Down and Up

I've not been up to much--not just updating the blog, but anything, even talking to people. My own medical condition is....dire, but no one is going to get any joy talking about failed treatments or how much pain I'm, or how long it takes me to get out even a single simple sentence. My muscles aren't working properly. Typing this post hurts, and it will probably take me hours...

But that's not what matters.

Pheen is under my bed. Days three to five after chemo are the worst. He's extra nauseous, and I can hear his poor belly gurgling angrily along with mine. He's also sad and withdrawn, and can't be comforted. I get that he feels like total crap, and snuggles won't make it go away. But I wish they would. For him.

Except for the painfully routine soul-crushing chemo smackdown, he's been doing pretty well. His new medication is still helping him eat. Not enough, but he can eat about half of his food on his own--and way better, he can enjoy it. The other half he's still getting by syringe. But we're winning.

He gets a full check up before every weekly chemo treatment. We were fighting so so hard to stop him from losing more weight....

This week, his weight was up 0.2 kilos.

To put that in perspective, that's like an average human putting on 15 lbs in a week. Oh yeah, WHILE they have terminal cancer and are on chemo.

His doctors thought we were all made of serious amazeballs when we were able to maintain his weight. Putting on weight, any weight, let alone a good amount of it, was yet another thing my boy shouldn't have been able to do.

Yes! Score some more for Team Stubborn!

But we have to give a big squishy hug to pharmaceuticals. I used to be a chemist; the SU's still one. Neither of us had any idea when we went into the field how very much it would really shape and shelter our lives. I would go into details, but only the hardcore geeks could ever care, and then there's the whole Confidentiality Agreements thing...

Oh, and the new med is also helping him sleep. That first time, finding him curled up. with his eyes closed, and deep sighing the blissful breaths of a REALLY good nap--I had to use my fists to stuff down a sob.

It was involuntary, I swear.



I hadn't seen him sleep in weeks. Months, actually. He was exhausted. He spent most of hie time lying, limp, his eyes ripping my heart out by drooping halfway, endlessly, with sheer misery and fatigue. But, our symptoms were cruelly matching up again. No matter what, he couldn't sleep.

Yes, Cancer is that vicious a motherfucker. It even breaks a cat's ability to sleep.

But with this new med, he can doze. It's not as deep or relaxed as his usual sleep, but it tears me up every time. My poor boy.

I wish I could fix everything for him, but still, we found a way to bring back noms and naps, at least a little.

I'm so grateful for the options available to our boy, and the wonderful staff that's helping treat him. I'm also anti-grateful to his insurance company, who, despite so many years of faithful regular payments by us, decided 'Oh shit! This Cancer crap is expensive!' and cut him. I'd say may they die in a fire, but, you know, it would be more appropriate to wish them, or someone they love dearly, cancer. And with the odds being 1 in four, it's so going to happen, bitches. So may you have someone in charge of treatment who is just as ethical and respectful and sympathetic as you have been. Enjoy!

As for me, I'm fighting my condition as hard as I can, trying to hold on and cherish every purr and every nuzzle, and, most especially, every night of family snuggle time (tm).

If you haven't hugged your family yet today, go, hurry! You're wasting your day. And make every hug count.

You never know how many you have...

Eat Your Heart Out

It's been a rough month here at the Dragon Lair.

Phoenix and I have felt like we're competing in the world's most sadistic reality show. To see who can have more emergency trips to the hospital, who can have more tests, who can have the worst test ever (tm), who can scare the crap out of the rest of the family the most, etc.

We're taking the same amount of medications, even many of the same medications--only the dosage is different. When the hospital ran out of Pheen's latest medication, the SU hunted down our former pharmacist, who left our pharmacy because Shoppers appears to be worse than the Hellmouth to work for. Sadly, we're stuck there, with the total morons they replaced her with, because the other pharms are rarely ever open. I don't have enough health to have a pharm that keeps fucking bank hours. And neither does my poor little Boo...

My former pharmacist didn't just fill my babies prescription; she pre-cut it into quarter tablets for him. See? She's amazing.

He had his first dose last night, fighting it like pure hell, of course, as he does all his pills.

This afternoon, I woke up, fumbling and whimpering to try to get my screaming body out of bed. You know, the usual. As I began to limp to the bathroom, I heard papers downstairs. Lots of papers. Like somebody was rolling in a recycling bin.

What the hell was Boo doing down there?

He used to do that when he heard me wake up, and wanted me to come and say hi downstairs. He never understood that it hurt me to take the stairs, and he'll never know.

