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A Week in the Life
Mar. 23rd, 2005 10:12 pmI've had worse weeks – but not many.
Let's start with my cat Cholmondeley. He hasn't been doing as well as I'd like. He was diagnosed with hyperthyroid about six months ago, and is on Tapizole to keep it under control. He should be gaining weight back, but he isn't.
Saturday was his regular 3 month check-up for the hyperthyroidism. They didn't think he looked so good, either, so they decided to do the full elderly cat work up. Bill $212. I had been expecting a $40 office visit. Minicon is in two weeks.
I'd recently gotten a brand new 100% down comforter, a luxury I have desired for years, but never indulged. I found one for a song, so I bought it. I had also just gotten a brand-new mattress pad. Polyester on the bottom, cotton on the top. Beautiful, fit like a charm (which, given the bed is a king-sized water bed, is something of a triumph). The cotton top felt remarkably pleasant. I've had the same, miserable, inadequate, stained, thin polyester mattress pad for the last 15 years. I've hated it at least that long. With the new comforter and the new mattress pad, it was like getting a new bed. Don't worry, this is relevant, even though it came before The Week.
Tuesday, I came home to discover that Cholmondeley had had diarrhea all over my bed. By all over, I mean, all over. Head to foot. Thank god I had a duvet on my very new, 100% down comforter. So, all the bedclothes must be washed immediately, and I have to go back to worrying about Cholmondeley.
Wednesday morning, I call my vet. They recommend that I take him to the University hospital. Now, there is an advantage to living just down the road (so to speak) from a world-class teaching veterinary hospital. They can do anything that can possibly be done. There is a disadvantage, too, though. They can do anything that can possibly be done.
I called the Small Animal Hospital and was told that they only had emergency appointments available. $115 to walk in the door. After a discussion with my regular vet, I decided to take him in.
I had to take my personal holiday to do this, as sick time does not cover pets. It even says so specifically in the HR policies. Technically, I'm supposed to give 2 days notice before taking the time. Lori, my boss, will probably be cool with it. I hope. Unfortunately, I can't reach her by phone. I left voice mail.
Then there were the usual many hours in the hospital. The student vet (do they call them residents?) came in to take a H&P (history and physical to those of you who've never had to deal with these things). Then the "real" vet came in and asked me most of the same questions, plus some new ones for variety. Finally, he examined the cat, with occasional cryptic comments to his student, combined with instructions to feel here, feel there, and so on.
Solemn faces. No help there. It's the basic game face of vets and doctors everywhere. Then he says that it is most likely pancreatic cancer. Pancreatic cancer moves fast and I can't possibly afford to treat it. He suggests X-rays to confirm the diagnosis, so X-rays it is. The X-rays (only $150) show no trace of the cancer. Dr. Harvey (the real doc, not the doc-in-training) suggests that the sensible thing to do is treat him with presumed IBD (irritable bowel syndrome). Two years ago, I spent about $1800 to tentatively diagnose him with IBD. The other big contender at the time was lymphoma, which they could treat with chemotherapy, for another $2000, which would add something like an additional six months to his life. The diagnostic test to distinguish between the two was an $800 endoscopy. I decided that I'd just stick with IBD, since if it was lymphoma, there wasn't anything I could do about it, anyway.
Cholmondeley did need to stay in the hospital for a while, though. He needed fluids, antibiotics, that sort of thing. ICU is about $250 a day. The guess was that he'd need to be there for three nights. So, I wrote the nice people a check for $520 as a deposit on future care. This isn't the bad part of my week, though. I mean, other than the money, which I don't have, but what the hell, it's only money. I've been through this too many times. I'm not freaked. It's a good facility, and they do pay attention to my pocketbook, which is darn nice of them.
Thursday they called and said that he looked very good, and that he should go home. My purse sang hallelujahs in four part harmony. The total price, including office call, various care, and drugs, totaled out at $485, so my total investment in Cholmondeley this year has been (so far) $697. Well under a thousand bucks.
