Still just grieving

It will happen some day - of this I am certain, but at present I can't stop crying over Booker - and for Jake in a small way, too.  My beautiful first lads - gone far too soon.

When we rescued Jakey, it was a spur of the moment decision which I will never regret.  Never.  He deserved so much more time to enjoy life - a better life than the one he'd been dealt, and there's just no shaking that thought.  Going into it we knew he had FIV, and it was apparent that the insidious disease had taken quite a toll on Jake's body from whiskers to toes - but it didn't matter.  

He was barely making it when someone blessedly decided to save this skeletal frame of a cat from the meager existence he'd come to know.  I am grateful it happened, but that feeling of gratitude is fundamentally tied to another feeling I almost can't put my finger on.  It's a feeling of incredulity, I think.  At least, it's the closest thing I can identify that makes sense. 

Why did it take so long for another person to recognize his loveliness (despite the grime and missing fur, the sunken eyes, and the nonstop drooling; the frightening countenance he couldn't help)?  

His character was sweet and trusting, and he was loving beyond comprehension for everything he endured.  That was the way he presented himself if you stopped to really experience him, but you would have to make yourself look beyond (or behind) the outward appearance to do so.  Not many people did, but for me it was something about his eyes that drew me in and and held my heart. 

As cheated as I feel for Karl and myself, I can't help crying for Jake's sake that we couldn't have given him more - more time for love, warmth, clean surroundings, plentiful food and water, companionship...a family.  Simply put: just more time.

I fell in love with Jake in a fleeting glance.  Karl was a little reticent after having just lost Flop (and just before her, Cleo), but he became smitten once we met Jake face-to-face.  This scrawny, scarred, lack-of-fur, toothless and drooling thing charged out of his kennel and into our arms, as though we were long-lost family members - and that sealed the deal.  We were his family as much as he would be our boy.  He was the missing link in our clan, and there was no denying it was the right thing to do.

Sadly, his days were numbered; we knew it was a matter of maybe a year, but it was a year we would commit to wholeheartedly and unreservedly.  

As it turned out, the end was not to be that far off.  His poor body had endured all it could of the ravages of FIV, and despite multiple vet trips and doses of antibiotics to kill off the recurring respiratory infections, he let us know he was tired and ready to move on to a less painful place. 

Five and one-half months passed so quickly.  Too quickly.

Oh, Jake... I love and miss you, so, so much.

Booker was the young man Dottie brought to our care not long thereafter, and he was quite a change from Jake.  Pounds and pounds of difference.  We went from emaciated drooling happiness (and mostly white all over) to hissing orange pounds of fear.  Whenever I slipped into a teary mode thinking of Jake, Booker would find me and peal off a fearful face of teeth and a horrifying hiss.  Had it not been for the fact that he had once been someone's cat (this was clear because he had been neutered and front declawed), I would have feared Booker's behavior more.  For me, he presented as a feral cat, but with Dottie he was a mushy lad.  Even with Karl he was calm and accepting of some attention, so I hoped it would be just a matter of time.

Over time, Booker and I developed a love and companionship, and he became my shadow.  If I left a room, he followed immediately.  We talked and shared chairs, and he would ask to be held from time to time!  He loved my stitching, and anticipated those hours in the day when I would sit and stitch, and he would watch excitedly as the needle would rise and fall, dragging the tempting string through the material.  Oh, how he trembled at the thought of catching the threads and silk pieces, and every once in a great while would leave his comfy corner of the bed to climb onto a small perch on the chair just to be closer to the action!  His silly joy with being given a go at my threads brings a smile to my aching heart. 

Book wasn't to be here as long as we anticipated.  A small lump was detected on his lower jaw, which grew quickly through the late summer.  He was taken in for dental work in August and the x-rays showed the mass was actually an out of control, inoperable cancer.  The doctor was very kind and asked how we wanted to proceed. 

We spoke of letting him return home with doses of heavy medication to keep him comfortable for a number of weeks, but that would only give us time to say goodbye - it would not be the decent thing to do to Booker.  The other choice was to have them end the procedure and put him down while he was still groggy.  Neither option was ideal, and to choose between the only two presented was heartbreaking. 

Well, from here you know the rest of the story.  I suppose this is why/how I lost my stitching mojo, and why I am not feeling capable of producing any handwork at present.  Perhaps soon the fog will lift, but until that happens I am surviving only on getting up each day and just going back and forth to work, looking for opportunities for Karl to find employment, and performing the least of the mundane daily routine items.  Well, mundane, save for one additional little occupant in the house.