I'd been summoned. So, clinging to the wall, I started the slow agonising limp down the stairs. My eyes were trying to tear up, and fear was trying to freak out, because he hadn't done this in months. I was trying to convince myself that it was a good thing he wanted me...

And then, having heard me on the steps, he crunched food.

My heart did something in my chest that was really really painful, but...so so happy.

I got down the stairs as fast as could, shaking, tears splatting, joy throbbing my chest like I was outdoing the Grinch at Christmas.

And then, when he knew I'd gotten far enough that I could see him, he popped his head up to beam at me, and then went right back to crunching food.

Pheen hasn't been able to eat food since...even before his diagnosis. It was why I pushed for an emergency appt at the vet. He went from 14 lbs of Maine Coon power and muscle to...the most horrifying emaciated....He wasn't even 8 lbs by the time we could get him a vet appt. In just a couple of days, the cancer ate him, and it wouldn't let him eat.

And for the last month, he still couldn't eat anything. He wanted food, he would cry for it. But his body wouldn't let him eat it.

Once again, I had to be strangely grateful for my illness, because I could understand. I've been so hungry, I've cried--not a good place for someone to be who, for years, was tortured by being starved--as my body wouldn't let me swallow food. I would retch and either dry heave or throw up blood, if I even tried to put food in my mouth. I felt so horrible for my boy, because I knew how much it hurt, both mentally and physically, because it feels like your stomach is being ripped out, because the acid just keeps churning and your stomach starts to digest itself.

So I knew the meds to get him for nausea and acid reflux and reducing the acid in your stomach--and he got them all--but I also knew they didn't help enough. I still have to force food down. It's more than fighting down each meal, or each mouthful. With each motion to chew, my body gags and tries to throw up. But I fight. Like all the pain, I fight, and I win even when I lose. Because I have to. Because I have to be here. Because even as badly broken as I am, my family still wants me. They need me. I fight through every test, every hospital stay, every migraine, and worse, by forcing myself to hold on to the guys in my mind. Berating myself, when it hurts so so much and I just want it all to stop, that I can't. I can't ever give up. Because if I don't come home, the guys wouldn't understand...

I don't know if Boo knows that not coming home again is an option. I do know, with certainty, it's not one he'd ever willingly take. We may not share genes, but we might as well have. From the moment we met, the world had united the two most stubborn people ever to exist.

It made his early childhood very...interesting.

His will has managed things with his illness that his doctors can't explain. After his seizure, his blood test read his glucose as undetectable. It also read his white blood cells as undetectable. He shouldn't have been alive, let alone conscious. His only chance was a blood transfusion, and they didn't expect him to survive it. They were certain the cancer had reached his bone marrow, and consumed it completely. He wouldn't be able to make white blood cells. He could die from the bacteria that had been present in his body his whole life. If he did survive the transfusion, they said he would need one every few days, just to keep living. They didn't know if he could ever come home again.

But that wasn't what happened.

We worried like utter hell, beyond every agony. The transfusion went fine. I even met his donor, who is possibly the most mellow cat in existence. He was half gooed, casually washing his face, as he was being my superhero and helping save my dearest little boy.

They kept Pheen in the hospital for two days, but I think the second day was because they were confused. The blood transfusion gave him a tiny bit of white blood cells. The next test was routine, just being absolutely sure his body wasn't rejecting anything.

He was frickin full of white blood cells.

Cue the doctors all looking at each other in mass confusion before the episode of House cuts to commercial.

Trying to figure out WTAF was happening, they looked closer at his blood. The white blood cells were immature. They shouldn't be there.

Ruling out the theory that the massive worry of family can make white blood cells spontaneously create themselves, they were left with only one explanation. His body was weak, but his marrow was fine. Being so depleted and dealing with so much, his body didn't catch on to the crisis until the Red Alert klaxon was screaming. Going 'Oh Shit!', it did something it shouldn't be able to do: it vomited all the white blood cells it had into his blood stream, no matter what stage of development they were at. Immature white blood cells can't brawl like when they're all grown up, but they can fight, and there was A LOT of them.

Yet still, with all that will, my boy couldn't get down food. Absolutely rejecting the feeding tube option, the SU has been feeding Pheen pated food by syringe. Usually four feedings a day, taking about an hour each time. As well as feeding him all of his meds.

Yes, my SU is amazing. Utterly exhausted, but so wonderful. Even more so, because, like me, there is enraged irritation when other humans--Hell yes, I still refuse to call them people. I use that term as a respectful title, for life that is precious and treats others so. And humans? They're the lifeform that deserve it the least--anyway, there is very nearly stabby stabby stab at the scorn, at what they see as a silly waste.