Cholmondeley was still listless after returning home. He also wasn't eating much - very very out of character. Troubles for another day, surely. Let him lie about for a while, and get reacquainted with home, that should work.
Thursday was a busy day. I had a full day at the University, then two hours at my secondary job, and then the Boiled in Lead gig. By the time I got home from the second job, I was way tired and the earliest I could get to First Ave. would have been ten o'clock. David told me that the band probably wouldn't hit the stage until 9:45 or so. I remembered regretting not going last year, so I dragged my sorry ass out to the club, tired and solidly miserable. I got to the show about 15 minutes after Boiled in lead had hit the stage, just as predicted. What is it about live music, anyway? The girl at the entrance passed me through without charging the cover fee. I practically ran to coat check, and then I was out on the floor like a shot, energy running up my spine and down into my shoes.
This was of the best gigs they've played in years. Both Toddy Menton and Dean McGraw were playing with them, and everyone looked like they were having a really, really good time. They were like totally tight, and goofy. Adam smiled broadly the entire gig.
Do you know Dean McGraw? Brilliant damn guitarist, always seems to be doing guest performances with someone else's band, doesn't seem to have a home band. Weird, crazy body language. And a better guitarist than Adam, which seemed to please Adam no end. Even Drew looked unusually pleased.
It was a great gig. Just the greatest.
After the gig, I stopped off at Lyon's pub for another pint of Guinness, which they have on tap. I like Lyons. It tends to be low key and relatively quiet for a bar. They also have half-priced appetizers between five and seven on week days. Makes a nice, cheap dinner if you're of a mind.
So, I sit down in the quietest, most deserted spot I can find, and start in on my nice little Guinness. The waitress also supplies, upon request, a piece of paper and a pen. I'm happily making notes about this and that when a cute guy comes over and starts talking to me.
I have never, ever been hit on in a bar, before. It was very flattering. He was a nice guy, reasonably drunk, and insofar as one can tell in a half-hour's acquaintanceship, a fundamentally decent human being. I let him buy me another Guinness, not to mentioning drinking about half of his. His friends came over and were kinda nice about the whole thing, although I think that a) they wanted to get moving ahead of the storm, and b) they were a little jealous/annoyed that Rob was hitting on this chick. He gave me his number, and I assured him that I would never call.
Last call was called, and I caught the bus home. I was as drunk as I can get without becoming sick. I was still entirely capable of walking, although I did have a long conversation with the sidewalk on the way home, asking it to be careful not crack and create any of those bumpy thingies because in the shape I was in, it would almost certainly knock me over. I think I may have sung to it a little, too, but the sidewalk seemed to enjoy it. This is the drunkest I have been in many years, excepting the times when it ended with vomiting. I gotta say, it was extremely pleasant. I really like it when inanimate objects become fast friends. Acid is a more reliable way to get that result, of course, but it has disadvantages.
My keys worked in the lock (a surprise, since I have trouble with keys when I'm sober), I got inside, I drank a glass of water, and collapsed on my beautiful new bed. Lovely, lovely night, except for the repercussions.
The next day, DDB asked me how I was. He seemed unreasonably concerned. It was rapidly established that at six that morning he'd discovered me curled up on the bathmat on the floor of the bathroom, fast asleep. He had a certain amount of difficulty getting me into my bed; I evidently wasn't capable of walking real well. (Drug interaction well after the alcohol ingestion? Drunker than I remember? Phase of the moon? And what about...Naomi?)
I don't remember any of this at all.
I do have two rather spectacular bruises quite high up on my upper arms, and at roughly the same height. Presumably from the fall. Given the placement of the bruises, the only thing that I can think is that I was unconscious at the time I fell. If I'd been conscious, or at least capable of movement, surely I would have bruises on my fore arms, where I'd tried to save myself and missed. Just how close did I come to bashing my brains out or breaking my neck, I wonder.
