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I just realized how long it’d been since I’ve updated. Or, more accurately, what all has happened since I last updated.
I made my last entry after having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad night.
Let me explain.
No…there’s no time.
Let me sum up.
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I bought that gym membership, and went in on Wednesday evening to have my orientation (i.e. a tour of the circuit room). After that, I attended my first aerobics class.
I lasted less than 15 minutes before I found it nearly impossible to catch my breath, my skin started turning unnatural colors, and my fingernails turned a grayish color. They have mirrors all over the walls, see, so you can stare at yourself while you’re jumping around, in unison, with a bunch of people.
I admit, I’m out of shape, but I’m not THAT out of shape. Something told me to not try to power through, so I put my equipment away, collected my things, and called my husband. While I was waiting for him in the truck, I felt like I was dying. He brought a blood pressure monitor with him, and my blood pressure was a little high.
I had a doctor’s appointment scheduled for Thursday morning, so we decided to just wait until then to do anything. I was starting to feel a bit better, though still really crappy, and my idea of a good time doesn’t include going to the ER.
Thursday, we left the house at 8am, arrived at my gyno’s office, parked by the wrong building, walked halfway across campus to the correct building, sat in the waiting room for a couple of minutes, and I was called in.
I was weighed (holy shit, I’ve gained ten pounds in the past month!?! WTF?!?), asked about my medications, and then my blood pressure was taken: 140/100.
The nurse left, and the doc came in and told me I needed to stop taking my birth control pills. Since my blood pressure is usually so low, and the only thing that’s really changed in my life that would have that drastic of an effect on my health was the addition of the pills, he said it was better to quit them and be wrong than not quit them and be wrong about that. Then he said that he was going to refer me to a cardiologist ASAP.
I got a same-day appointment, JB and I got some lunch, and then went to Stern Cardiovascular. I got an EKG, and it was apparently normal. Big surprise, right?
So the doc recommended a stress test. If you’ve never had one, or don’t know anyone who’s had one, it’s where they take an ultrasound of your heart, attempt to get you to your target heart rate (via treadmill) while you’re strapped to an EKG, and then take another ultrasound of your heart. Your blood pressure is taken in the midst of all of this, as well.
I got the results of that today. Normal.
I was, however, slightly insulted at the instructions to “increase [my] daily activity.” I realize that jumping into an aerobics class probably wasn’t the smartest move in the world, but before I started my birth control, I was able to do a 40-minute all-over workout DVD with no major issues except the pushups, and that was with me being just about as active as I am now. The difference in weight, obviously, is pretty drastic, and I know that has something to do with it, but for fuck’s sake, y’all. I don’t sit around and eat all day.
From what I understand, and what I’ve read, Loestrin 24e (the birth control I was taking) either works well for you, or you nearly die from it. I was in the latter category. I was also unaware of just how high the risk of weight gain from this pill was – apparently it’s pretty damned high, and with some of the stress I’ve been under, I’m sure my cortisol levels helped significantly with that over-40-pound weight gain over the past 4 months. Yeah, you read that correctly.
So there’s no thyroid problem. No liver failure (my enzymes were wonky on my follow-up bloodwork). No infection. I’m a victim of a poor matchup between body chemistry and hormone replacement. Side effects include migraines, cramps (el oh el, lemme tell ya), the weight gain, bloating, chest pain, increased insomnia, increased depression, blah blah blah blah blah. When I looked at some drug-rating websites (where the patients rate their experience with the drug), this list was almost identical to that of everyone else who rated it poorly.
Despite the discomfort and irritation of the past few days, I know I’m very lucky. I have no permanent damage to my circulatory system. Whatever has occurred is reversible, though obviously it’s going to take a bit of time. I just wish I didn’t have to gain a shitload of weight and nearly have a stroke (twice!) before figuring all this out.
JB has, as I mentioned, been great about all of this. There have been other unpleasant side effects of this pill that he’s taken in stride. He’s put up with my frustration, my mood swings, my worrying, and other things that usually don’t spell “long-term success” when it comes to marriage.
So thanks for all of the good thoughts. If I was allowed to have alcohol right now, I’d drink a toast to everyone who’s commented, worried, prayed, etc.
…I love my husband. He’s my love, my life, my support, and my best friend.
Just had to say it. Because it’s true. :-)
I’m not getting comments emailed to me (again), so if you’ve commented and are wondering why I haven’t answered, it’s because I don’t come to my own website every day to check on things. If I don’t get something emailed to me, I’m liable to forget it’s there, so when I don’t get emailed comments, I assume no one’s been commenting.