Why is it that the creatures who deserve life least can't be the ones who die miserably with cancer? I know life isn't fair, life is pain--I know my Princess Bride. But sometimes things are so far in the wrong direction you just....

But this afternoon, in my kitchen, was pure and total joy. When I stepped into the corner, where the saucers are kept, Phoenix jogged over purring, shifting from foot to foot in his excitement. My baby wanted food, and hell no was he getting Pate.

I grabbed a chair, chatting to him the whole time about nom-noms, and managed--through my own fierce stubbornness--to get on it and get the box of the Fancy Feast with gravy down without falling and splitting my self to pieces of my Floor of Doom.

And I think I was both laughing and crying with hope and joy as I put down a spoonful of diced chicken with gravy.

Phoenix attacked it, purring.

He even did a kill shake.

Shaking with overwhelming joy for my boy, I think I was making flaily arms. I might have been shifting from foot to foot myself in my excitement. I wanted to cook my baby a whole chicken, for the bliss of seeing him able to eat it.

Hissy had crept down the stairs, out of the library of shame, sadness, and safety (tm), but she was staying at the foot of the stairs. Sighing, I brought some on a saucer to where she was, and then raced back to flailing and watching Phoenix scarf with glee.

And then I made myself fumble up the stairs again, and then fumble right back down, so I could keep watching as I called the SU.

My partner deserves so many things that I can never give, but good news? Today, I had a blessed chunk of that, and someone needed it even more than me...

Now, pardon me, I'm going to post this mess without proofing it. Yes, really. Because, right now, I need to risk more disaster on the stairs, just in case someone is feeling a little nommy....

Give Me Novocaine

The hospital just called.

Pheen is on oxygen. They think the chemo weakened his immune system and he caught an infection, so he's on antibios too.

This shouldn't have happened with low dose chemo.

His white blood cells are wiped out. Again, that should have been impossible.

They're giving him a blood transfusion. His body might rejection it. If it does, he'll crash.

So they asked the SU if we wanted them to resuscitate.

The answer, of course, was fuck yes.

I'm in the unique position of being able to judge this better than anyone. I know so much about pain and suffering and your body failing, and hospitals and tubes and going through the motions.

And for years, i got through it all because I had to come home to my family. i had to fight to come home to Pheen. Because he wouldn't understand, and he needed me.

And I don't believe he loves me any less, or that he's any less stubborn. As long as he can enjoy being with his family, his family will help fight to help keep him there. Period.

I can lose the car, the house, anything I own, but I only have one son, and he's worth more than anything else, far more valuable than anything else I could ever do with money.

That's what got us this far.

But now the hospital want us to discuss funeral arrangements...

No matter how bad the pain is, it can--and will--always get worse...

Hurt Can Always Go Deeper

I've heard from the hospital via a call from the SU.

Pheen didn't have another seizure last night.

But this morning, something went wrong with his breathing.They think, during the seizure, he either aspirated into his lungs, or formed a blood clot.

When he recognised me yesterday, i was relieved. Because I was afraid he's had a stroke, and...

But it doesn't matter.

I didn't help him fast enough.

They won't let him leave the hospital.

My boy may never come again.

I didn't want him to die alone and afraid. One of the things that I held on to yesterday was that I was here. He wouldn't be alone. He would be with someone who loved him, loved him more than he could ever know.

But now he's alone, with strangers...and all my worst fears are real and happening...

And there's nothing i can do to stop any of it. I've already failed him.

Not only is he in pain, and alone, but I'm going to lose the only real family I've ever had. The only person I could ever believe really loved me, even though I couldn't understand why.

When I had my specialist appt on Friday, he asked how my treatment was working. I replied with the truth, which was, "it seemed to be helping, but then there a new major stress we weren't expecting. Our family got hit by--"

I was going to say lymphoma, but I got cut off with, 'All stressors are temporary.'

And I replied, or finished my sentence with, "Lymphoma. I guess that's pretty--"

I was going to say temporary. Seeing how since it's always fatal, if you're sick sociopathic fuck, that's temporary.

But I got cut of by the SU, who was compelled to clarify, "It's our cat."

I was pissed.

And, as expected, I did not get less pissed when asked what we did about it. And when the answer was chemo, being told, 'they can do that? that must cost a pretty penny,' in a tone of voice that was oozing insult all over the place.

But then there was the topper. Being upset about this, he wrote it down a symptom of my disease, because, and I quote, "A normal person wouldn't care about a cat."

And this is why I hate humans. So. Fucking. Much.