Friday seemed to be going ok. Christopher came over, and we watched a lot of Buffy. We're only upt to Season Three, which gives me many more episodes to look forward to. I only had one mug of tea with brandy in it, (rather than our usual four to eight shots of gin in various mixers) because my throat was sore from the night before. Good fun. I went to bed at some obscene time in the morning, like four-thirty a.m., and discovered that Cholmondeley had pissed on my bed. It was a great pool, which went through the duvet, the brand new 100% down comforter, the bottom of the duvet, both sheets, the mattress pad, all the way to the vinyl mattress. Joy.
I saturated the spot with Petzyme and slept on the other side of the bed. Petzyme breaks down various gross organic products of cats into less nasty smelling stuff.
And now, Saturday, again.
First things first. I pilled Cholmondeley. He managed to make a cut about 3/4 of an inch long down the inner side of my left index finger. Ouch.
Then I started messing around with my 20 gallon aquarium. I found one dead adult corydoras and one dead baby corydoras. Corydoras are little, armored catfish, and they blink. They're cute as kittens. I love my corries, and I have no idea what killed them. Especially since the other adult and the other baby look fine.
My order ThatFishPlace arrived. They carry a whole bunch of things that the local stores don't carry, and they have a good checkout system. The new impeller motor for my large power filter has arrived, and I could finally run a filter the proper size for my 30 gallon, and start the 20 gallon up, which will permit me to ditch the 5 gallon. Ever since the Millennium 3000 busted (that's broke, if you're feeling formal), things have been harder to manage, since I had to move the filter from the long 20 to the 30, which means that the long 20 can't be used as a hospital tank or a quarantine tank, and …well, take it from me. It made my life more complicated.
(The secret of life? Logistics.)
I assembled the apparatus with care, filled it with water, hung it off of the aquarium -- and it didn't work. It didn't work! Some inner portion of me wailed in simple fury. I'd done everything right. I'd been good all week. I hadn 't lost it, I hadn't panicked, I'd dealt with all this stuff, and it didn't workIt was a little thing. I'd done what the nice man at the pet shop said I should do, and it Didn't Work When I calmed down, I discovered that it was leaking water around the engine component. This means that the problem was not the impeller after all, but the O ring. Now I need to buy an O ring. Great. Basically, O rings are nothing but trouble.
Finally, I tear off the bedclothes to wash them. The down comforter I re-douse with Petzyme, and put in the living room to dry. I have no idea what Petzyme will do to the down or the comforter, but whatever it was seemed preferable to a comforter that smelled of cat piss. Then I washed the mattress pad. I looked and looked and looked for the tag that tells one how to wash it. After having failed to located it when I was pretty sure I'd looked all along the entire circumference, I washed it on cold and dried it on permanent press. The mattress pad was through eBay, and it wasn't entirely surprising that there were no tags. When it was dry, I took it up to the bed, and tried to put it on. You will have noticed that fateful word, "tried".
I used my entire compendium of tricks to get recalcitrant waterbed bedding onto the waterbed – and after having slept in waterbeds for twenty years, it's fairly complete compendium. It defeated all of them. Every last one. In the process of wrestling with it, I came across the bleeding tag. It said, "Wash Cool Dry Air Only." I didn't scream. Aren't you proud of me? After a half an hour or more, I finally had to admit that it had shrunk in the wash and no amount of clever stuffing and bending stretching was ever going to work. I was exhausted and breathing as if I'd just run a race.
I sat on my bed, clutching the brand new, lovely, white, cotton mattress pad, and started to cry. It was the straw that broke the Lydy's back. After all that had happened, it was finally the pretty, soft, luxurious, white mattress pad that did me in. I cried and cried. I was way past my ability to cope, and just fell apart.
DDB was patient and soothing. I kept on staring at the bed while clutching the mattress pad. It had become an insoluble puzzle, and I couldn't even remember if I'd thrown the old mattress pad out, or if it was around somewhere. David had pointed out that I could sleep in his bed tonight, so I didn't have to solve the problem of my bed right away. You know, that had never occurred to me.
Eventually, I was able to get it together enough to pill Cholmondeley. He needs to be pilled twice a day. That'll make Minicon oodles of fun, don't you think?
