Rising Up to Fight

My life is an odd balance of good and bad.  I never thought I was too superstitious, but when "the good" came in heaping piles earlier this year, I knew something was coming.  I wasn't wrong.  The last three weeks have been some of the roughest of my life.

I am, unquestionably, lucky and blessed in most aspects of life, which allows me to say (and mean) that I live happily and have a good life.  It pretty much goes wrong with my body and health.  I am up at 0330 writing this, after all.

Over all the years I used this blog as a platform to keep family and friends updated, I guarantee I've never listed more than half of what is wrong with me.  So, I won't start now.  But if you've followed me, then you know the biggies:  Multiple Sclerosis, Breast Cancer, Valvular Heart Disease, and now Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS).

EDS is a rare genetic disorder that causes a defect in how the body makes (or doesn't make) collagen.  It's a connective tissue disorder.  There are 13 subgroups with a lot of overlap between them.  Some are diagnosed by symptoms and some by genetic testing.  I am pending genetic testing, but I've been confirmed for Hypermobility Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (hEDS) and I have visual and historical symptoms for Vascular EDS (vEDS).  Vascular EDS has a high accuracy rating on genetic testing, so that diagnosis isn't confirmed yet.

I've been given so much to read, it's overwhelming.  I think, if I was healthy, it might not seem like such a blow, but given everything else, this is hard.  To put it into perspective, when I learned about Breast Cancer, I was home alone.  I called my neighbor, who was like a sister, and she rushed over with shoulders to cry on.  And then we fought.  And we won.  I went at the doctors like, "Let's do this!  Cure me!"  I can't say I didn't cry in the years that followed, but cancer didn't break me.  I beat it.

Multiple Sclerosis didn't break me.  The uncertainty of my future almost did, but I learned how to reframe my thinking and planning, and that made a huge difference.  I've also been in weekly therapy for years to help manage my symptoms.  After I first learned I had MS, I went home, put headphones in, and walked around my garden for a while.  I'd stop and look out over the field, the back of the house, or just stare blankly at the sky.  I was mourning the life I thought I'd have, which I had to do to accept my new life.  I can't win against MS, but I can actively fight it.  So I do.

EDS . . . wow.  I just - I don't know where to start.  I've known for the last two years that the doctors were missing something, and that's not a slight against how good they are.  I have great doctors.  It's a testament to how rare this disorder is.  One of my doctors says I'm his "most monitored patient" and he usually sees people twice my age (seriously).  So, of course, the first question everyone asks me is, "How did they miss this your whole life?"  Because, yes, I was born with this.  It's a genetic disorder.  Whether I inherited it from one of my parents, both of them, or my genes mutated when I was a fetus, I was born with it and have unknowingly been adapting to it all my life.

EDS answers questions about my life that I didn't even know I had.  It's taught me that things I thought were normal about my body are totally not.  And that some seemingly benign things, like having super soft skin, are actually symptoms.

So the next question is why did they find it now?  I am stubborn with my pain levels.  I live in constant pain.  I don't want to depend on controlled substances to the point of resistance or dependency, so I will push it until I can't take it anymore.  Several of my providers think I'm too hard on myself in that regard, and (responsibly) advise that I treat my pain more than I do.  That said, I've been suffering agonizing joint pain for most of this year.  It started in my left elbow and then my right knee suddenly got bad, fast.  At times, I couldn't put weight on it.  Then I woke up a few mornings in a row unable to move my right shoulder without manually manipulating it first.

When I woke up and couldn't move my right shoulder or stand up, I knew I'd pushed it too far.  I got in with Rheumatology and was lucky enough to get a doctor who knew what I had by just pressing on my knuckle.  There was no collagen between the bones.  Also luckily, my health care system has one of three geneticists in the state and she's an EDS expert.  They got me in with her the next day.  Unfortunately, having a connective tissue disorder with a hypermobility aspect and  MS is going make "things very hard" for me.  EDS is not understood well, not many doctors know anything about it, and there's not really anything you can do for it other than preventative maintenance like physical therapy or massage therapy, and pain management.

I'm sure you're asking, "Lucky?"  Well, yeah.  I have answers now.  I've been poked and prodded and tested as  a medical mystery for so long, it's my normal.  My doctors have answers.

My friends and family have questions.  Too many questions.  It's been overwhelming to get a diagnosis like this with the expectation that I read up on it so I can have an educated conversation with the Geneticist after my test results are back, to process what I'm reading (because it's not great), and to field a thousand questions coming from every angle.  I've been filtering info out to family privately and on Facebook as I'm feeling up to it.  I have to be ready to tackle EDS to talk about it and I'm still not sure that this isn't the one that breaks me.  I certainly feel broken.

