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Aug. 6th, 2019 07:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeSo I woke up, got a bit of stuff done, especially after last night's bout of 10pm spite cooking. Which turned into some very tasty beef cube stir fry though. Got to work, stuff happened, stuff was untangled, I got some writing done and some planning.
Which turned out to be a good thing because when I got home the boy told me Michelle-kitty had peed herself today and was falling down a lot.
I was afraid of this. She did eat, I went into the kitchen and she followed me in and shrieked until I fed her, which is usual and normal. One of the few usual and normal things about her lately. She's been sleeping in one spot on the floor, but that's not entirely unusual either, a lot of the cats have their favorite spot until they pick a different favorite spot, and it's not a hidden place, it's right in the middle of a damn doorway. And she ... I can't tell if she's been losing more weight or not. I've been afraid to weigh her. I don't think the boy's weighed her. Her appetite's fine. Her ability to eat is being impaired by the lymph glob but ...
I wish I could say ... something hopeful. Anything. But when the boy relayed the contents of the phone call I am sure the word metastasize came up. And I don't know if that was him catastrophizing or something the doctor said but given how fast she lost weight and developed the blob I wouldn't be surprised by that either.
And I'm not ready for any of this. And I'm scared we should have pushed harder, turned up at the door of the oncologist, I did look for one anywhere else in the area and the nearest is two hours away. I fear we should have done more. And that there isn't anything more to do.
Yesterday the shooting. Today the kitty. I'm dreading what tomorrow brings. I want this week to stop piling shit on me till I crawl under the covers to cry. The only good side to all of this is that I didn't find out till I'd gotten home, after I'd gotten some writing work done. And that I bought some cider on Sunday because I could use a good warm fruity feeling right now. I don't know what else I want. I want to write. To bury myself in fictional worlds. I want not to feel guilty for doing so. I want my boy home but he's at work. I want this not to be happening. I want another six-eight years with my oldest cats and for them to go quietly in their sleep in a sunbeam.
Which I guess she might yet do, sometime between now and tomorrow morning. I don't know if that's comforting or not.
Anyway. There's how I am.
Which turned out to be a good thing because when I got home the boy told me Michelle-kitty had peed herself today and was falling down a lot.
I was afraid of this. She did eat, I went into the kitchen and she followed me in and shrieked until I fed her, which is usual and normal. One of the few usual and normal things about her lately. She's been sleeping in one spot on the floor, but that's not entirely unusual either, a lot of the cats have their favorite spot until they pick a different favorite spot, and it's not a hidden place, it's right in the middle of a damn doorway. And she ... I can't tell if she's been losing more weight or not. I've been afraid to weigh her. I don't think the boy's weighed her. Her appetite's fine. Her ability to eat is being impaired by the lymph glob but ...
I wish I could say ... something hopeful. Anything. But when the boy relayed the contents of the phone call I am sure the word metastasize came up. And I don't know if that was him catastrophizing or something the doctor said but given how fast she lost weight and developed the blob I wouldn't be surprised by that either.
And I'm not ready for any of this. And I'm scared we should have pushed harder, turned up at the door of the oncologist, I did look for one anywhere else in the area and the nearest is two hours away. I fear we should have done more. And that there isn't anything more to do.
Yesterday the shooting. Today the kitty. I'm dreading what tomorrow brings. I want this week to stop piling shit on me till I crawl under the covers to cry. The only good side to all of this is that I didn't find out till I'd gotten home, after I'd gotten some writing work done. And that I bought some cider on Sunday because I could use a good warm fruity feeling right now. I don't know what else I want. I want to write. To bury myself in fictional worlds. I want not to feel guilty for doing so. I want my boy home but he's at work. I want this not to be happening. I want another six-eight years with my oldest cats and for them to go quietly in their sleep in a sunbeam.
Which I guess she might yet do, sometime between now and tomorrow morning. I don't know if that's comforting or not.
Anyway. There's how I am.