So I’ll try to catch up soon.
Thanks for your patience, and your comments!
I am in a “Survey of Exceptional Learners” class right now (it’s basically “hai, look, here r sum disabilities! write a paper!”), and…
…
There’s really no way I can be P.C. about what I’m about to say.
Some of the people who are taking this course (in the MAT program…it’s a combined course, I’m in the undergrad portion) obviously fell through the cracks when they were being tested for learning disabilities earlier in life. Or they suffered some sort of head injury or rampant illicit drug use.
It’s like watching someone on American Idol who repeatedly says, “My mom says I sing really well,” then delivers a screeching performance that makes your teeth hurt and renders anyone within a 2-mile radius of the actual performance infertile.
A guy sitting next to me asked me, without preamble, if I was a special education teacher. I said, “Nope – I’m a psych major.”
He looked so confused, I almost felt sorry for him. I say “almost” because someone else had asked me a question earlier about my occupation that alluded to the fact that perhaps I shouldn’t have worn jeans, a tee shirt, and a plaid overshirt that day, even if the shirt was purple and brown and not really all that farmer-esque. Apparently I just look like I’m used to animals and/or children spilling stuff all over me.
“I’m undergrad. This is my last semester. I’m taking this class to see if I’d want to complete the MAT program here, because it’ll transfer to graduate credits while also counting as an undergrad elective.”
He just continued to give me a blank look, so, figuring talking about credits was a lost cause, I asked him what he was studying.
“Oh, I don’t want to be a teacher. I’m only taking this class because CBU’s paying for it.” Apparently he works in the athletics department on campus. I suspect he collects fly balls from the parking lot during softball practice. (At this map link, please see “Bland Field” for reference – just to the South of it is a visitor’s lot and the Faculty/Staff lot. Foul balls are common enough that there are “park at your own risk” signs in the visitor’s lot.)
When he asked me if I knew the professor, and thought we’d get any nights off from class (come ON, dude, it’s 8 classes! grow a pair!), I said, “Well, we get off for the Monday after Easter, and the previous Monday is Passover, so I expect we won’t be here for that class, either.”
My bad for assuming he had any idea who our professor was.
“Wait…Passover is JEWISH. This is a CATHOLIC school,” he said condescendingly.
“Yeah. Our professor is Jewish.”
“But this is a CATHOLIC school.” He started to giggle, like someone had said the word boobies, and we were on an episode of Jackass.
“Um, yeah, and she’s Jewish. It’s CBU’s discretion to have hired her, and she happens to be head of the Education Department. If she wants to let us have a night off because of her religious preference, I have no problem with that.” At this point, I’d stopped looking at him, because it was becoming an effort to keep a straight, non-confrontational expression on my face.
“…but this is a CATHOLIC school!” I think he thought I was lying to him, and that, like a stupid tourist in a non-English-speaking country, shouting would make me “get” what he was saying.
“I’m Agnostic. I find it’s better to just shut up and not assume that everyone agrees with me all the time, especially when it comes to religious preference.” I took out my textbook and my notepad and busied myself texting JB some stupid message like wow this class is really full so that the idiot next to me would shut up.
He bugged me a bit about whether I thought he needed to buy the book, copied down the title and edition (clearly, he’d never received a syllabus before in his life, or he doesn’t have the brain power to remember such an event), and babbled about something else while I ignored him and looked around for someone I knew who was close enough for me to say something so that I could shut this guy up.
It’s not that I’m really that much of a bitch. It’s just that once you show yourself to be an ignorant piece of shit, and then assume that, despite my being clearly not okay with it, you can just keep talking to me about random shit, I reserve the privilege to ignore you and be as rude as possible to get you to shut the hell up and leave me alone.
I got this other guy’s attention and gave him hell for a bit (all in good fun – he and I get along because we have fun insulting each other and seeing who gets offended and stops first), and then the professor walked in.
One of the first things she did was pass out the syllabus and point out that, in addition to us getting the Monday following Easter off (which is a CBU thing, in case that wasn’t clear before), we would be getting the previous Monday off because it’s the first night of Passover.
The guy next to me said, “Yessssss,” in a whisper, and grinned at me conspiratorially. I’m surprised he didn’t do a fist pump.
Someone must have jokingly suggested he take the class. I can’t think of any other explanation.