Let's start with my cat Cholmondeley. He hasn't been doing as well as I'd like. He was diagnosed with hyperthyroid about six months ago, and is on Tapizole to keep it under control. He should be gaining weight back, but he isn't.
Saturday was his regular 3 month check-up for the hyperthyroidism. They didn't think he looked so good, either, so they decided to do the full elderly cat work up. Bill $212. I had been expecting a $40 office visit. Minicon is in two weeks.
I'd recently gotten a brand new 100% down comforter, a luxury I have desired for years, but never indulged. I found one for a song, so I bought it. I had also just gotten a brand-new mattress pad. Polyester on the bottom, cotton on the top. Beautiful, fit like a charm (which, given the bed is a king-sized water bed, is something of a triumph). The cotton top felt remarkably pleasant. I've had the same, miserable, inadequate, stained, thin polyester mattress pad for the last 15 years. I've hated it at least that long. With the new comforter and the new mattress pad, it was like getting a new bed. Don't worry, this is relevant, even though it came before The Week.
Tuesday, I came home to discover that Cholmondeley had had diarrhea all over my bed. By all over, I mean, all over. Head to foot. Thank god I had a duvet on my very new, 100% down comforter. So, all the bedclothes must be washed immediately, and I have to go back to worrying about Cholmondeley.
Wednesday morning, I call my vet. They recommend that I take him to the University hospital. Now, there is an advantage to living just down the road (so to speak) from a world-class teaching veterinary hospital. They can do anything that can possibly be done. There is a disadvantage, too, though. They can do anything that can possibly be done.
I called the Small Animal Hospital and was told that they only had emergency appointments available. $115 to walk in the door. After a discussion with my regular vet, I decided to take him in.
I had to take my personal holiday to do this, as sick time does not cover pets. It even says so specifically in the HR policies. Technically, I'm supposed to give 2 days notice before taking the time. Lori, my boss, will probably be cool with it. I hope. Unfortunately, I can't reach her by phone. I left voice mail.
Then there were the usual many hours in the hospital. The student vet (do they call them residents?) came in to take a H&P (history and physical to those of you who've never had to deal with these things). Then the "real" vet came in and asked me most of the same questions, plus some new ones for variety. Finally, he examined the cat, with occasional cryptic comments to his student, combined with instructions to feel here, feel there, and so on.
Solemn faces. No help there. It's the basic game face of vets and doctors everywhere. Then he says that it is most likely pancreatic cancer. Pancreatic cancer moves fast and I can't possibly afford to treat it. He suggests X-rays to confirm the diagnosis, so X-rays it is. The X-rays (only $150) show no trace of the cancer. Dr. Harvey (the real doc, not the doc-in-training) suggests that the sensible thing to do is treat him with presumed IBD (irritable bowel syndrome). Two years ago, I spent about $1800 to tentatively diagnose him with IBD. The other big contender at the time was lymphoma, which they could treat with chemotherapy, for another $2000, which would add something like an additional six months to his life. The diagnostic test to distinguish between the two was an $800 endoscopy. I decided that I'd just stick with IBD, since if it was lymphoma, there wasn't anything I could do about it, anyway.
Cholmondeley did need to stay in the hospital for a while, though. He needed fluids, antibiotics, that sort of thing. ICU is about $250 a day. The guess was that he'd need to be there for three nights. So, I wrote the nice people a check for $520 as a deposit on future care. This isn't the bad part of my week, though. I mean, other than the money, which I don't have, but what the hell, it's only money. I've been through this too many times. I'm not freaked. It's a good facility, and they do pay attention to my pocketbook, which is darn nice of them.
Thursday they called and said that he looked very good, and that he should go home. My purse sang hallelujahs in four part harmony. The total price, including office call, various care, and drugs, totaled out at $485, so my total investment in Cholmondeley this year has been (so far) $697. Well under a thousand bucks.