We have a new friend for Odin, who was most sorely missing Booker.  Book's departure left Odin lost and confused; spending hours every day crying out for his big buddy, endlessly searching the house from one end to the other.  Karl couldn't think on replacing Book, and would not entertain looking at faces online to find another needy prospect to fill out our family, so one weekend I took matters into my own hands, and that is how Simon came to be.  He is helping to replace some of the grief with his silly antics, but everything about this is going to take time.  More on our new family member another time.

See you on the other side.

What a difference a week makes

I spent last weekend at work. 

Yup, you read that right - "at work"! 

I know, I know.  Who does that, right?  You spend five days in a row getting out of bed, (usually) disappointed at the prospect for the next nine-plus hours - unless you have *a job that brings you joy and satisfaction, and friendships that keep you encouraged throughout your hours and years together.  

Side note: I have actually had *that in two jobs over my lifetime (but if you know me, you would know that this is not a good average, as I have had too many jobs over my lifetime...and pauses in between for life's intrusions and national economic setbacks), so I know it can happen.

At any rate, I am not at work this weekend, even though the enticement of a real hourly wage (read as overtime pay - woohoo!) would've been enough to have me return for another round of labeling. 

No, last week I signed up to help relabel product on Saturday because the advent of 8 hours of OT pay was going to be a welcome boon towards outstanding obligations.  And then [insert ominous musical notes here] we were sent home hours early, but asked if we wanted to work Sunday for five to six hours (AT DOUBLE TIME)!  No idiot turns that down, right?

This idiot didn't.

Sunday, we were once again sent home hours early, so our expectations were not met.  Yes, we had several hours of extra pay - very nice - but when management asks folks to be at the building at 6AM (or even 7AM), for a forecast period of time, and then changes the day and monetary expectations drastically...well, that's not cool.  The whole thing about actually being there early (when you are only just normally getting up to begin with) is one thing - and yes, it was my choice to go in Saturday, but the understanding was the time/pay was for 8 hours.

You think twice about ignoring an extra-early wake-up call for a mere four hours.  Trust me.

Today, Karl and I have dental obligations, and I have an additional medical 'date' (which I rescheduled to help last weekend), and didn't feel like trying to reschedule any of it again, so I avoided rising to an early alarm.  Nope, I just let the two ding-a-lings perform their usual shenanigans at 5AM....BUT, I didn't have to dress and drive - and that's the difference a week makes.

Life goes on

Made it through week 3 with our new 'assistant'. 

Someone asked how it was I could "replace" Booker so easily, and I almost burst into tears at the thought.  I was affronted by their thoughtlessness when I really should have felt sorry for their ignorance (or simpleminded attitude).  We weren't replacing Booker; we found an assistant who could help Odin out of his grief.  Although, perhaps we were replacing Odin's loneliness with companionship.

Be assured there is no way we could ever replace Booker - ever.  But, Odin had a need and that was clear.  We weren't about to shirk our responsibility to him.

Let's face it, humans are OK as slaves to their cats, but we are far from perfect buddies and playmates.  Oh, sure, we supply food, water, doody control, warm laps when required, catnip, new toys, clean linen for their queen-sized beds, good head scrubs and belly rubs, and on and on...but we are not the be all and end all when it comes to the perfect companions. 

Some cats need other cats around to either share every waking moment with or ignore with impunity (whilst following one another around the house all day long).  Aloof?  Absolutely not.  Indifferent at times, sure.  Independent?  Absolutely true, but also dependent and faithful and loving.  But do they pick and choose when or if they are going to favor us with their time and company?  Oh, yeah baby, and I'm OK with that.  But between cats - whether siblings or randomly adopted clowders - they are much happier and healthier when they have companionship. 

Our new little crazy man has been assimilated lock, stock and barrel, and we couldn't be happier with the outcome.  Simon has been inserted into our family dynamic, and Odin is much happier.  He is no longer wondering the house from top to bottom, crying out for Booker for hours on end.  That stress would have taken a horrible toll on his FIV-infected body, and that was not an option I was willing to take chances with.  Simon is the guardian of Odin's well-being now, and he is up to that task.  An older adoptee wouldn't have been the same sort of 'assistant' at this time, but when our next big change takes place, our lives and hearts are open to another lovely soul joining our clowder.

Nature loves me

I know people who believe our departed loved ones are represented by something (or things) that they themselves took delight in while they were alive.  For example: one of my friends has written a story about her mother's respect for spiders, and the way she took care to never kill one.  If found in the house, her mom would go to great lengths to remove a spider to a better place - every time.  So when my friend now sees a spider - especially in out of the way places or at odd moments - she feels her mom's presence quite strongly.

