Warning: not a cheerful, uplifting post. Yeah, I know, but I'm usually such an uplifting writer, right?
Outside looks like the world's end is creeping in. Woody smoke narrows our world to a few hundred yards. On days I need sunshine, the sun is a whisper behind the haze, a small red ping pong ball from another world at day's end.
The writing day has been a mess these last few days, my discipline pretty tattered. Wife and I are dealing with Scheckter's ongoing issues, turmoiled emotions, sleep deprivation. Good way to lose some weight. But what of those Internet searches, euthanizing your cat at home?
We suspect, based on activity, Scheckter's kidneys have shut down. Now we go through...all that.
'All that' is sloppy writing, encompassing the morass of activities, thoughts and emotions entangled with death's sloppy, unorganized approach. Sorry, I prefer not to walk myself through the details, officer.
I hate myself as I watch, for the Writer takes notes about how my wife acts, how I feel and act, about how death is as non-linear in its application as life. Good details for writing death scenes and I'm already weaving them into the novel.
Novel work has been choppy. My throat and mucus membranes despise this haze and smoke so I don't walk. Lack of walking + lack of sleeping + dying cat = disjointed writing.
Guilt about Scheckter's health chews through me. What could I have done better? Moments of decisions are caught in my mind's traps. I lay so many traps for myself. My guilt renders me human, part of what most people deal with when things go wrong. What could have been done differently to avoid this moment.
I mock myself in my ponderings. Well, what could have been done differently to avoid death? You're an idiot if you don't believe that death is the universal ruler over life. The cat is going to die sometime, as will I, my wife, family and friends. Even if he pulls through this, cats are not known for their long lives and he'll probably die of something else soon. Chew on that, idiot.
K worries about her health. The stress has harsher demands for her as does death. She goes into a driven hyper watch mode, hovering over the cat, trying to speak through her feelings in tones that make dirges seem merry. Her autoimmune disease leaves her prey to more dangers. Scheckter accidently bit her. A friend's granddaughter with K's disease died after getting an infection. K knows this and watches her finger, staring at the small wound's small edges and redness, imagination drawing her into its dark claws.
So not a good writing day, not a good day in general, not a good week. July was not a good month.
Lady, who was supposed to be dead of cancer by now, puked this morning. Hearing it, my wife sat up in bed beside me. I'd already reacted and had identified the puker. "It's just Lady, it's not Scheckter."
K groaned. "I hope she's not getting sick. She was hovering over her water bowl yesterday."
"Yes, I know, I saw but she has always been a hoverer. She vomits about ten days, part of her regular m.o."
My words eased my wife's worries but worry swelled in me. July is over but August is not off to a good start.
Causes Michael Seidel Supports
Kiva, Women's International League for Peace and Freedom, Propublica.org, Doctors Without Borders, GreaterGood.com