Cholmondeley was still listless after returning home. He also wasn't eating much - very very out of character. Troubles for another day, surely. Let him lie about for a while, and get reacquainted with home, that should work.
Thursday was a busy day. I had a full day at the University, then two hours at my secondary job, and then the Boiled in Lead gig. By the time I got home from the second job, I was way tired and the earliest I could get to First Ave. would have been ten o'clock. David told me that the band probably wouldn't hit the stage until 9:45 or so. I remembered regretting not going last year, so I dragged my sorry ass out to the club, tired and solidly miserable. I got to the show about 15 minutes after Boiled in lead had hit the stage, just as predicted. What is it about live music, anyway? The girl at the entrance passed me through without charging the cover fee. I practically ran to coat check, and then I was out on the floor like a shot, energy running up my spine and down into my shoes.
This was of the best gigs they've played in years. Both Toddy Menton and Dean McGraw were playing with them, and everyone looked like they were having a really, really good time. They were like totally tight, and goofy. Adam smiled broadly the entire gig.
Do you know Dean McGraw? Brilliant damn guitarist, always seems to be doing guest performances with someone else's band, doesn't seem to have a home band. Weird, crazy body language. And a better guitarist than Adam, which seemed to please Adam no end. Even Drew looked unusually pleased.
It was a great gig. Just the greatest.
After the gig, I stopped off at Lyon's pub for another pint of Guinness, which they have on tap. I like Lyons. It tends to be low key and relatively quiet for a bar. They also have half-priced appetizers between five and seven on week days. Makes a nice, cheap dinner if you're of a mind.
So, I sit down in the quietest, most deserted spot I can find, and start in on my nice little Guinness. The waitress also supplies, upon request, a piece of paper and a pen. I'm happily making notes about this and that when a cute guy comes over and starts talking to me.
I have never, ever been hit on in a bar, before. It was very flattering. He was a nice guy, reasonably drunk, and insofar as one can tell in a half-hour's acquaintanceship, a fundamentally decent human being. I let him buy me another Guinness, not to mentioning drinking about half of his. His friends came over and were kinda nice about the whole thing, although I think that a) they wanted to get moving ahead of the storm, and b) they were a little jealous/annoyed that Rob was hitting on this chick. He gave me his number, and I assured him that I would never call.
Last call was called, and I caught the bus home. I was as drunk as I can get without becoming sick. I was still entirely capable of walking, although I did have a long conversation with the sidewalk on the way home, asking it to be careful not crack and create any of those bumpy thingies because in the shape I was in, it would almost certainly knock me over. I think I may have sung to it a little, too, but the sidewalk seemed to enjoy it. This is the drunkest I have been in many years, excepting the times when it ended with vomiting. I gotta say, it was extremely pleasant. I really like it when inanimate objects become fast friends. Acid is a more reliable way to get that result, of course, but it has disadvantages.
My keys worked in the lock (a surprise, since I have trouble with keys when I'm sober), I got inside, I drank a glass of water, and collapsed on my beautiful new bed. Lovely, lovely night, except for the repercussions.
The next day, DDB asked me how I was. He seemed unreasonably concerned. It was rapidly established that at six that morning he'd discovered me curled up on the bathmat on the floor of the bathroom, fast asleep. He had a certain amount of difficulty getting me into my bed; I evidently wasn't capable of walking real well. (Drug interaction well after the alcohol ingestion? Drunker than I remember? Phase of the moon? And what about...Naomi?)
I don't remember any of this at all.
I do have two rather spectacular bruises quite high up on my upper arms, and at roughly the same height. Presumably from the fall. Given the placement of the bruises, the only thing that I can think is that I was unconscious at the time I fell. If I'd been conscious, or at least capable of movement, surely I would have bruises on my fore arms, where I'd tried to save myself and missed. Just how close did I come to bashing my brains out or breaking my neck, I wonder.