Others believe the sight of a cardinal means your loved one is with you at that time.  They 'appear' because you are confronted with a decision or an issue that has you in turmoil, and the cardinal's presence means you're not alone.  Cardinals also 'hang close' when those who are gone corporeally have been heavily in your thoughts.  It's a comfort thing...a blessing.

I believe in those things, too.

Although personally, my missing loved ones are represented by cranes.  Well, cranes and herons, but this is a distinction without a difference - to me at east.

This week was especially blessed when, on the drive to work, I saw five magnificent cranes flying directly over me.  I am absolutely certain they were my glorious girls and boys, and all at once I felt immediately saddened and delighted; there's no other way to explain it.  To see them all together made me catch my breath, and I wish with all my heart I could have pulled over and simply watched them soar until they were well out of sight.  I'm pretty certain the other drivers around me would not have been as thrilled with that decision, so I gawked as best I could given the circumstances.

All five in a tight pod.  Sleek and powerful, and beautifully bonded - and I knew straight away that this apparition couldn't have been anything other than Cleo, Flop, Hobbes, Jake, and Booker letting me know they'd found one another.  A bittersweet message to receive on the way in to work, yet it filled me with comfort for much of the day - even as the memory of it wrung tears periodically.  Isn't it amazing how similar the feelings are between happiness and sadness?

Even when all else around me is a disappointment or a struggle, I know nature loves me - thank God.

Endings and beginnings - and all of the stuff that happens in between

Simply Simon

It's been two weeks of Simon already - two weeks today.  Odin adores him, and is having infinite fun in the romping and chasing category, although deep in the recesses of his brain I am certain there are remnant thoughts of Booker;  traces of affection and respect, and an unidentifiable longing for his big brother...gone but never forgotten.

It took two months for Simon to come into our lives.  No, there wasn't a lot of searching that happened, but Karl couldn't let himself open up completely to making a choice and bringing home a companion for Odin.  I understood that, and I empathized, but I also saw a need to move forward during our collective period of grief.

Besides all of that, Odin was extremely miserable - lonely and alone, and mourning the loss of his buddy.  He still jumped at the odd noise around the house, and called incessantly for our large orange sweetie, and truth be told it was getting  harder to deal with on a daily basis.

I was determined to fill the void left by Booker's departure, but also felt pangs of guilt in ways I am sure many pet owners will understand.  What felt like disloyalty to Book was understandable, but not insurmountable.  Karl and I could have gone on a while without inviting a new cat into our lives, but Odin was inconsolable.  That became the impetus on my part - it made Karl miserable in other ways, but it gave me a reason to keep my heart open to the perfect opportunity.

My mind was set on an older female (for reasons I won't bore you with here and now), but Simon was the one who presented himself a couple of Saturdays ago, and the rest is history.  As you can see from the photo, he is a scrawny kitten of approximately 18 weeks of age - so that makes him about 4 months old.  He's tiny, and as it turned out (despite vet papers provided by the rescue agency), he had fleas; we found this out the hard way.  Both boys are wearing flea collars now (yes, Odin ended up with them, too).  But this wasn't the worst of it, either.

Last Saturday became a very expensive run to the vet clinic which the rescue bunch had taken Simon's litter to.  Ended up with two vaccinations and an oral treatment, plus the rather expensive flea collars.  And I won't even make you guess that one of the treatments was for tapeworm.  Yup, tapeworm!  So, here we are, $155 poorer, but Simon is that much better for it.  Hopefully his robust appetite will help to put some meat on his little bones over the next few months.  Right now he's curious, playful, loving, and excellent company for Odin.

The splendid Booker - rest in peace

Farewell, Booker...you are much loved and will be forever missed.

How do you do that?

Odd but true:
I have three salads due me, all around town, because several restaurants 'forgot' to put them in with my lunches or dinners over the past couple of weeks.

Yeah, guess that means I will be a 'regular' sort of customer. [insert groan here]

OK, Mother Nature...keep it up

No, seriously - don't stop.  I like drizzle now and then, and no hot temps.

Summer can stay permanently in the wings as far as I am concerned.

To the rest of you warm weather weirdos...tough nuts!

Karl experienced Bob Seger live!

The last time Karl experienced a live concert, it was a flop.  We had the unfortunate experience of sitting on the lawn, and a pack of thoughtless concert singers (concert screamers, really) sat down behind us.  Not only did they sing, yell, and loudly talk the entire way through it, they smoked non-stop...and there was no breeze to drive it off.

That evening was an unmitigated disaster, even though it was James Taylor, and we ended up leaving early - way early - just to get away from the concert-wrecking a-holes.

I have been to several concerts since then, but have never been able to get Karl interested enough to overcome the 'taste' of the worst experience ever - no matter who was on the bill.