CORRELATION DOES NOT EQUAL CAUSATION.
Yeah, I think it’s funny that cities with low Brady scores seem to have lower violent crime rates.
It’s just an illusion.
Okay, that’s all I wanted to say.
Carry on.
The bloodwork my GP did was completely different than the bloodwork my OB-GYN did.
I’m going to see my gyno on Thursday morning, and I’m taking the new work with me so that he can explain WTF is going on.
My thyroid levels are two different things on the tests, so that’s no help.
My triglycerides went from a totally respectable 107 to a ridiculously high 215. WTF WTF WTF?!?
Everything else looks okay, as far as I can tell, but there are some indications that my liver might be rebelling from all of the medication.
And also, I still feel like being on birth control isn’t helping me all that much. Except that I totally skipped my period this month, which is awesome. Heh.
I’m signing up for a local gym TOMORROW (like, paying for a year and signing up for actual aerobic exercises), and I already have a workout buddy (whom I’ve never met, but she’s a recovering mean girl, and I’m a pretty snarky person, so I think we’ll get along famously), so I can go to my gyno the morning after cardio and be like, “HELP ME CAN’T YOU SEE I’M TRYING TO HELP MYSELF MY GOD MAN PLEEEEEEASE”
Because I am a graceful creature. With a 40-inch waist. Possibly a 42-inch waist. I can wear my 6′6″ husband’s pants, is what I’m saying.
When I got married, I had a 31-inch waist. Probably a 33-inch waist when I started on birth control. And it’s all been spectacularly downhill from there. Stress, hormones, possible thyroid and/or pituitary issue, and a rebelling liver? Yeah, all of those could be possible. I have symptoms of fibromyalgia, to be sure. I also have symptoms of hypothyroidism of the type that’s the result of your pituitary gland NOT picking up the slack. Which is weird. I don’t understand it. Which is why I’m talking to my doctor about it.
I might actually weigh 220 pounds right now. That’s 60 pounds above my “ideal” weight, given my bone structure. I mean, holy shit. That’s scary.
Anyway, I’m fat and unhealthy, I can’t even wear my wedding rings any more, and I don’t want to be the kind of person I usually make fun of.
Yes, I said it.
I have ragged on SO many people for getting married and then getting fat. Circumstances being what they are, I would be pissed if someone made fun of me, but I’ve probably made comments along the lines of, “how hard is it to eat healthy? I mean, especially when you don’t have any other bills?” Yeah. Go ahead and kick me in the ass. I’ll post video from my first aerobics class so that you can see me kicking my OWN ass. Would you like that?
I’m sure someone out there would like to see it. I’ll probably do a before/after. If I remember. Or if I’m alive afterward. My fingernails are blue and purple, for fuck’s sake. I doubt my heart’s getting much more blood.
I have two pairs of size 18 pants of the stretchy variety, which means they showcase my lower belly fat marvelously. I have also invested in quite a few large men’s tee shirts, and am now dressing like the trailer trash I am descended from. I have arrived. I am “home.”
Well, “home” can kiss my ass, because I’m tired of not being able to shave behind my knees without executing a move that would make any circus-performing contortionist proud, if not slightly disgusted.
So, anyway. I’m joining a gym tomorrow, the last term of my college career is looming, and my goal is to be back to my wedding weight (it was 180-ish, I’m pretty sure) by graduation. Then, by the following fall, I hope to be back to a comfortable 14, or a 12. A 12 would be nice.
And thus begins the journey of someone with an eating disorder and a seriously warped body image, on the road to trying to be healthy enough for her doctors to take her seriously when she says, “holy shit look at my bloodwork!! what the FUCK is THAT?”
I went to spend the night at my best friend’s house last Saturday, because her twin girls and husband were at her in-law’s house (MiL, specifically). We had some drinks, watched some silly movies, and generally had a great time just being around each other. It’d been MONTHS.
I get home, and people are acting…odd.
Whatever…I put my things away, and then go take a nap, because I was hungover and hadn’t slept well the night before.
So this is Sunday.
Monday, JB confided in me that his parents had alluded that divorcing me wouldn’t be the most shameful thing he could do.
I asked what provoked it, and it’s the same old story – I’ve been getting this attitude from my doctor, too: I’m not feeling well, they don’t know how to deal with it, and the only way they know how to get rid of an “animal” that’s ill around here is to get rid of it. Obviously, they can’t take me out back and bludgeon me with a fireplace poker, and they can’t shoot me or throw me in a ditch or give me to a neighbor. So, to get rid of me, they want to break me and JB up and just have me go back from whence I came. Or something.
