Moving on - sort of

I've been wanting to write lately ("lately" equating to from around December 2019 to about now), but ran into a couple of technical issues that kept me from the blog.  As you can tell, things are right again (for the time being), so here we are, and here we go.

It's a bright, beautiful Saturday afternoon.  The boys are cuddled up and napping, and since Odin currently is hunkered in 'the tent', I feel obliged to remain in bed, too.  Yes!  It's after 7:45AM and I am still in bed, so calm your jets.  Do I have a lot of things to get to...things I should already have accomplished after all of these weeks of flying solo?  That would be an emphatic "YES" (- doesn't everyone?), but I seem to have skillfully managed to fritter away so many weekends finishing very little after starting so much.  [grimacing]

Let's blame it on:
 - the doldrums, or
 - the blues, or
 - rewarding myself with weekend laziness for having made it through another week, or
 - Covid19.  Goodness knows this pandemic is the root of all unhappiness at present.

Oh, and in case you've lost track, my lovely girls are all gone now.  Old age and health issues have taken sweet, outgoing, robust Cleo, her glorious-but-skittish litter sister (and Blue Cream Maine Coon) Flop, and lastly our mouthy mama bean Hobbes.

After Clee and Flop departed we found Hobbes was depressed and lonely in the kitty partner category, so we adopted/rescued an older sweet street waif - a gentleman through and through - we named "Jake."  He was in worse than rough condition, and diagnosed with extremely advanced FIV (feline AIDS), but none of that could tarnish the desire to add him to our brood.  Jake was priceless and one of a kind, but besides all of that, he deserved a home and an easier future (for whatever remained of it) - even though it only ended up lasting 5.5 months.

November found us looking for another companion for 'Beana', and she was quickly joined by a totally different sort of brute in the form of an immense Red Maine Coon we dubbed "Booker."  Book was a thin-ish juvenile (judged to be around three years of age by the rescue vet), rambunctious and rag-tag in his furriness.  He needed some love and care, and a place where he could learn to feel safe once again.  He hated my crying over Jake from time to time, and had no issue hissing at me to express his dissatisfaction.  I have to admit to being somewhat terrified at his full-faced hisses, and lack of desire to be held, so it's little wonder there was good cause for confusion and trepidation about this new addition.

While he and Beana were excellent company from the start, we humans were held at bay in the get-to-know-you arena.  I should say that was true more for me than Karl.  Book took to Karl at the beginning more than to myself, and I had a hard time adjusting to the whole thing in general.  Don't get me wrong, I loved Booker - I wanted to show him this - but we did not hit it off at the first, and I am not an inwardly patient person.  Outwardly, people see me very differently...but this is of little consequence to the story at hand.

A few months later we came to the end of Hobbes' earthly reign, and it was time to search for a companion for Booker.  This was not going to be easy or straight forward...and perhaps Book would have been alright as a solo house cat but, truth-be-told, I needed to have another kitty.  After all, this had been a three kitty household (and family) for the better part of twenty years!

Once again our purveyor of rescue cats, Dottie (the bringer of Booker and Jake), stepped up to ferry a new rescue into our lives in the form of Odin (formerly dubbed "Possum").  His hard luck story has been told here before, so I won't bore you with it again.  If you need to review, you can find it by clicking the label "Odin," and all entries pertaining to our little rapscallion will be at your beck and call.

It took very little time to get the boys integrated - granted, it took more time than other introductions had in our shifting feline dynamics - but less than it could have with these two strong male personalities.  Before long, they were comfortable and silly with one another, and we had a working, co-habitating family once more.  If you haven't seen it, I put together a very short photo display of the two boys ("the Twins" as we called them), and I will try to locate it and include it in the blog.  It shows Booker and Odin, in napping form - and always, ALWAYS with Odin inching closer to Book, until one day...boo yaka shah! [thanks for that, Faraaz]

After less than three years in our arms and beds, and everywhere in between, Booker's time on earth  came to an abrupt end.  It took the rest of August and all of September for Karl to allow even the possibility of finding a new addition to our family.  Odin was in tremendous need, and I was, too, but Karl was torn apart and unable to permit himself the thought of another addition.  So, one day while he was out and I ran errands, I came across a roadside rescue event...and the rest is history.

Moving on is not always easy, but it isn't always difficult either, it's just a process.  Sometimes the process is messy or protracted.  Sometimes the process requires additional steps to be added to the flow chart.  Sometimes you don't have anything more to the process other than simply getting up each and every day and surviving until the sun sets and you crawl back into bed.  This is where I have been lately, stuck in the get-up-go-do-make-it-through-and-get-back-to-safety routine.  I am trying to put distance between myself and my miserable recent past.  Depression, the doctor said, and here's a pill for it.