Well, let me tell you, Bob Seger was the answer.  Managed to score unbelievably expensive lawn seats to the second-to-the-last concert here in town, and we got there in time to settle on the lawn in a decently sized piece of heaven.  Karl had a book to read, and I brought a sewing project; that helped to pass the time for the hour and one-half before the opening act took the stage.  Had we not surmounted the knob when we did, who knows where we would have sat.

Anyhow, Karl was on his feet more often than not, and he sang along with a lot of the music he recognized from the radio.  He was genuinely surprised at the number of tunes he knew, and heard a good deal more that interested him (that he would never have attributed to Bob).  And the best part was every time the band left the stage after announcing, "Good night, and thank you!," I refused to pack our gear and make for the long migration line to the parking lot.

I got 'the look.'

"Why not?" he'd implore, and I'd just smile and say, "encore."

"But he just played an encore."  Karl rolled his head back and looked at the night sky, throwing his hands out in fits of desperation.

"Just wait," I'd say.  "Give it a minute."

Those of us with a divine insider's knowledge knew to continue applauding and shouting out our heartfelt appreciation.  Bob was there, and just out of sight, and we didn't want his reign to end...but if there was a slim margin to entice him out a third time, we were going to clap until our arms fell off.

Then booyah!

Our favorite hometown boy did not disappoint.  Three encores and a raft of songs that became an entire concert set all on its own.  Thank you, Mr. Seger, for a wonderful shared experience for my youngest and myself.  It was a birthday present memory he will carry with him for a long time to come.

Oh, yeah, and we are still thunderously applauding - thank you for your music.

I love the Material Handlers & Re-Pack Folks

No two ways about it, they made me feel important and missed.

Their friendship and caring, and the concern they expressed, made me feel like I matter.  Some of the best medicine - EVER!

Golly, it was a long day, and I am not too proud to admit I am pooped.  I also have a feeling it will be an awfully long week.  There is a lot of overdue work in my inbox, many requests that need tending to, and still the 100% verifications to contend with.  Sorted through the glut of tasks and made myself a game plan for the next few days. 

Was not surprised to learn the new QC Eng did not pick up any slack, nor did the WH Lead, who had a huge hand in creating/allowing the mislabeling debacle.

Normalcy?

I will be returning to work on the third of June, whether I feel up to it or not.  Been sitting (and lying) with my eyes closed - or open '...but not engaged in any activity requiring them to focus or concentrate' for the better part of the last two weeks.

Can you say boring?

Headaches, double-vision, and naps have been near-constant companions, and I believe returning to work so quickly after leaving the hospital was a mistake.  Two full days of staring at and comparing numbers on labels, and working at my computer, did more harm than good.  No job is worth my vision, it is too precious to lose.

Contrary to popular belief, this was not a vacation, it was a period of recuperation - and no, I am not fully functional.  I am now instructed by the GP to begin weaning myself back on to a diet of eyes open, looking at the telly, reading a book, and using my PC to answer email, etc., to get my eyes used to what is to come after a long break from use.

Holy crap, people, take care of your health.  Oh, and is there anyone out there on Atorvistatin?  Are you experiencing any issues while taking the medication?  I have to admit I feel a little ill at ease at the thought of taking it once I read all of the possible side effects.

Well, that's me, then

May 19th... the day I had my heart attack.  The day my unstable angina sat up and proclaimed its power.  It was rude and sneaky and surprising, and not my favorite way to spend a morning - or that night - and on into the next day.

Once I arrived at the ER, blood was drawn to measure troponin levels, and that carried on every few hours.  Yes, every few hours throughout the remainder of the day AND all that night.  I must admit to having a favorite phlebotomist through it all, though; I detested when her shift ended and the replacement appeared.  Even when the preferred vein closed down and she had to move to a new location, Elizabeta made the procedure a piece of cake.  The replacement was horrible, and created way more holes than she ever managed to siphon blood from.

Ah, well.  Water under the bridge.

When I fell, though, at home (I passed out trying to walk to the living room), Karl did his best to keep me from hitting the floor (no mean feat, that).  I managed to hit my head twice, however. 

The first blow resulted from a rollicking bounce - I impacted his bedroom door frame with my left shoulder, then slammed backwards unexpectedly into the other side of the frame... and met that with my head.  Karl's description of what happened immediately after is a little chaotic, but he says I continued to shuffle forward, becoming more and more wobbly.