It comes down to the lack of control that MiL feels in the house. Our room is a MESS because we keep all of our stuff in here. ALL of it. We don’t leave things in the living room or kitchen. I try to put dishes where they’re supposed to go, but I don’t do any extra cleaning, because I know how much it sucks when someone tries to “help” you do something you’ve been doing for years. You spend the entire time hovering and cleaning up after that person, and just insisting that you do it yourself. That’s where I am. That’s where MiL put me. So what do I do? I stay in here. I go to classes.
While I know there’s a hormonal component to my weight gain, there is definitely a stress component, as well. I feel like I’m back in my grandparents’ house in Clarksville, afraid to leave the room because my grandfather would lurk in his recliner in the living room, just waiting for an opportunity to say something derogatory to me. I was at the bottom of the totem pole there, and I hated it. I couldn’t do anything right. Everyone who has frustration to take out? They took it out on me. Grandfather, grandmother, mother. Everyone. And I was supposed to just take it, respect my elders, and stay in my room or stay out all night drinking with my friends to avoid the inevitable at-home conflict.
Here, it’s a little different in terms of delivery. I hear about everything through JB. His mom thinks I say “fuck” too often, but she won’t ask me to tone it down. She tells JB that I’m doing it on purpose just to drive her crazy. Um, if you want me to watch my language, ask me to watch my language. It’s really simple. So they’re taking out their frustration with me on JB, and there’s definitely a strain on our marriage, as a result.
We’re currently looking for places to move ASAP. We unfortunately don’t have a lot of money to start with, but if anyone wants to throw anything my way, I’d be much obliged. We have a few leads on some houses in this area that are nice and in great shape. We just have to be able to finagle the first steps.
I’m usually so blunt toward people and how I feel that I’ve gotten used to that behavior from others. I’m not used to the passive-aggressive warfare I seem to have been unwillingly thrust into for some stupid reason. This is the reason why I avoid my sister (mother of my nephew) as much as I do. She’s fun in very small doses, but she’s like a 4-star General in the Passive Aggressive War when she gets going. She might have a medal somewhere. When she pulls that shit out, I just leave. I can’t handle it.
The must upsetting part of this, to me, is that my in-laws have been more parental toward me than my own parents. For my dad, it was because, well…he was just a shitty dad. My mom took care of me, but she was more of a buddy. My MiL is a buddy, but I trusted her with a LOT of stuff, because she seemed to care, and she seemed to empathize (especially with the happy little uterine hell I’m going through). My FiL is a jolly guy, and I don’t share any deep secrets with him, but I’m friendly with him. I’m just shocked at how MiL is now using these things I’ve told her in confidence against me, toward my relationship with my husband.
I mean, this is high school bullshit.
So I’m just hiding out in my room tonight. JB and I will be gone for most of the day tomorrow, then on Sunday I have to write a paper and get things together for classes on Monday, blahblahblah. I plan to stay busy down at Cluck-n-Neigh, as long as they’ll have me, and I’m considering joining a fitness center to have someplace to go when I’m upset to just work it out. Also: I’m fat. So yeah. That’s necessary. The working out can help control the anger I feel toward my MiL right now, and can help the alien food baby I seem to be gestating.
*sigh*
JB’s at the top of the hiring list for the county schools here, so in August, he will have a job. I’m still filling out paperwork for possible MAT work starting in the Fall, and when I’m done with that, I’ll be able to get a job to help, both with student loans and house stuff. We’ll be on our own, with our animals, in our own space, and I won’t have to have conniption over putting a cup in the wrong place.
THAT will be nice.
Until then, I might just “accidentally” drop an Ativan in her morning coffee. Or hell…drop it in mine.
I’m so sorry for those of you with delicate sensibilities. You might want to skip this post, as I am about to make light of the gruesome death of an allegedly innocent animal. I lost my delicate sensibilities a loooooong time ago.
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For the rest of you, OMG WEDNESDAY NIGHT WAS RIDICULOUS.
As you know, Cloud (the intrepid explorer) was unwillingly sequestered to the outdoors after peeing (and pooping) on the carpets/floors/furniture of not only his former owners, but my floors, as well. JB and I brought him out to Covington, he and my mother-in-law have struck up a kind of weird friendship, and he’s doing pretty well.*
Because he’s an outdoor cat, well – we feed him outdoors. We’re weird like that.