As with any diagnosis, in the beginning everyone tries to cram hope and sunshine down your throat.  It was the same with MS.  From personal experience, that's a shitty thing to do.  Giving people hope isn't a bad thing, but the way it's done dismisses the patient's fears and isn't realistic.  I've been through it with MS.  I mean no disrespect, but I don't need unrealistic hope.  I see through the bullshit.  I live in my body.  I'm not a pessimist.  To me, the glass isn't half full or half empty - it can be refilled.

EDS adds the certainty that MS lacks.  Those two together are formidable.  I am looking at a future of debilitating pain, physical disability, worsening mobility, and no real way to manage any of it.  That makes researching this so much worse.  I try to stick with facts, but it's good to get an idea of what EDS patients live with and their stories are heartbreaking.  At this point, I'd like to acknowledge that this is long and that you have no idea how many times I've had to stop typing because I can't deal with this.  Taking even just a second to take in a breath and close my eyes, helps.  Like I can lose this reality in that brief dark, respite.

So that's hEDS is a very small nutshell.  There's so much too it.  It's connective tissue.  It's your skin, your tendons, your organs, everything in the soft or connective tissues.  I can literally say that I'm literally falling apart at the seams.  It's everything.

And that doesn't include the fact that I glossed over vEDS.  It's not just me saying that I likely have it.  It's my cardiac history, it's my doctors who know about vEDS asking about my heart in that gentle voice that doctors use for delicate issues, it's knowing that I have leaky valves - the valves in the heart that are made of connective tissue.  The one, big complication of vEDS (and rarely in hEDS) is that the aortic valve will "slip" and cause massive internal blood loss that leads to a fatal heart attack.  Until the geneticist saw the vascular signs, she had started talking about how EDS generally isn't fatal and that hEDS will be minor compared to MS.  That speech disappeared quickly and life expectancy wasn't brought up again.

The median life expectancy for vEDS is 48.  When MS is the cause of cardiac issues, the median life expectancy is 45.  One of those two things is responsible for what's going on with my heart.  If that is all true, I have 3-6 years, maybe.  And it'll probably happen fast.  I've taken many breaks trying to get through this paragraph.  I can't stop the tears.  I thought I was mourning my life with MS?  Wow.

I don't put any of this stuff out there for sympathy or pity.  I'm an odd duck with weird things that people don't understand.  I try to help them understand.  I try to answer questions in one fell swoop instead of repeating myself over and over - that's so stressful.  I try to find others like me that I can learn from.  I want to share my experiences.  I suppose like any of us, I want to know that my life will have mattered after I'm gone.  And facing mortality, again in a matter of three years, is a big deal.

I don't know if it ever really occurred to me that I could've died fighting cancer, but I do know that I prepared for the possibility on the surface.  I got powers of attorney, a living will, and a DNR order.  I made sure that people knew what to do if something went wrong in surgery.  I asked my best friend to help my husband unload my geeky collections when he was ready.

But now?  This is so different.  This is looking at unread books and not knowing if I'll ever read them.  It's wanting to research Batman because there are gaps that I want to fill.  It's hoping I can go back to Florida one more time before I die.  It's hoping I get to finish writing my books so I don't leave my readers hanging.  It's truly getting my affairs in my order.  Reinstating my DNR.  Talking with my husband about what I need to do now to make it easier on him when I'm not here anymore.  I can't scratch the surface of this on a deeper level...my husband, my daughter, my granddaughter - I just can't face that yet.  So yes, right now, it might seem superficial, but don't judge until you're sitting in my shoes - which I don't like to wear because they make it harder to walk.

I know.  It's easy to sit on the other side and say that I don't know what's going to happen.  I don't.  I could die in a car crash on the way to one of my multiple doctor appointments tomorrow (which actually makes a stronger case for having your shit together to help your loved ones when you pass).  I could defeat the odds and live to 92.  Most of the people in my family live ridiculously long lives and are tough.  But I'm only human, with human fears and emotions, and I can only take so much in stride before I break.  I don't like to play what ifs.  It's actually something I bring out in my writing.  My characters will say that what ifs mean nothing and waste energy.  For the most part, that's true.  But there is a time and a place where using them to plan is necessary, and this is the time.