Somehow the migration to the front room carried on in a somewhat forward fashion, until I seemed to crumple in his arms.  Karl said he heard what he took for snoring coming from me, until he smelled something like vomit and realized my head was bent in an uncomfortable angle to my neck and shoulders.  That's when I slipped through his arms and 'found' the floor.  Yup, you guessed it, my head hit another wooden surface, and Karl needlessly apologized several times (after I came to) for that accident.  He tried to soften the blow, but I was a lot of human heading to the ground with gravity on my side.

Soon enough he realized I wasn't breathing "well," and forcefully jerked me to a sitting position when rolling me to my side didn't work.  It wasn't long thereafter that I came to and we discussed what had just happened... because I 'wasn't there'.

Just so you know, I don't hold Karl responsible in any way for the concussion - which went undiagnosed by the ER team - and everyone on the Cardiac Unit - despite my descriptions of the bizarre auditory occurrence (thousands of locusts loudly buzzing... while on fire), the louder than usual ringing in my ears, the non-stop headache, the room pitching madly whilst I am still, being light-headed, and a very steady double vision in my right eye.

You should also know this all may have happened due to a good deal of stress over the recent results (just the week before) of a CT showing an "apple core" shape in my ascending colon.

Oh, yeah, probably should do a little filling in.  Re-cap of the untold:
- Had significant, escalating discomfort for a couple weeks which felt like a hernia (not an unfamiliar sensation);
went to doctor.
- Told by physician it was not a hernia and most likely appendicitis;
was sent for CT scan to see how inflamed appendix was.
- CT showed long appendix, but no issues there (and no hernia); but
doc overly concerned by "apple core" appearance, so sent for GI consult and colonoscopy.

All of this had me on the edge of my seat - but more about the pooper chute stuff another time.

I feel God is using the universe as a two-by-four to get my eyes open wide, and to get me heading in the direction I have been side-stepping/avoiding/ignoring/wasting time by denying for far too long.  I can only imagine Him sitting up there, shaking His head in disbelief and smacking His forehead in frustration, while I continue to avoid my destiny in cunningly stupid, and innocently disbelieving ways.

Maria, we need to talk.  For now, I need to stop this typing and shut my eyes again.  I am supposed to be resting them to try and get a handle on the healing process from the recent brain injury. 

Ugh

I've let myself go.

Oh boy, have I let myself go.

In fact, I've gone, come back, and left again.  Go, go, go.  Going, going...GONE!

I'm wearing years of 'another birthday fat,' 'disappointment with life fat,' 'i don't have a full time job fat,' 'ouch fat (A.K.A. 'what is that pain - i can't walk fat'),' 'what the eff has happened to my life fat,' 'eat because i want to mask the pain of reality fat,' 'why is my bladder doing that fat,' 'why didn't i recognize that was God's sign fat.' 

You name it, the fat stopped here.

Well, after eleven years of trying, falling, re-inventing, getting back up and trying again, following the trends and trying, and falling, and getting back up once more, I finally found a full time job.  Or rather, the job found me - but either way, that's a BIG "thank you," God.

No, this is not me feeling sorry for myself, it's just the unbridled realization that I am so behind an eight ball with my name written on it...bedazzled in Liberace-style rhinestones.  Like a disco ball of ugh - swinging wrecking ball-like through my life - and I have a tracking device brilliantly embedded somewhere so that I cannot duck or hide, no matter how hard I work to improve things.

How do I make myself un-go?

Is there a way to undo the damage and get back to a good place, or do I just have to start all over again from here?  Really...from here?  Right here?  Really!?

Well, I suppose there are only truly two choices then, eh.  Keep loving the chocolate and potato chips, and all of the other bad things which taste so good and make me feel better, or confront those things that hold me back, make me feel scared and incapable and unworthy.

OK, this is me telling them to get the bleep outta my way!

But just in case, does anyone have a bag of bread crumbs I can use?

Make a bigger dent

I totally get Karl's conundrum with homework for two classes - which set of classwork to start on first?  He couldn't just choose one and get busy, for fear of not doing what was 'right' by working on the other class homework instead.

At the time, I couldn't get how this was such a problem.  Not wanting to think he was using an oddly elaborate dodge, I tried to help him see that by just getting started he could finish one thing and then start the other... eventually both assignments would be accomplished.  The more he dug his heels in over one subject, the more we butted heads and became frustrated.

The more frustration, the more we argued.

The more we argued and debated, the less homework got done.

It was a vicious, unhealthy, unhappy situation. 

It was a difficult time but we did finally move past that.  Karl graduated last May, receiving two - TWO Associate degrees.

Currently, I have multiple large tasks to tackle at home, and no matter what I do I cannot make myself choose one thing over another.  I start one chore, only to distract myself somewhere in the process and lose momentum.  Or, I'll make lists to outline the day or the order, but can't make myself actually dig in and start because the items further down the chore list suddenly seem more important than they had when the list was made.  Aaaargh!!