In this part of the country, the Virginia Opossum is one of our biggest pests – literally and figuratively. They grow upwards of two feet long (with the tail, it can be almost three), and while they are kind of cute, it wears off after you catch them screwing with your stuff so many times. I feel the same way about most living things, so don’t think I’m hating on the ‘possum – they’re just the most frequent offenders.
Since Cloud’s food is outside, he usually has to share it with animals who are on the lookout for an easy meal. Cloud’s been raised a house cat – if he can run away from something, he will. In the case of a ‘possum, I don’t blame him one bit.
A couple of weeks ago, while I was recording Vicious Circle, my father-in-law shot a ‘possum. (I think it speaks for how well I’ve adjusted to life out here that I didn’t flinch – he had to shoot twice.) The week before, my mother-in-law had to shoot a ‘possum that was wandering around the yard in broad daylight (when they do that, they’re usually sick, and we’ll be damned if we’re going to let Cloud get rabies, especially from one of them). I’m not accustomed to such violent means of dealing with pests, but it’s effective, so I guess I’ll deal. My point in telling you this is to let you know that there are lots of opossums around here, and they’re all unwelcome, but really only a few die; the weather being like it is, I’m not surprised we’ve had so many foragers.
So. Back to the food: Tuesday night and Wednesday night, my MiL put Cloud’s food bowl up in a hanging planter, in an attempt to at least partially thwart any nighttime thefts. Something definitely got it Tuesday – it was completely empty Wednesday morning. After dark Wednesday, we knew what had done it. We looked out to see a giant lump of dirty white and grey fur crouched in the planter, munching on the cat food.
I’m not the brightest bulb sometimes, and I had the idea of shooing the ‘possum off with JB’s walking stick. My father-in-law started giggling and handed me a miniature air horn (they’re sold at dollar stores), so I took it out with me.
Picture me wearing red Scotch plaid pajama pants, a blue/navy men’s raglan tee shirt, and a pair of my father-in-law’s Crocs (which were much too big for me, forcing me into a kind of waddle). Now picture me in that outfit sneaking up on a ‘possum while holding an air horn and a big, twisted walking stick.
I blew the air horn and watched the show. The opossum jumped out of the hanging basket and started speed-loping its way across the patio, under the bench, then rounded back toward the house. I continued to blow the airhorn, driving it away from the back door while waddling along behind it.
Once it reached the side of the house, it stopped and stared at me. I shuffled closer, blasted the air horn a few more times, and shook the walking stick at it. It sat stock-still.
I didn’t realize it until later, but I was standing between the opossum and the vent that leads under the house. There’s no screen on it, so the flap can just be lifted up, and whatever animal manages to lift it has access to the crawl space. A screen was never put on it because the cats would go under the house to keep warm and/or dry – they seemed to prefer that to anything else. Unfortunately, other animals have learned that escape route, as well – this ‘possum was one of them.
JB, meanwhile, came out of the house with a fireplace poker and said, “Okay, I’m sorry to have to do this, but I’m going to hit it.”
I told him to go ahead. As I backed off to let JB by me, I noticed the ‘possum coming closer to me. It sidled around the light that’s in the bushes and started to make a break for the vent.
Then JB smacked it in the head with the fireplace poker with a solid “THWACK.”
Seriously. That’s the best onomatopoeia there is for that situation.
After the one smack, I turned around. My mistake – he wasn’t done, yet. *THWACK* *THWACK* *THWACK*
Ladies, if you’ve never watched your husband or significant other use a fireplace poker to bash in the head of a marsupial, well…let me just say JB’s lucky I love him, because that was some Christian Bale shit.
After those last three *THWACK*s, I turned around and went into the house through the back door and reported to my in-laws that JB had disposed of the opossum using the fireplace poker. I kicked off the ill-fitting Crocs, leaned the walking stick back into its corner, and place the now-freezing-from-use air horn back onto the mantel.
A few seconds later, JB re-entered the house after leaning the fireplace poker against the outside stairs, and announced that since the ‘possum hadn’t died, yet, he was going to go get his gun and shoot it to put it out of its misery.
