much better than he was without the treatment--steroid injections--and the wounds remain infection free.
The key, in the end, was figuring out a schedule for his injections and sticking to it. 10cc every two weeks was the best we could figure out; any time he went more than two days extra without it, the sores became inflamed and sometimes infected. So... After trying a couple of experimental (his condition is extremely rare in cats) treatments concurrent with the steroids, and those having no effect, the Vet and I gave up and accepted that he will someday suscept to liver and kidney damage but that this fate is better than what he would face otherwise.
Then came the scary part: Once we'd figured out this rhyhm, there was no point in me taking him to the office for the shots; having had a diabetic cat who needs twice daily insulin shots, it simply makes more sense for me to give him the injections myself, at home. Why is this the scary part? Because 10cc is a lot, and in order to give it in one round, it requires a large needle, on a cat with very sensitive skin. The vet had to teach me a special hold: with Wesley on his side, one arm hooks under his flank and holds his back legs securely while the other forearm rests on his neck (they swear to me this doesn't hurt him) pushing down hard while that hand holds his front legs. My mom gives him the shot. We discovered that it ends up being easier to use three of the insulin needles (which are ultra fine--30 units each--and hurt less) than to have to poke him three times with the same 10cc needle because he reacts so violently and pulls the damn thing out. Its ten minutes of torture, but its more convenient and less expensive than hauling him to the office every time.
Completely unrelated: At some point last week, I realized there is absolutely NO good reason for me not to be able to move out on my own. I think after I broke up with Eric I needed to let loose and spend money and go on drinking bindges and catch up on my early twenties. I lost my grip on reality for a while, added to which was the Sean thing--a break with reality in itself. I feel things normalizing as my relationships shift and rebalance themselves, and awareness of my fiscal reality is coming back into focus. It occurred to me that I could easily find a little flat for $600 in Cotati or Rohnert Park; that's about half of my net income and although it wouldn't be entirely comfortable, I could pull it off. And, you know, I've never lived by myself. I've been working my ass off for seven years, I deserve this. Even if, six months later, I have to move out with roommates, I deserve to have a little freedom to walk around naked and leave my dishes in the sink for as long as I want and toss my bras over my recliner. I deserve to have space to sprawl my books and notes everywhere when I need to write a research paper. I want to have to call a plumber myself and pay my landlord directly and not argue over who gets the parking spot. Thinking about all these things makes me excited about life, again; a whif of freedom has passed by me and I find its scent envigorating, enlivening, energizing. The idea of it, of living alone and being able to have my boyfriend over without feeling awkward and having my friends over for drinks, the idea, the possibility... I have found my anchor. Eric was my anchor for so long, and when I gave that up, I gave up my own stability; but this will be the fulcrum upon which I will now rest the balance beam of my life: freedom. Independence. Life.
Two Edits:
#1 I can't believe I don't know how to spell my own cat's name!
#2 This whole moving thing is not happening for months. I'm not trying to fit it into a restricted timeling, although six months, I think, is a reasonable goal. Just wanted to clarify that!
The key, in the end, was figuring out a schedule for his injections and sticking to it. 10cc every two weeks was the best we could figure out; any time he went more than two days extra without it, the sores became inflamed and sometimes infected. So... After trying a couple of experimental (his condition is extremely rare in cats) treatments concurrent with the steroids, and those having no effect, the Vet and I gave up and accepted that he will someday suscept to liver and kidney damage but that this fate is better than what he would face otherwise.
Then came the scary part: Once we'd figured out this rhyhm, there was no point in me taking him to the office for the shots; having had a diabetic cat who needs twice daily insulin shots, it simply makes more sense for me to give him the injections myself, at home. Why is this the scary part? Because 10cc is a lot, and in order to give it in one round, it requires a large needle, on a cat with very sensitive skin. The vet had to teach me a special hold: with Wesley on his side, one arm hooks under his flank and holds his back legs securely while the other forearm rests on his neck (they swear to me this doesn't hurt him) pushing down hard while that hand holds his front legs. My mom gives him the shot. We discovered that it ends up being easier to use three of the insulin needles (which are ultra fine--30 units each--and hurt less) than to have to poke him three times with the same 10cc needle because he reacts so violently and pulls the damn thing out. Its ten minutes of torture, but its more convenient and less expensive than hauling him to the office every time.
Completely unrelated: At some point last week, I realized there is absolutely NO good reason for me not to be able to move out on my own. I think after I broke up with Eric I needed to let loose and spend money and go on drinking bindges and catch up on my early twenties. I lost my grip on reality for a while, added to which was the Sean thing--a break with reality in itself. I feel things normalizing as my relationships shift and rebalance themselves, and awareness of my fiscal reality is coming back into focus. It occurred to me that I could easily find a little flat for $600 in Cotati or Rohnert Park; that's about half of my net income and although it wouldn't be entirely comfortable, I could pull it off. And, you know, I've never lived by myself. I've been working my ass off for seven years, I deserve this. Even if, six months later, I have to move out with roommates, I deserve to have a little freedom to walk around naked and leave my dishes in the sink for as long as I want and toss my bras over my recliner. I deserve to have space to sprawl my books and notes everywhere when I need to write a research paper. I want to have to call a plumber myself and pay my landlord directly and not argue over who gets the parking spot. Thinking about all these things makes me excited about life, again; a whif of freedom has passed by me and I find its scent envigorating, enlivening, energizing. The idea of it, of living alone and being able to have my boyfriend over without feeling awkward and having my friends over for drinks, the idea, the possibility... I have found my anchor. Eric was my anchor for so long, and when I gave that up, I gave up my own stability; but this will be the fulcrum upon which I will now rest the balance beam of my life: freedom. Independence. Life.
Two Edits:
#1 I can't believe I don't know how to spell my own cat's name!
#2 This whole moving thing is not happening for months. I'm not trying to fit it into a restricted timeling, although six months, I think, is a reasonable goal. Just wanted to clarify that!