So, I get it, Karl.  I see your trouble, but there has to be a way to overcome and move forward easily.  I'll let you know how this all comes out.  Until then, here's hoping everything in your life falls in to place easily.

It's always 4:20 somewhere

I cannot get back to sleep. I hate this.

Is it considered insomnia if you were sleeping, then woke up (for no good reason) and just can't get back to the z's? 

Just this last week or so I find myself falling asleep before 10PM (sometimes well before), and waking (sometimes alarmingly so) before the alarm.  Not aware that I am thinking of anything specific roiling in my brain-pan, but waking and laying here - without sheep to count - gives my head ample time to recall things I would much rather leave in the mental dustbin...if you dig what I am saying.

Gonna be dragging at work today (and probably on edge).  Thanks, wake-up monster.  Thanks a lot.

For those of you paying attention

In January we had a drop-in guest during that
horrible cold wave (Polar Vortex #1 of 2019).

Do you remember the story?

Do you remember what we named her?

Can you even recall what type of
critter she is?

Well, Click is doing fine, thank you.
Our 'keeper' tells me she healthy
and content, and is on track for a
successful release this spring.

This is happiness.
[sigh]
<3 p="">

Random stuff

Things I need to do:
 - the dishes
 - thank you notes from the holidays
 - today's cat box doody duty
 - laundry

Things I want to do:
 - stitching on "Peacock"
 - laundry
 - assembling more of VG
 - find the control pedal for my Bernina
 - finding and buying a replacement hubcap for the Duke
 - appliqueing more of the floral mandala
 - beginning my "Blackbird" piece

Things I am dreading:
 - meeting on Tuesday
 - laundry (because the drain pipe may be frozen - and back-up, again)
 - those dam*ed dishes

Things I am curious about:
 - how Click is doing (our rescue bat)

Calling my mom comes in to play, too, but I didn't know which list to add that to.

Don't ask

How does that work?

I was bundled to the max.  I had a scarf in place OVER the hoodie, and over the secured-under-the-chin-and-totally-zipped-up jacket.  Cold air was not getting in, so how - how - did a chip of frozen windshield snow find a chink in the impermeable layers?

I felt that minuscule frozen menace the moment it began to pinball down the front of me; and I mean past the defenses of the knotted and tucked scarf, to inside the coat and hoodie.  It never even hit my chin or grazed a cheek.  Amazingly, it sailed unimpeded over the neckline of my t-shirt to somehow bank inextricably to the area of my unsuspecting decolletage.  From there it began a free fall of epic proportions, even though it should have (by all rights and scientific data) melted upon entering the realm of my mid-life-lady-hot-flash-mixed-with-the-steam-bath I created by layering.

But it didn't.

I was scraping the window of the Duke like a woman possessed, thinking to myself how odd it was that I actually felt pretty comfortable out there in the sub-zero stuff, with an approximate windchill of negative twenties+ (or is that 'negative twenties minus'?).  The wind was blowing, and luckily I found I was on the right side of it, and the churning ice storm I created was whipping away from me. 

Then, just at that moment, the breeze stopped....and it happened.  That pimple of ice sailed undetected across the car and impossibly enough into my coat, where it tumbled under the t-shirt, from my chest, to my abdomen, to - I would swear - straight towards my bellybutton.  Before that happened, I raised my arm against the intrusion and squished the crumb of moisture.  My! but that was cold.

And as shocked as the sudden cold against my skin was, [shh, don't repeat this to anyone] it was bracing-ly refreshing.

Bbbr-r-r-r-r....no more of this extreme cold stuff, if you please.

It's been a wild week, in more ways than one

It was as though I could feel the biological clock ticking for Click - "Click" being the name we gave our drowsy, confused, nocturnal upstairs-turned-downstairs drop-in house guest. Not knowing whether it was male or female, "Click" seemed the safest moniker to bestow, and, as there were no objections, "Click" it was... er, um... IS.
Oh, yeah, and it's a girl, everybody!
As I was droning:
...every hour labored by, and I grew concerned over how much time was passing, hurting Click's chances for returning successfully to her torpor. Let's face it, a bucket in a cold laundry closet versus wedging oneself between layers of insulation and a warm ceiling in an attic are hardly matching states of temperatures and conditions. Plus, she's now no longer able to self-regulate her own physical condition successfully, so that stress was taking a toll on her fat reserves and chances of survival.
You see, you don't feed or water a bat - or any animal - in that somewhat awakened state of hibernation, you let them be. But this was an exception to the rule of wildlife happenstance. Click had managed to self-regulate herself in torpor from her cozy attic digs into our living space, complete with much warmer temperatures - and cats! Her odds had changed drastically for the worse in the twitch of a wing. I knew it was critical to keep her safe, and to also keep her cool - but how much cooler was cool enough?