Maybe those tests will show I don't have vEDS.  Honestly?  I'm not going to believe it.  There's a 1-2% error margin.  That should be a relief if it comes back negative.  But I know what symptoms I show and my history.  Even if that test comes back negative, it is possible to overlap with hEDS, which I DO HAVE.  The good news there is that if we can manage it, I can add a decade or two back (from a cardiac standpoint), and the aortic valve slippage is possible, but rare with hEDS.  Which brings me back to pain and disability and a dark hole.  Do I want to live longer in agony?  Or die sooner?  It doesn't really matter what I want.  I'm not in control of that.

I control whether I fight or not.  And I fight.  Pain or agony be damned.  I'm a survivor and that's because I fight.  Death will win, eventually.  None of us can win that fight.  But we can fend him off.  That's our choice.

Even in a dark hole, I will eventually find light.

RIP Lucien Part II

Where to start?

I suppose it’s obvious, given the last post, that losing Lucien re-opened old grief.  After David died and left a palpable absence in the house, I felt that adopting another cat or kitten would help me.  The house was already shaken up and the feline hierarchy in shambles.  It was the perfect time to add to the upheaval, while also helping me heal and offering a distraction from grief and loss.  I had an opening, so to speak, and the Humane Society had filled cages.  

Cats pretty much win the cat lottery when they come home with me.  Good food, lots of toys, their own space (and sometimes rooms), and lots and lots of love and attention.  I’ve always felt that as long as I can offer that and manage the care involved, then I should adopt cats/kittens seeking forever homes.  I digress.

We met Lucien (then Lucian) at the Humane Society in a cage with his brother.  David had also been at the Humane Society with his brother, Thomas.  After David died and we realized what we had lost, we both wished we had adopted Thomas, as well.  Lucien’s brother was pending adoption and Lucien caught my eye because he looked so much like David.  I don’t recall that we looked at many other cats, if any.  I was taken with him instantly, and, as it turned out after we adopted him, he was taken with me.  

He was about 3 months old and insisted on perching on my shoulder and curling his arms around my neck.  As a tiny little thing, this was adorable.  When he weighed more than 16 pounds, it was something else.  (laughs)  He eventually graduated from my shoulder to just lumping his whole body over my head at night.  He was an adorable kitten and fit in strangely fast. 

David had bonded closely with Neko.  He’d been an adult when we brought her home as an 8-week old baby and she’d glued herself to him.  He was her new mommy.  David loved her and she loved him.  Lucien turned the tables.  He tagged along behind her everywhere she’d go.  It annoyed her at first, but he wormed his way into her heart.  Twitch was NOT happy, at all, about the new arrival, but Lucien fit right in with our remaining cats, Lady Sakuya and Smokey Jones.  I have so many baby pictures of him with all the cats (except Twitch).  Like David, he became their kitty glue.  I had my pack back.

But above all that, Lucien loved me.  I was his.  It took a while for me to see him as an alpha male, but it was increasingly more apparent as he grew up.  He was always next to me or around my neck or on my head, pulling himself as close as possible.  We started saying that he had to “become one” with you.  

While Twitch was alive, there was strife between them.  Lucien, being a young hothead, didn’t recognize the “deal” Twitch and David had, and refused to yield to Twitch as the king of the hierarchy.  They fought a lot, which in turn caused issues between Twitch and the others.  He was no longer left on his own, happy to be with us, and happy to have the interlopers off with the “prince.”  Lucien wanted to be king.

But when he wasn’t fighting for the kingdom, he was a silly little guy.  He loved to play with himself, like a child with an imaginary friend.  We had a small cat tent that he’d go into and wrestle around, talking to himself.  His jibberish was so adorable.  (The tent didn’t live long.)  He loved playing with spider rings and paper or crinkly balls.  Like many of the others, he’d play fetch, which later turned into a version of cat tennis, because he learned he could lay down and just swat the balls back to us without moving.  Did I mention that we eventually started calling him Fat Lu?  Or Fat Lu-ey, (in addition to King Lu-ey).  I think he got up to 18 pounds, which we got down to 16 pounds.  He was a solid guy.  Very stocky in the chest and shoulders.  

As he grew, he resembled David less and less, but that was good.  Lucien never lived in David’s shadow, although it may seem like it now.  The way he died has made me realize patterns they shared.  We’ll get there at some point.

