Kinda Changing

I can’t really say how it’s changing, because it changes again in 12-24 hours. That’s not hyperbole, that’s just fact. I can’t keep up, so I’m more floating on the white cap in the Great Wave, than riding the wave. Hum, or maybe I’m on one of those boat’s that’s about to get hammered by that wave.

Previously, I’d been told I can’t get on the lease because ‘it was too hard’. So I’ve gone from just wishing it was over, to hoping it never ends, that he just lingers and lingers. The moment he dies, I’m homeless. But then one of his brothers found a work around – not just perfectly legal, but the way it is supposed to work. Which told me my partner had never intended to try and get me on the lease. This was a way that required him to do nothing. I needed to sign a couple of pages, show I was legal in this country, and bobs-your-uncle. It’s the best way he gets things done – other people do the work and he smiles and nods like it was his hard work that got it done. The government paperwork isn’t finished and returned – I’ve gotten no indication all is okay – but I have hope. Dangerous. Hope never works out.

I haven’t heard how he’s doing these last couple of days. I’ve spoken to him briefly, though. His voice is very rough, a sometimes indication of how well/ill he is. He just exaggerates it, so it’s not a true given. At that point, he’d been told he’d be home in a week if they can get his potassium leveled out. At the same time, they said his kidneys were fine. One of these statements is a lie.

I need a support animal. I wonder how I could get one? I wonder if his palliative care people have an inside track to getting one.

My kitty still here :)

About a week after my previous post, I did have something happen. I was asleep and unaware of how much trouble I was having breathing. Then I felt my cat leap from my hip (the left leg was weaker, that’s how I knew it was her). I also hear the hiss of moving beads in my weighted blanket. This woke me up and I was able to deal with my breathing problem. Then for a long time, nothing from her. I felt she was gone.

This morning, I’m awake in bed but not wanting to get up. I hear a meow from the hall. (in her last year, she was a bit senile and would cry when she got lost in the hall.) At first, it didn’t register. Then she meowed again, much louder. I called “I’m in here, baby” then remembered.

I’m not dealing well with her loss. This might be my brain giving me hope she’s still around. I’m okay with that.

I’ve been trying to find another kitten. Not to replace her, nothing will do that. But to fill this cat-shaped hole in my heart. It’s amazing how difficult it is to find a kitten, they’re always gone by the time I find the ad, or they’re too far away. Not driving 6 hours to get to a kitten, then have 6 hours of screaming kitten back.

The universe is against me at the moment. No kitty for the silent scream.

Ghost Kitty

I’d had my best friend for over 20 years. She was my heart, the reason I kept struggling, the reason I stayed here. But her pain became too much and I finally did the unthinkable. I put my kitty to sleep. Oh, god, the pain is still too fresh.

I told my family, I hope the hell she comes back and haunts me, because life without her would be unbearable. So this might be wishful thinking. It might be my mind protecting me from life without her. If so… sure, okay, I’m in.

The day after she passed, I hear a meow. About four feet from me, at ground level, but so faint it sounded like it came from outside. I turn and look at the spot. I say “hey, baby“. And that was it. The meow sounded a little frustrated, as if she’d been trying to get my attention for some time. The interpretation would have been: ‘WTF happened? I wake up from a nap and the world has changed. Mom, are you listening to me? Mom!‘

Then nothing more. I figured that was it, I got a meow, and count myself blessed.

And then – last night.

As usual, I wasn’t asleep. It was so late, it was early. I’m curled up trying hard to go to sleep. I hear a faint meow – coming from the hall, just outside the bathroom door. My heart literally stopped. I debate with myself. The one, single, blessing I got from her passing, was I didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to feed her. She was a night eater. It was hard enough in the last couple of years, but I’d be damned if I was going to get up for a cat that doesn’t need food!

This has been her routine for a couple of years. Go use the sand box. Announce it loudly, until someone (me) came and inspected it, told her she was a good girl (and yes, I was blessed she remembered where her box was. She was going senile at this point. And yes, she wouldn’t stop yelling until I told her she was a good girl.)