Now you understand why that biological clock wasn't just ticking away - it was pounding like the inner workings of Big Ben. The window of opportunity for her making it through the week, let alone the winter, were slipping away.
This all began Tuesday, late in the day, as best we can narrow down the timeline. 'The twins' (Odin and Booker, for those of you not as familiar with our furry family) had probably followed the scratching noises of Click's movements above their heads most of the day, until she squoze herself through a recessed light fixture into our area.
Karl noticed Booker was fixated on something in the window (probably) much later in the day, and eventually Karl let me know that "something odd [was] hanging on the curtains - and it's clicking at me!"
Was it a moth or some other bug? I asked him. No, no. Perhaps a frog? No, and that's when he mentioned the noise; I told him it sounds like he was describing a bat. He said it didn't look like a bat, so I told him to look behind the drape panel (I still could not visualize how it was hanging from the drapes through our phone call) - and then he shrieked like a man. There was a lot of noise from his end of the phone, some his, some furniture he was crashing into, and some was the terror of the twins as they reacted to Karl's surprise.
The poor little thing was moving to conceal itself from approaching danger - things that would eat it. Confusion and noise (lots of both), and I was missing out; I can only imagine what it all looked like. [hilarity ensued]
I won't bore you with the ins and outs of the capture procedure - suffice to say you would have thought it an episode of I Love Lucy and not some random house on a quiet neighborhood street, with a loose bat evading two grown humans and two vigilant cats.
We made as many calls to numbers we could quickly locate that evening, just in hopes of getting some fast explanations on how to proceed, or where to take it for a safe return to the wild once warmer weather arrived - MONTHS from now. There's a Bat Conservancy organization in MI, for crying out loud - I know because I had planned to attend a huge presentation only the year before. How come I wasn't getting any of this info from anyone? Better still, why weren't any of the three advertised 24-hour 'call us any time' numbers taking calls at 8:45PM?
Internet wisdom suggested securing it without hurting it, or putting pets or humans at risk, and keeping the critter cool (but in a house?). We couldn't manage the 35*-40* (and we were not going to place the bat-in-a-bucket in the 'frig), but we could get a mid-fifty range to help a little towards the metabolic requirement. So, off to the lower level laundry closet it went.
Wednesday passed with a lot of web searching and phone calls. Hand-wringing was also a key part of the goings-on, but there wasn't much more we could do for the diminutive cutie except pray and continue to beat the bushes. With no access to my fb account while at work, suggestions stacked up and anything I could find online dried up with each phone call. I grew more concerned that there was no good plan coming to fruition in favor of our at-risk intruder. All the answers I received were either, "no, wrong number," "kill it, it has rabies," or "you've reached a non-working number." Infinitely frustrating.
One suggestion was to throw it outdoors, with the theory being it would quickly find a warm place - but I just couldn't bring myself to that end. Oh, maybe, had it been over forty degrees and no nighttime temps in the twenties, perhaps I would have had a less guilty attitude (and fewer thoughts of committing murder) and done that. But it wasn't and they weren't....so another night in the can ensued - along with the guilt and helpless feeling of this little bats' fate balancing precariously in my hands.
Knowing full well it was most likely now not in full torpor, and that it now most likely required water - if not food - I reasoned I would go to the local pet shop for some insect take-out on Thursday...no matter what.
Lest you think/ask why I didn't simply return the sweetie back to the attic, let me explain my thought process. If Click did manage to return to torpor and then back to more of a successful hibernation state, I had my doubts that due to the past 2 days of calorie-burning full heart rate and breathing (and warm temps), she didn't physically have what would have been necessary to sustain her through the rest of winter any longer. At least, that was how I felt.
I am a worrier - there, I said it.
If I did return her to the attic, would she succumb to the combination of what had transpired; would we find her remains later? Would she be barely alright through all of winter only to be too weak to make it out in the spring and die then? I just couldn't take that chance with her life. It wasn't my life to toy with, but it *was* my responsibility to help her.
__Fast forward to Thursday, because I fell asleep reading Wed night.__
On the drive to work, I dialed the one number I saw any quick hope in, and left a voice message. The person I called returned my message with a fantastic response, and I cheered several times as I parked the car and ran inside.
Buoyed for the rest of the day, I had a tough time making eight hours not seem like eighty, and I called Karl periodically to have him spot-check Click's condition. Now that I knew there was a huge positive chance, I had Karl put a container of water in the bucket. Click was going to be alright - I hoped.
Managing to peel myself away from work one hour later than I wanted to, I flew home to gather up Karl and Click to make the nearly one hour trip to the land of bat salvation. And, yes, I am going to continue being somewhat cryptic throughout this explanation, for reasons which will become obvious (to the smarter ones out there). Just kidding, because all my friends are pretty doggone brilliant.
There are only two trained/qualified/licensed/approved caretakers of wildlife creatures, such as Click, in the state of chaos (a.k.a. MI), and fortunately this person resides not too horribly far from me. Let that sink in - one of only two! There are way more needful creatures than can be cared for by two people. There's something wrong with these odds, people.
Lemme see if I can correctly describe the rehabbing dilemma in the state of Michigan. If I get it wrong, in part or in whole, a knowledgeable person can feel free to correct me. While bats are a protected species because of population decline - for many MAN-MADE reasons, it is illegal to care for them when an issue has been identified and care is required. The state will require training and licensing and reviews and fees, and all of that hoo-ha and folderol and more, but makes it illegal to actually perform the deed. Bureaucracy and hypocrites are kissing cousins!
Anyway, the long and the short of it is (I know, it's far too late for "the short of it") that our new friend - AND HERO - has taken Click into her care (no, I will not say 'under her wing'), adding to a fantastic community of rescued bats, who are over-wintering in a fabulous bat resort. I am now a small part of the bat underground, and will proudly help their cause in any way I can. Our rescuer gave Click a complete physical and sexed her, telling us she is a MI Large Brown Bat, I would have figure a small variety, but nope...Large Brown Bats are small, and Small Brown Bats are smaller, yet.. LOL
Click ate 15 mealy worms, which is good! She is a yearling, and was on the emaciated side of the scale, but will rebound nicely, and will be returned to the world in the spring once the weather mellows enough for the bugs to become plentiful and life-sustaining for beautiful little creatures like Click.
God bless the rehabbers of the world - they are few and far between, but they make such a huge difference in their own ways; their compassion has no bounds for those with no voice. I am blessed to know six, and number them among my friends. I am proud to be a batty subversive!