We had to make a quality of life choice for Twitch when he was 16 because he’d gone senile.  He’d only ever liked me and then Tim, but he barely knew us, and he had already hated the other cats, so that had degraded.  The cats were strangers he didn’t know.  He no longer knew to use the litter box, and was always hissing and scared or angry.  He was a miserable old man who had no idea who any of us were or where he was.  His life would have been reduced to confinement in a bathroom with little contact.  It was a hard decision, but he had no quality of life.  Shortly after, we also lost Smokey Jones following surgical complications.  Smokey had had several run ins with life threatening bladder infections.  He was 9.  David had been 9.  Neko was 9 when she passed.  Only Twitch and Lady Sakuya (Saké for short) made it into seniorhood before passing at 16.

The house quieted without Twitch.  Of course we mourned for him, but there was a sense of relief because he was no longer suffering.  During this whole thing, which had gone on for a few years, we had a few stray cats show up in the yard.  Both were black.  In case I hadn’t mentioned it, all of my cats were/are black, or mostly black.  My dad laughed because of course the stray black cats would show up at my house.  I’d been diagnosed with MS and was having a hard time walking and with cognition, and got overwhelmed easily.  I tried working with Animal Control, specifically with the stray that would go into the cornfield behind us and cry loudly.  The other one was a plump female that I think belonged to a nearby house.  Following AC’s advice, I earned the male’s trust so that they could come trap him, which turned in a debacle not worth going into it.

There’s a much cuter story hidden within.  At that house, a 3 foot tall brick façade lined the front.  Lucien was about 2 years old, was still jibber-jabbering to himself, and had taken control of the cats (except for Twitch).  I have a photo of him sitting in the center of a Victorian sofa with two cats on either side behind him on a sofa table.  He looks like the don of the cats with his right- and left-hand men.  Kiss his ring and he’ll grant you a favor.  Anyway, the stray male had started sitting on the brick façade to look inside, and Lucien had started sitting on the cat house in front of that window.  You’d think this would be bad.  Very bad.  But no.  Lucien and the male would “talk” through the screen.  

O_O what?

That is how Jonny got his name.  He is our only cat named after a character in my books.  Lucien and Jonathan go together, so we had our own Lucien and Jonathan.  And now I have two cats named “John” or “Jon” since Constantine is named after John Constantine.  Again, I digress.  I think I’ve had too many cats.  Nah.

So, Lucien and Jonny would chat through the screen like the best of pals.  That was fine and good as long as Jonny was outside.  When Jonny came to live inside?  Oh no.  NO.  NO.  NO.  Lucien wasn’t having any of that.  (sigh)  Jonny became like the new Twitch, but Lucien kept him under his paw.  Jonny was a little older than Lucien, but they were close in age.  Jonny had been fending for himself for at least 2 years.  He wasn’t used to this whole cat hierarchy thing.  At times, Lu and Jonny were the best of friends and, at others, the worst of enemies.  They were best frenemies.  

We wouldn’t have Jonny if not for Lu.  Lucien saved him.  Jonny was scared of the ceiling fans and cars on the tv, and he’d hide under the bed when it thundered.  I’ve seen a cat so grateful to live inside or so in Heaven while kneading a soft pillow.  Jonny very quickly adjusted to indoor life and all the soft things – blankets, pillows, laps, etc.  I am happy that Lucien gave that to him. 

Lucien knew that No meant No, and he’d get this hurt look on his face, even though he abided by the given No.  That didn’t stop him from sneaky and trying to ninja his way onto a lap.  He never quite understood that he was far too big to pull off the lap ninja thing.  He used to take forever to get settled and would never tuck his tail in.  You know, Lulu, I really love you and all, but I don’t want your butthole touching my arm.  Sorry.

He learned “lay down” and would settle quickly, and he learned to tuck his tail.  I had taught one of the cats to sit on command for treats, and Lucien saw this happening, so he came in and sat on command for treats, which in turn caught the attention of the others (the others, at this point, being Jonny, Vash, Atari, and Groucho, with the original sitter being Constantine).  So the others would come in, sit on command, and get treats.  Incidentally, I taught Groucho to “ask” for treats (and now he asks for everything).  Jonny knows “kisses” and will present his head for kisses and sometimes try to give kisses.  Jonny also knows “rawr!” and will stretch his arms out with his claws extended.  Atari knows “stretch,” which is similar to “rawr!” except that she stretches out and even has that flattened ear, whole body shudder of a good stretch.  And I swear that Constantine knows the word “vet” and his doctor’s name, because he will disappear before I can even dial the phone.  If he was human, he’d the be the guy that shuts himself up in the basement wearing a tin foil cap while using his HAM radio to broadcast conspiracy theories.  