So I debate, get up or not? And I concluded I would hate myself if she made the effort to appear and I ignore it. I check the time. 5:30 am. Her usual time for wanting to be fed. I got up.

I have not gone to the bathroom alone in over 20 years. The last couple of weeks has been rough, not having her guard me as I did my business. I got up, used the toilet, said; ‘Okay, baby, let’s go to bed.’, in the hope that 1) she wouldn’t demand I ‘feed’ her and 2) she might actually come. I get in bed and hope I feel a little bounce and weight movement – but nothing. But I had a meow! And that made me happy, even if it was at the crack of dawn. I fell asleep.

A couple of hours later, I wake up, bladder insistence. I lever myself up, so I’m sitting on the edge of the bed – and freeze. Again, my heart skips a beat. Under my palm was a wet spot. It was freezing cold.

She didn’t do it all the time, but she frequently drooled in her sleep. And my bed has an electric blanket – there are no cold spots on my bed.

I turn the light on and check the sheet. There is no way a ghost kitty could leave physical evidence, right? I mean, I really don’t know, but I checked with the light on. There was no wet spot. But it was cold there, warming as I touched it.

Did my baby sleep with me? I want to say yes. But if she didn’t, if it’s just my mind protecting me from the grief, I’m okay with that.

That Thing Called Happy

It was a strange experience, that feeling called happy. I realized I’d not felt this emotion in a very long time. No spontaneous laughter, although I’ve giggled at jokes now and then. My default is caution, guarded. It didn’t last long, this happy thing, but at least I know the thing exists.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned I’ve taken up watercolor painting. I started back in october, before coronavirus. I’ve not done any art in 40 years and I’d never done watercolor. It’s fun. I am amazed at my progress. I wish I’d taken it up years ago. I see these kids doing amazing art and I think, dayam, I could have been that good if I’d kept at it. But real life takes over and sometimes the fun stuff falls off to the side.

I saw my improvement. It made me happy. I even, briefly, thought of what I could do with another 20 years. If I improved that much in six months, how much could I improve in 20 years? I’ve been living day to day, week to week for so long, 20 years feels like a lifetime. And honestly, realistically, I don’t think I’ll go another three or four years, due to illness or murder. But for just a few minutes, I had a hope I would go another 20 years, be happy, make good art.

Of course it faded. But for a brief moment, I had a happy.

Now I’m scared.

They got my hopes up, damn it. Now I’m actually scared. I had managed to get into a comfort zone, ignoring things or just getting on with it. Now I have a dangling hope of escape and it’s scaring the hell out of me.

I’ve been having some tests done on my memory. Not sure if I’ve mentioned my short term memory loss. I can’t hang on to a thought longer than a few seconds. Or as the old expression goes, in one ear and out the other.

About four years ago, I’d been tested for dementia. It was past due for a re-test. My memory is even worse. But they’ve been talking a lot about other things. Lots of side glances and knowing nods. Asking if I want to talk to people and being very willing to make sure it’s ‘on the sly’, or at least, so it’s stuck in with their normal scheduling. Talking about getting me my own income support, about women’s shelters, about emotional help. I didn’t even tell them about the murder attempts. Or maybe I did, using other phrases or word clues that they recognized, that I didn’t know I was giving.

They wanted to know, if I tested positive for dementia, what I wanted to be done. Would my partner care for me? Lots of other pointed questions.

A few years ago, I was free. But the government switched their position and so it was, it was the street or back in with my partner. I chose my partner. But if I ever leave again, there will be no going back. And the government has screwed me once. They can do it again. And I’ll have no backup, no net, no hope. I’ll be totally screwed.

The last (and only) time I tried calling a helpline, I hung up before they answered. My hands shook for hours after.

They’re going to have to do some almighty talking to make me think it can be a permanent freedom. If there’s a remote chance it can go sour I won’t even start it. I can’t take that kind of fear.