Hurt

Phoenix had a seizure yesterday.

I was home alone. Usually, during the day, I'd be asleep. Because it's usually when my pain is less, and I can, at least part of the time stay asleep. But the tennis ball's giving me major pain. Any sleep I get it broken with pain, so I'd been up since 6am, both feeling like my abdomen was being torn out, and having another migraine.

A few days before or after, and I would have been at the doctors or the hospital. Appts and tests.

But no.

Instead, I was in the bathroom, when I heard a strange sound. Like...thumping. I couldn't tell where it was coming from. It sounded like it was outside. But it didn't sound like the birds, who are always landing on our roof to get a drink from the eaves.

My mind had to know what it was. So I limped my way downstairs. But I couldn't hear it at all there. Confused, I just stood in the living room for a moment.

And then, out of nowhere, my brain did a frantic flip forward.

Boo.

Where was Pheen?

I started to run. Fortress of solitude? No. Basket? No. Cat Carrier? No.

Oh Jesus, upstairs...

I don't remember taking the stairs, but I'm going to guess somehow I did it at full run.

I dropped t my knees the moment I crossed into the bedroom. It's where he's been hiding when he's upstairs, when he doesn't want more food or medicine, or just when he feels terrible.

And i saw what my brain knew it was going to see. What I never wanted to see again. What more than twenty years later i still have nightmares about.

Phoenix was seizing. The noise I was hearing was his limbs, cracking back into the floor.

I got to the foot of the bed and yanked it into my dresser. i got ahold of my nightstand and shoved it until it was nearly in the closet, and then I dropped back to my knees. Cradling his head and trying to see if he was still breathing.

He was hyperventilating. And the seizure was so bad he had soiled himself.

I had no way to help him, no way to get him to the hospital.

I grabbed the phone to dial then SU.

And stared at it.

I couldn't remember how to use the phone.

And,as if my brain wasn't screaming it frantically at me already, I berated myself to "Focus! You're all he has!"

And then I dialed the number, still cradling my baby's head, and talking to him. In case he was conscious. His eyes were open. But that doesn't mean he was there. My own medical conditions give me convulsions. Medically they're identical to seizures, except that you're conscious to feel the pain.

I didn't know if i wanted him to be aware or not. I wanted him to know he wasn't alone, but i never want hm to feel the kind of pain i feel.

There was a flurry of phone calls between me and SU, who was breaking ever speed and traffic law that wouldn't be fatal to get home.

One of those calls told me to get the number for the hospital, so they could prep. Another told me to get cornsyrup.

If his diabetes fucked up because of...everything...and his insulin was too high....

I rubbed one globe of cornsyrup into his mouth. And because I was worried too much could have got caught in his fur, I rubbed a second glob, deeper in.

And I kept talking to him, telling him how much I loved him, and that I would love him forever, no matter what. That family is permanent. Our bodies will fail us, but love is forever. But to please stay with me. please.

And then he went still. He stopped breathing. His eyes just stared off, completely blank.

And I knew that we were too late.

But now I could hold him without the horrible fear of hurting him worse. I grabbed the knitted blanket off the the bed, the one I made that we wrap him in at smuggle time every night.

And I picked up my boy, completely limp, and held him in arms, still telling him how beautiful he was and how much I loved him.

Then his head moved.

Before the horrible pain could leave my chest, he started seizing again. His tiny body failing against mine.

I've always believed that if there are gods, they're cruel. The most abusive parents imaginable. And I never believed it harder than yesterday,

Only someone full of hate could have done that to my son. My precious little boy.

In the eternity before the SU got home, he stopped seizing again. I wanted to sing to him "Novacaine" by Green Day, just like I did when he was terrified about all the trips to the vet when he was first diagnosed with diabetes.

But my brain wouldn't bring me the words.

What it did bring me was "The Black Parade" by My Chemical Romance.

We got him to the hospital. I held him the whole time. They praised my first aid, said I did everything perfectly, but all I could think was it wasn't enough...

They kept him overnight, because he could seizure again, and they have anti-convulsants.

One night of snuggling I'll never get back, And I know there must be so few left.

They left him wrapped up in my blanket, and they broke their own rules and let me go back to ICU. I knew my poor boy had to be in pain. After convulsions, I hurt for days, because every muscle in your body has been strained far beyond its breaking point. But he lifted his head when I saw me.

And i assured him that if they'd let me I'd sleep in one of the other cages.

They didn't let me.

I spent last night and this morning crying. Not just for the images in my head that will never leave, but because I can't help him enough. My own pain means nothing to his...