Much of that is dependent on their individual make up and smarts (or lack of smarts, sorry Atari), but Lucien started it.  He was a good king.  He kept the ranks in line.  He also had a routine.  He ate breakfast and then came back to bed, taking over Tim’s side with his head on the pillow and his body stretched out like a person.  I’d reach over every morning when I woke up and stroke his belly and he’d mumble his greetings and purr happily.  Then we’d get up and do treats, and he’d settle in for a day of lounging with his queen (Atari).  Then he’d eat dinner and come downstairs for “after dinner Lu love.”  Before I had cancer, this consisted of him sitting on my lap, curled up toward my shoulder, to grab my boobs.  He was a pervert.  Lu was a boob man, and any other woman who entered this house can attest to that, and some guys, too.  After cancer, Lu learned he couldn’t do that anymore, so if he needed to “become one,” he’d go to Tim, and if not, he’d come lay down next to me and tell me how much he loved me.  He supervised every bathroom trip and was my life guard for bathing.  I could talk to him using his vocalizations and had been working on starting conversations with him prior to his death.  My husband said it was creepy, but it was cute.  The vocalizations aren’t words like ours, but rather expressions of emotion or feeling.  So, basically, we just told each other “I love you” repeatedly.  

After my second cancer surgery, Lucien snuck in a boob grab for the first time since the diagnosis and I could have died laughing, the poor guy.  I opted for a double mastectomy with immediate reconstruction using the “gummy bear” inserts.  Lu did not like the gummy bear boobs.  He got one grab in and visibly wilted before me as he sank into a depressed kitty puddle across my belly.  L  (Laughing)  It was adorable.  And it was the last time he tried to grab my boobs.  Robin and Meredith would let him get his fix when they came to visit or take care of me.  Having a boob man for a cat gave my medical team and I plenty to laugh about during all of the cancer tests and biopsies and whatnot, though.  I don’t how it’s translating via blog, but it’s really pretty funny.  Some cats like to knead on soft stomachs.  Lu just liked to a bit higher.

Also prior to cancer, Lucien slept with me – usually on my head.  After cancer, my physical dynamics with all the cats changed, but mostly with him, so he snuggled in with Tim at night.  Previously, this had been Jonny’s territory, so there was a bit of fighting.  I used a stuffed giraffe to break it up.  It actually worked.  I’ve used the giraffe to break up fights between Groucho and Vash, too.  Usually, Lucien would stretch out between us so he could touch us both.  Lucien liked to touch us and to hold hands.  He was so affectionate and very sweet.

In addition to running a tight ship with the underlings, Lu used them all as pillows.  He was a cuddle buddy, but more than anything, he wanted something soft for his head.  He didn’t really know what to do with Atari when she came home, but then again, no one knew what to do with Atari.  She was a little hot-tempered alien cat.  Fearless.  She had our 95-pound German Shepherd walking on eggshells.  She’s a bit lost now, but we’re getting through it.  I didn’t realize how much she mimicked Lu until I saw her looking for him at treat time because she would only go for her treats when he went for his, or at dinner, when she’d look at the spot where his bowl was because she would wait for him to begin eating before she began eating.  She goes into my bathroom and stares at the rug where he loved sleep and then leaves because he’s not there and she’s not sure what to do.  For the first time, she’s on her own, making her own decisions, and figuring “it” out.  She may be a tough little thing, but she’s so fragile and vulnerable, too.  But don’t tell her that or she’ll prove you wrong and go into “Atari’s going to be a sh!t” mode.  She didn’t just earn her nickname “The Destroyer,” she wears it proudly.

You might have noticed that for every story about Lu, there’s a story about another cat or two or three.  He was a true alpha male and was involved with every cat in the pride.  At any given moment, I’d have all 6 of them around me, “protecting me” in a circle as Robin used to say.  My guard cats.  If I was on the laptop at my desk, Lu and Atari would be on my left, cuddled in the chair, Groucho would be at my feet, Jonny and Vash would be on my right at the top of the stairs, and Constantine would be stretched out behind me.  Circle.  If I was visiting with Robin in the great room, Lu and Atari would be entertaining her, Vash would be guarding me, sitting up right at my feet (and looking terribly bored), and Jonny would be sitting on the arm of the couch beside me like a gargoyle.  Constantine and Groucho are stranger danger cats, but they’d come out for her and guard me from a distance.  They were watching.  She loved it.

But again, that was Lu.  Like David, he was the glue that held my merry band of misfits together.  Now, without him, I’m once again finding myself alone in a room with no cats when I used to have all 6 circled around me.  As I type this now, Atari is wandering around the library, listlessly.  I don’t know where the others are.  The only thing that has stayed true is their locations when I wake up (because they want their treats).  No Lucien beside me, but two others on the bed, Atari in the dog’s blankets near the door, and another just outside the door, all eager for the second I move.  And Vash is downstairs with the dog.  I still reach over to pet Lucien, expecting to hear his morning mumbles.  He’s not there.