For those of you wondering why he didn’t do this in the first place, think of this from his perspective: His wife (i.e. me in a stupid moment) was chasing around a very large and possibly rabid opossum with an air horn and a walking stick, while unable to move faster than a slow waddle because of what basically amounted to clown shoes. We have never seen a ‘possum actually playing dead – mostly, they hiss and act like assholes, or, if they’re smart, they run away. Since the opossum I was facing hadn’t actually run away, and I was blocking it (again, unknowingly) from escaping the way it wanted to go, AND it had already advanced on me once, JB naturally assumed I was about to get myself infected with some horribly gruesome disease. Best-case scenario, I was about to lose a toe, or possibly an eye. So he grabbed the first weapon he could find and came to my rescue.
Anyway, he went into the bedroom to get his shotgun, and I heard him and FiL debating the presence of 12-ga. slugs in the gun safe, since buckshot that close to the house wouldn’t have been a good idea. With the gun finally loaded, JB comes back out into the living room (scaring the shit out of Angus, who hates guns so much he shakes and shivers and whimpers until it’s been brought back into the house and put away) and left again to shoot what must have been a very ugly and mangled opossum at close range.
Several minutes later, MiL and I are still comforting Angus, holding his ears and trying to get him to calm the hell down, and we STILL haven’t heard a gunshot.
Just as we begin to wonder if the ‘possum got up and wandered away while JB was in the house, the back door opened again. JB removed his socks (he hadn’t even put shoes on) and went to put the gun away. We asked him what happened, and he said, “Well, it died.”
Apparently, while he and FiL were discussing where the slugs were, the opossum had just gotten tired of waiting in its misery and had kicked the bucket before anyone else could bludgeon it or desecrate its body. JB discovered the lifelessness of the animal while trying to get it away from the wall so that he would be less likely to shoot the house. Because the opossum was severely brain-damaged, I doubt there would have been a lot of struggling involved to move it, so I wondered what his clue had been.
For those who read my Twitter feed regularly, you’ll be amused at this answer: JB had heard the corpse farting and groaning as the last of its bodily functions ceased.
I felt really badly about it, but so help me, I laughed when I heard that. I laughed a LOT.
After the gun was put away, JB sat on the couch to finish watching Criminal Minds with the rest of us. It was at that point that he discovered some blood on his pajama pants (I wasn’t the only one outside in my PJs, but at least I’d bothered to put on shoes). I kept telling him he needed to burn them, and he kept arguing with me, saying that they were his FAVORITES, and he’d NEVER be able to find another pair EVER, because he gotten THESE pants on clearance, and OMIGOD I’M SUCH A HORRIBLE WIFE, etc. Okay, he didn’t say that last one, but it was implied, trust me. He finally convinced me to let him wash them several times, first in cold water, then in hot water, and said he would hide them for a while so my association of them and the bludgeoning death of a marsupial would fade.
The next morning, we were up early to go to the doctor so that I could get blood drawn.** JB had to dispose of the body, so he went out to grab it with a glove and drag it to the ditch that’s across the road from our driveway.
While he’s trying to pick this dead critter up, he notices something fuzzy on the underside, toward the back. He became paranoid that he’d killed a mother that had a baby in her pouch, and the fuzziness was the baby, dried out and dead, hanging out. Naturally, JB grabbed a stick and started poking at the fuzzy lump (SCIENCE!), and discovered that it was not a baby, after all, but the opossum male’s very large and apparently very cotton-boll-like scrotum.
So not only did my husband bludgeon a male Virginia Opossum on Wednesday night, he desecrated the body on Thursday morning by poking it in the balls with a stick.
I think this experience has pretty much cemented my status as a redneck. A very tacky, sometimes-stupid-but-usually-entertaining redneck.
Life can never be described as being “boring” around here, that’s for damned sure.
___
*Well, he was fine being outside until we had to put Paul Newman (the no-nosed cat who was so old no one knew his age) to sleep because he had cancer eating his face (no, seriously) and because he’d lost so much weight in such a short period of time that he was seriously almost able to walk on the crusty snow this year without his paws breaking through; that’s pretty bad when this cat used to be so hefty as to make you grunt when you tried to lift him. Cloud’s lonely. He got in the house on Monday morning when we were helping my father-in-law through the door after knee surgery, and ever since then, he’s made it his mission to try to guilt us into letting him in with us. Aside from his poor bathroom habits – and the fact that 3 out of 4 of us is really allergic to cats (hint: not me) – we’d be more than happy to. Longest footnote EVER – sorry.
**The blood draw happened yesterday, and I got the call today that the results are already in and are being mailed to me. I should have them either tomorrow or Monday, and yes, I’m totally going to scour them and compare them to my earlier results and scrutinize them, and then post about it here.
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