Friday seemed to be going ok. Christopher came over, and we watched a lot of Buffy. We're only upt to Season Three, which gives me many more episodes to look forward to. I only had one mug of tea with brandy in it, (rather than our usual four to eight shots of gin in various mixers) because my throat was sore from the night before. Good fun. I went to bed at some obscene time in the morning, like four-thirty a.m., and discovered that Cholmondeley had pissed on my bed. It was a great pool, which went through the duvet, the brand new 100% down comforter, the bottom of the duvet, both sheets, the mattress pad, all the way to the vinyl mattress. Joy.
I saturated the spot with Petzyme and slept on the other side of the bed. Petzyme breaks down various gross organic products of cats into less nasty smelling stuff.
And now, Saturday, again.
First things first. I pilled Cholmondeley. He managed to make a cut about 3/4 of an inch long down the inner side of my left index finger. Ouch.
Then I started messing around with my 20 gallon aquarium. I found one dead adult corydoras and one dead baby corydoras. Corydoras are little, armored catfish, and they blink. They're cute as kittens. I love my corries, and I have no idea what killed them. Especially since the other adult and the other baby look fine.
My order ThatFishPlace arrived. They carry a whole bunch of things that the local stores don't carry, and they have a good checkout system. The new impeller motor for my large power filter has arrived, and I could finally run a filter the proper size for my 30 gallon, and start the 20 gallon up, which will permit me to ditch the 5 gallon. Ever since the Millennium 3000 busted (that's broke, if you're feeling formal), things have been harder to manage, since I had to move the filter from the long 20 to the 30, which means that the long 20 can't be used as a hospital tank or a quarantine tank, and …well, take it from me. It made my life more complicated.
(The secret of life? Logistics.)
I assembled the apparatus with care, filled it with water, hung it off of the aquarium -- and it didn't work. It didn't work! Some inner portion of me wailed in simple fury. I'd done everything right. I'd been good all week. I hadn 't lost it, I hadn't panicked, I'd dealt with all this stuff, and it didn't workIt was a little thing. I'd done what the nice man at the pet shop said I should do, and it Didn't Work When I calmed down, I discovered that it was leaking water around the engine component. This means that the problem was not the impeller after all, but the O ring. Now I need to buy an O ring. Great. Basically, O rings are nothing but trouble.
Finally, I tear off the bedclothes to wash them. The down comforter I re-douse with Petzyme, and put in the living room to dry. I have no idea what Petzyme will do to the down or the comforter, but whatever it was seemed preferable to a comforter that smelled of cat piss. Then I washed the mattress pad. I looked and looked and looked for the tag that tells one how to wash it. After having failed to located it when I was pretty sure I'd looked all along the entire circumference, I washed it on cold and dried it on permanent press. The mattress pad was through eBay, and it wasn't entirely surprising that there were no tags. When it was dry, I took it up to the bed, and tried to put it on. You will have noticed that fateful word, "tried".
I used my entire compendium of tricks to get recalcitrant waterbed bedding onto the waterbed – and after having slept in waterbeds for twenty years, it's fairly complete compendium. It defeated all of them. Every last one. In the process of wrestling with it, I came across the bleeding tag. It said, "Wash Cool Dry Air Only." I didn't scream. Aren't you proud of me? After a half an hour or more, I finally had to admit that it had shrunk in the wash and no amount of clever stuffing and bending stretching was ever going to work. I was exhausted and breathing as if I'd just run a race.
I sat on my bed, clutching the brand new, lovely, white, cotton mattress pad, and started to cry. It was the straw that broke the Lydy's back. After all that had happened, it was finally the pretty, soft, luxurious, white mattress pad that did me in. I cried and cried. I was way past my ability to cope, and just fell apart.
DDB was patient and soothing. I kept on staring at the bed while clutching the mattress pad. It had become an insoluble puzzle, and I couldn't even remember if I'd thrown the old mattress pad out, or if it was around somewhere. David had pointed out that I could sleep in his bed tonight, so I didn't have to solve the problem of my bed right away. You know, that had never occurred to me.
Eventually, I was able to get it together enough to pill Cholmondeley. He needs to be pilled twice a day. That'll make Minicon oodles of fun, don't you think?