I’ve said Lucien was a great pretender.  In hindsight, with David, we could look back and see a plethora of warning signs that we missed.  He was my first loss and my first gravely ill cat.  I didn’t know.  In hindsight with Lucien, I can pick out less than a handful of things that mean something now, but even clumped together wouldn’t have raised my alarm.  And during that time, I’d been watching Jonny’s weight and had added canned senior food to his diet, while also watching Constantine and Vash, who both have chronic illnesses that require prescription diets.  Constantine was born with chronic bladder inflammation, which is rare in kittens, and Vash has pancreatitis.  Either one could fall ill and die within 24-hours if I don’t catch it – Vash’s being the harder of the two to manage.  I care for them and I meet their needs.  But I failed Lucien.  I know I couldn’t have known.  I didn’t miss any red flags.  He didn’t throw any up.  Even two days beforehand, he’d launched himself into the tub to play with a balled up piece of paper.  If he hadn’t had the brain aneurysm, he would have degraded like David until it was too late – and with David, we never knew why he’d gotten so ill, and that has always bothered us.  Thanks to Lucien, now we have an idea.  But for Lu, it was also already was too late.  He was gravely ill before the aneurysm – severely anemic with a failing liver.  I can only take assurances that he was greatly loved and he knew it.  Lucien had a great life, probably even better than David’s (which is hard to imagine).  And even in the process of dying while neurologically blind (as we later found out), in that little room at the emergency clinic, when I called out to Lu in my sing-songy voice, he looked up at me like he was so happy and smiling.  That so very brief moment lives long in my memories.  I had no idea he was blind or that he was crying because he didn’t know where he was and he was scared.  In that moment, he knew I was there and he was happy for it.  And here’s where I lose it.  Excuse me.

I miss him so much.  The others don’t talk to me or look at me like he did.  I am thankful for that singular moment.  It’s begun erasing the last images I had of him in a state I wish he’d never have to be in.  In a state we’ve never let any other cat suffer.  I wish I could have let him go in peace before those last few seconds happened.  I can only hope that he knew we were there and that we let him go as soon as we could before he had to suffer any more.  

Even though he was blind, after he got the injection, I was talking to him, petting him, and watching his eyes.  I saw his light go dim and disappear.  That’s when I knew he was my light of love.  It’s his epitaph.  I miss him everyday.  His absence is huge.  And there will be no “distraction” or grief kitten.  I take care of my cats, but it has gotten really hard.  I can’t take on another one right now.  I have a good home and the love, but a body that just can’t do it.  Lulu was my routine, my best friend, my light of love.  I miss him dearly.

Rest in peace my friend.  I love you so much.

(Please forgive typos and whatnot.  I did not proofread this.)

 Looking back, this photo was taken the first day I recall him acting strangely.  Since he's always buried in a pile of cats or hugging someone, I don't have many candid shots of just him like this.

 Baby Lu shortly after coming home.

 He pwned me from day one.

 Lucien had weirdly round pupils.  He was like an alien.

 This was his LU-boat attack.

 He couldn't cuddle with me, so he snuggled with my Charmin bear.

 Boob man and Robin.  Na na na na na na . . .

 Mr. Kent, I found your cat.

 Too blave!

 He never stopped sleeping on my head.  Pwned.

R.I.P. Lucien, October 2007 – February 10, 2018, My Light of Love

Let me tip a line of silence to my buddy . . .

 .  .  .

As a writer, and as a person, I study life, which means I also study death.  Even in the deepest fits of grief, I strive to understand the emotions that tear us apart, leaving us gut-punched and bruised, heads throbbing, eyes slick with fiery tears and sand, battered by unseen fists.  Our memories race and the beating intensifies.  It’s our own personal hell.  It’s inside us.  It’s grief.  Sadness.  Love.  Our emotions. 

Emotions are intangible, but they leave a path.

I discovered this when David died in 2007.  I discovered it again in the years that followed.  I full-body slammed into it in January 2016 when Robin passed.  And while I’m still grieving for her, and the first anniversary of her death, I am reminded yet again, now.