Christmas cards

Many people send them; many more people love to get them - and why not?  What's not to love?  A token of friendship and remembrance, but also a way to tell people they mean something to you.  Even though you may have fallen out of general contact with them, you're saying (in a minute way)  that they still matter to you, even though you may be horrible at showing it (the rest of the year).

I am familiar with the sensation, I receive cards, too.  It's never not delightful.

I'm not certain how other people go about it all, but in my case, I take time to search for the most representative cards to send.  I don't make out many - maybe thirty or so - but that's enough for it to be a chore (not a 'bad thing' chore, just a process that requires time and thought).  Do I buy any cards of a 'more personalized' nature in addition to boxes of one card or another?  You betcha - one special one for mom, one for my son and his bride, certain friends... I search for style and substance, not one over the other; something that sounds like me and pleases my mental palette, so when the recipient reads it they can tell I am sending my greetings. 

Yes, I buy boxes of cards, 16-20 per box (usually two boxes of totally different cards/messages), that way the folks who might not appreciate one message or illustration may be a better fit with the alternate selection.   And yes, one of the greetings tends to be a bit more secular than the other.  It's worked for me for years - and on occasion I've received complements because of the card choice.  That's when it's totally worthwhile. 

With very few leftovers (from the boxes), I easily use those for co-workers the following year; or as thank you-type notes to people who have affected my life positively throughout the year... people I don't communicate with otherwise.  It all works out well, usually.

Except [sigh]... this season I slipped into my all-too-familiar blue funk, and while I wanted to send cards, I simply couldn't produce (or hold on to) the necessary momentum to seal the deal.  Thanksgiving weekend is typically the time I make out my notes (then address and stuff the envelopes) so that the cards can travel that first week of December, but for some reason I could not propel myself into action.  When cards began arriving in our mailbox, I knew I was up against it then.  Yikes!

Even that wasn't enough to force my hand - not completely.  With the heaviness of an unrelenting Navy blue hue now hanging about me, I tried to make myself accomplish the task - sets of six cards at a time.  Anything to get the ball rolling.

So, if you are still waiting for your Christmas card from me... just know, YOU SHOULDN'T BE.  I completed the task prior to Christmas (thank you very much), including the part where you drop the addressed, stamped envelopes into a mailbox for the carriers to do their thing.  If you normally get a card from me and you still haven't received one, let me know - please.  I would love another reason to go postal.

Ah, Christmas cards, oh, Christmas cards. [humming carols quietly to the cats]

It's all about color

Feeling blue, with squidgy purple-ish edges.