Death and Near Death

Summary of Weekend:

Friday: My Godmother dies.

Friday: Drive from Philly PA to Margate NJ, spend the day with my godfather, trying to keep him sane. Still numb. Moments lived like glass, held rapt by scenery, sunset over the beach, model houses stared down upon from the thirteenth floor. Home again. Feed cats. Water cats. Too soon to be so cold. Bear under the cold, snuggle in the blankets, tomorrow may be better. Shouldn’t be worse.

Saturday: Diabetic cat crashes. Lethargic, not eating, hardly able to walk, drenched in own urine.

Saturday: Godfather crashes. Slow seeping understanding that his wife of fifty five years is truly gone. Calls us from Margate NJ, trying to hold together, calls, please come right now. Confusion. Caught at ends. How do you tell someone who is like a father to you that you can’t come the only time he’s really asked for something for himself? You don’t. Calling, calling. hoping, praying someone will pick up the phone, come over, take the day and work to keep your cat alive.

Saturday: Malcolm, the last person I expect to help, last I call, last I want to call, comes to my aid, stands fast for me in one of my darkest hours. There’s a certain level of irony here, because the same man helped create one of my darkest hours. Steph, the best of best friends, assists in life saving efforts at key point.

Sunday: Diabetic cat perks up, walking, eating a bit.

Sunday: Walk to livingroom, second diabetic cat flopped down on floor, clawing at rug, failing to stand. Can’t. Cat, gasps for air, can’t breathe, tongue tinged blue, legs flailing, flopping, failing.

Sunday: Funeral. Have to make ride at 1PM. Clothes in route, cat dying on bedroom floor. Vash crying on bedroom floor. Give Lasix. Atenelol. Bpen. Baytril. Remember doctor’s home number. Call her. Give 1/2cc injectable lasix. Try first chest tap. Surreal, pushing needle into failing cat, on bed, squatting on bedroom floor. Shave patch over ribs, squirt alcohol, hold needle still, can’t fail, fifteen minutes to go time. No fluid. Leave cat with Malcolm. Say last words. Pray cat is still alive when I get back.

Sunday: Graveside Ceremony. Funeral. Crying. Falling apart. Best friend at side. Mother behind, hand on shoulder. Eulogy breaks my heart. Ask myself, how would I stand losing someone who had been a friend, lover, companion, other half for over fifty five years?

Sunday: Sleeping. Waking. Are you alive? Dead? You’re dehydrated, ODed on lasix/flurosemide, want to give fluids, afraid to send you back to panting. Hand feeding. Water. You’re vomiting. Sleeping. Waking. Morning.

Monday: New day. New week. Cats are alive. Improving. The sun rises.

If there’s any take home I have for this weekend, it’s gratitude for all who have supported me through this horrid time, so that I could be of support to others without completely falling apart. Or, to be more accurate, who, after I fell apart, helped me glue myself together. Thank you all.

Vash