Well, I said "no thanks" - maybe it was a wrong decision, I know it cheesed off one friend - and I am still finding my way around the fuzzy corners and through dark mental hallways.  It looks (in my emotional-mentals) like a long dark space (not unlike a wide corridor), and every so often I come upon what I swear would be a doorway.  There's a narrow beam of light piercing the gloom, as if from under a closed door, but when I get to the wall where the 'door' should be to feel for a doorknob or handle, there's nothing.  I get down on my belly to look under the door, but have the distinct feeling of fear that I am far too close to the edge of being on that floor and falling over instead of seeing something tangible in the space where the light is existing. 

Sorry, that's the best way of describing how it feels.  It makes taking chances seem futile and overwhelmingly frightening, and so it is safer to keep to myself.  Don't reach out; leave your hands at your sides and be careful.  See, it feels if I reach out - instead of receiving help - I might actually accidentally push people (family, friends) away...over the edge and out of my life.  If I do nothing, if I keep my hands to myself, I won't be doing any unintended harm.  Does that makes sense?  Don't pull people down and don't push them.

Maybe I am doing it all wrong, but I am also not moving forward (good) or backward (not so good).  However, I'm also not moving on.

[sigh]

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. 

And while I'm on it...

I guess I am thinking more lately of the things Karl did as a boy because in a few short days he will turn 22! It doesn't seem possible, but eventually they grow up (to some degree).

Anyhow, my introspection of Karl's milestones and observations is natural for a mother, I suppose, especially as birthdays approach. We always see the children we bore as our babes, while still marveling at the people they become - sometimes due to our example and meddling...and sometimes in spite of it!

I'm thinking how funny it is that children hear what we say and then how it sticks in their memory banks; and how much funnier it is when they try to use it later in conversation.

When dropping Brian off at a childhood friend's house for a party, I was going over the usual things: remember to use "please" and "thank you," use a napkin, I'll pick you up by..., etc. A four-year-old Karl chimed in towards the end of the litany with "...and mind your keys and pews."

I think you know what that was meant to be.

Karl's observations

I love my sons. Have fairly neat conversations with them for the most part, and on any given day we laugh together at least a few times - either as groups of two or as a family.

Being siblings, the boys will fight. Usually over stupid things; and they both say stuff to one another (I think) to start arguments, but I also think that's a very typical family dynamic - my least favorite typical thing - but something that happens in every family.

Well, OK. My least favorite...tied with noncompliance of chores and requested tasks.

Due to Karl's Asperger's, he is more pragmatic and literal than most, even cynical television talk show hosts would be blown away by his acuity and mental devices. Thank God he is not a Republican.

As a boy he would grasp things on a different level (and to some small degree, still does), and because of his very literal way of hearing, seeing and processing information, his thoughts and comments have always been refreshing and quirky - and very honest and straightforward (to my dismay at times). Sometimes I would have to stop and think like Karl to understand what it was he wasn't getting, or that was stuck in his brain sideways.

Observations through Karl's eyes have (up until recently) been charming, odd, curious and thought-provoking.

For example:

I was walking along outside near some bushes, when out from it poured a swarm of mosquitoes. As I slapped and clapped and frantically waved to shoo them away from my head, one flew up my nose!

Shocker!

It was one of those things that makes you take notice, real fast. First thing I tried to do was just blow/huff/snort the creature out. But without a visual confirmation, you always question whether or not the bug in question actually did pop back out.

Sooooo, I hustled in to the house and called for a tissue (Karl had grabbed the box from the living room). He came out to find me with a "funny" look on my face, and he asked what was wrong.

While I blew my nose to be certain Mr. Bloodsucker wasn't still residing up my nasal cavity, I relayed the story of the mosquito flying pall mall, kamikaze-style up my nose. To which he matter-of-factly replied: "Ya know, mom, if you were a mouth-breather instead of a nose-breather, you wouldn't have this problem."

"Yeah, but, then I would have a mosquito in my mouth."

"Uh-huh. But that one you could spit out. See?"

Huh.

And then there was time I was trimming tree limbs from a bunch of low hanging branches, and Karl observed that sawdust shouldn't be called "sawdust," because it wasn't the result of the saw disintegrating.

"Why isn't it called "treedust?"

And is "fairy dust" ground up fairy bits? Is Tinkerbell sort of twisted?