First, I want to get this out of the way.  I am a deeply empathetic person and I am a cat person.  I love animals.  Stick me in Snow White or Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty’s shoes, and I’ll sing and dance with mice and birds.  In MY shoes, I talk to cats and play with bugs.  Anyway, I’ve heard, “It’s just a cat,” far, far too many times.  It’s insensitive.  And I don’t mean that in a pc way.  It’s mean.  If someone is hurting, and that person is supposedly your friend, shouldn’t you care?  So . . . Animal people will get this.  Empathizers will get this.  Not everyone will.  To some people, the animals who live with us are only that.  Little things that scurry under foot or live outside.  But for the sake of this post, imagine someone close to you, someone you love, someone you see and talk to everyday.  Someone you say, “I love you,” to everyday.  Someone who is so much a part of your life that you wouldn’t recognize life without that person.  Now lose that person.  Or imagine your best friend has just lost that person.

I have felt that great loss both from person and animal.  The first time was with David.  It was soul shattering.  He was my first true grief study.  I was writing CONFESSIONS at the time and was working in a chapter that needed a true depth of sadness that I could only imagine.  Well, thought I could imagine.  I rewrote that whole chapter in grief.  I learned how to make grief tangible the hard way.  But it’s damn good chapter.  And that’s when I learned that I rely on my emotions to write (which is another post, for another time).

Okay, so this post should obviously be about Lucien.  I’m still not in a great place when it comes to him.  He just came home the other day.  We have our cats cremated, so he’s hanging out in a box.  You know, he’s a cat.  If it fits . . .

Yeah, I’m not there, either.  Okay, (nervous ear scratch), how about this – let me tie David and Lucien together because this whole thing is a puzzle that has ripped open old wounds and really showcases the maze that is grief and the weird patterns that form life.  When I met my husband, I had two cats, Twitch and Shadow.  Technically, Shadow was Twitch’s cat, but whatever, he didn’t have the thumbs to sign the papers.  (Laughs)  Yeah, I’m totally the crazy cat lady.  Okay, anyway, I was at one of the lowest points in my life and was homeless.  Twitch moved in with my then boyfriend soon-to-be husband and Shadow moved in with my parents.  Long story short, which I’m sure is too late since you know I write books and super long blog posts, Shadow disappeared, after accidentally slipping out, along with the neighbor’s dog.  Queue six plus months of searching and posters and calling the Humane Society to no avail.  Shadow was gone. 

The search brought Tim and I to David, however.  David literally reached out and grabbed me.  And he looked like Shadow.  I was at a better place in life by then, but not ready to give up on Shadow.  He’d been such a sweet cat.  He loved car rides and would curl up in my lap and just stare up at me while I sang (horribly) with the radio.  Eventually, the day did come, though.  Tim and I went in to apply for David.  He was gone.  We were bummed.

A month went by.  Tim and I had our apartment and Twitch was our only cat.  I can’t believe I had only one cat.  Or rather that my cat didn’t have another cat.  (awkward pause to think that through)  And then one day, Tim came home with a surprise.  David.

I still get happy with tears when I think about it.  David had been sickly and, apparently, when we’d gone to apply for him, he’d been put into isolation with a respiratory infection, and was there for almost a month.  He had a bed sore on his leg and a goopy eye, but was otherwise okay.  He was prone to sickness, as we found out, but we did our best to keep him healthy.  David was not Twitch’s cat, for the record.  At the time, Twitch had a pet gerbil named Ralph.  (laughs again) I swear, I’m never going to finish this – seriously – Twitch and Ralph were something else.  We had a hamster ball so Ralph could run around the apartment, but we’d let him run around the bedroom without it.  Twitch would chase him, but if he ran under the bed . . . under the bed was “base” so Twitch would wait and do that cat shoulder-shimmy-shake thing while he waited.  Ralph would dart out from under the bed right at him and they’d zoom around the room.  It was all play.  Twitch never tried to hurt Ralph.  It was totally adorable.

And then we got David.

I was cleaning Ralph’s cage, with Ralph in it, turned for 5 seconds, turned back . . . bloody cage, bloody Ralph.  (sigh)  David tried to grab him behind my back and only hit with one canine into Ralph’s ear.  We treated the wound for weeks or months, I don’t recall, but Ralph kept scratching it and reopening it and making it worse, and we finally had to euthanize him.  That was Twitch’s last pet.  His pets didn’t have the best luck.

You can imagine David’s entrance into our lives was a bit rocky.  It’s hard to believe that now, knowing how much we both loved him and how much he still affects us.  For example, he died in 2007 right after Christmas, and we had a red string tied to a doorknob that he loved to play with.  We’ve moved four times since we got him, while he was alive, and since he died, and that string is still tied to a doorknob.  None of my current cats touch it.  It’s David’s string.

David was special.  Truly.  He was smart.  He knew that doorknobs opened doors and he would try to open them.  If we’d had lever-style handles, every door would’ve been open.  He also knew how to open the cabinets and how to do a host of other things.  He used his paws like hands and would spread out his “fingers” to grab things.  I’ve never had a cat like him.  We had to Davey-proof our house, to include socket covers.  I swear – anything you’d do for a toddler, we had to do it for him.  He also seemingly understood cameras.  It was hard to catch him in a candid shot because by the time the camera was ready, he’d be posed.  I have so many perfect pictures of David.  He was a handsome guy.  He was a lap ninja, too.  You’d sit down and never even know when he’d gotten there, but there he was.  And it was David, so you couldn’t move, even though he was a lap ninja and would come back.  He loved warmth, so he slept with me in the winter and with Tim in the Summer.  He rarely purred.  When he did, it was really low and really quiet, and the most special thing in the entire universe.

One night, in our first apartment, I was nauseous, so Tim and I were lying on the couch watching tv together.  Tim kept fidgeting with David, who was digging under the couch, and the movement made me feel worse, so I moved down to the floor.  A few minutes later, Tim and David appeared with a velvet box from under the couch.  Tim said something like, “This isn’t how I wanted to do this . . .” but David apparently wanted to help.  He opened the box and asked me to marry him (and David).  Oh my God, how did I get such a guy?  It was the anniversary of our first date.  Of course, I said yes.  And luckily, I didn’t throw up on anyone.

David was there for so much happiness in my life, so many good times.  He would walk us to the door to say goodbye and greet us when we got home.  He’d sit on the kitchen stool when we cooked, get dusted with flour when I baked, and sit on the basin when I bathed.  He was always with me.  On me when he could be.  I wrote the first draft of THE ARRIVAL  in three months and he was there for every single page.  He was there for most of the first draft of Confessions.  Writing has never been the same since I lost him.

David, as it turns out, was a good pretender.  I discovered, one night, that he was putting his face into his dish and moving food around, picking it up, and spitting it out, but not eating.  I wish I had noticed sooner.  In hindsight, there were warning signs that I missed.  I learned a lot from David’s life and death.  The next morning, Tim took him to the vet to have him checked out – we had an arrangement to drop him off in the morning before work so they could fit him in.  I wasn’t aware of how long he’d been doing this, but I did know that cats can’t go 24-hours without food or water without serious consequences, so I thought we were being proactive at the time.  Neither of us expected to hear that he was going downhill fast and that it would be “cruel” to prolong his condition.  That sounds mean, but it was compassionate.  Tim and I are both pragmatic people and would rather hear it straight and true.

David was so cold when we got there.  And he was in so much pain, he growled at me when he was put on my lap for the last time.  He was shivering so badly.  And he was purring.  Purring because it hurt so much.  I beat myself up for years for missing the signs that let him get that bad.  Maybe that guilt is coming back now.  We had no idea what actually happened aside from the fact that he had stopped eating and had lost weight.  I don’t know how we missed the weight loss, given how much he’d lost, but he'd always been trim (had to look good for the camera).  When the time came, they tried to find a vein for the needle and he fought them.  It was awful.  Thankfully, they sedated him, and then were able to euthanize him in peace.  No matter how painful it is for me, I insist on being there with them and for them.  They are dying.  It cannot be more painful for me to watch than it is for them.  The least I can do is be there for them. 

The house felt so different without him.  His absence was huge.  He was quiet guy, not a talker like so many others, but it seemed quieter.  My lap was colder.  My friend was gone.  My best friend was dead.  And, as it turns out, I lost my other cats, for awhile, too.  We had five by the time David died.  Twitch was the at the top and David was the prince, which suited them both.  Twitch liked David and hated the others, and David loved everyone.  Everyone loved David.  David was my kitty glue.  Where he went, the others followed.  So when I wrote and had David on my lap, I had 3 other cats surrounding me.  Well, suddenly, I had none.  Without the glue, they wandered listlessly.  Twitch was still the alpha, but they'd lost their common element.  David was special to human and cat alike.

I cried so hard for so long.  I cried for him, for failing him, for the loss, for emptiness.  Sometimes I still cry for David.  David represents so much for me.  He was with me during the happiest times in my life and he died just before I entered some of the hardest parts.  And now I'm crying equally hard again, for a loss that is so eerily similar, yet different on so many levels.  But,  we’ll call this part one and close for now.  Part two coming soon.