Plucky Abbey

Abbey, the tiny girl we adopted from the county shelter in April, has been a wonderful addition to our family.

You may remember when I was still blogging in May that Abbey seemed to have some health issues. The vet would not spay her because she was anemic and her white cell count was also low.

I don’t know how many times they took her blood from May through July. They tested it there in their office and sent it to an outside lab for testing. She kept showing up anemic. The vet believed that she probably had cancer or perhaps a genetic problem.

All the while, Abbey was racing around the house, jumping, playing. Bright eyed.

I was convinced, as was Larry, as was the vet, that something was probably seriously wrong with her. But all the tests the vet ran came back negative for problems. So the vet referred us to the small animal hospital at the veterinary school at Virginia Tech for a bone marrow aspirate. We would get a definite answer from that, she said.

We took her there on July 21. The vet/professor and students that examined her were puzzled.

“That’s a healthy cat,” the vet/professor said.

Before doing the bone marrow test, they said they wanted to test her blood first. I was sure they would find the anemia. I had no reason to believe they wouldn’t.

They took her back for the procedures, and Larry and I wandered into Blacksburg to tool around and eat. It was going to be a long day.

As we were finishing up our lunch, my cell phone rang. The vet school said Abbey was ready to be picked up. That she was fine.

When we got back to the hospital, they told us that Abbey’s red cell count was well within normal limits. She was not anemic. Her white cell count was low, but the vet/professor said he was not worried about that in a cat so young.

Larry and I were practically speechless. We expected to hear many things that day, but not that our Abbey was healthy.

We asked how she could have shown up anemic over and over. They said that they took her blood directly from her into the lab. They hypothesized that the sedation she was sometimes under at the local vet’s may have skewed the results. Or not enough blood was taken and the results were skewed by the substance that preventing clotting in the tube. So even the outside lab showed skewed results.

It took us a while to process that Abbey was OK. We were overjoyed. Abbey had her spay in August and has gained weight. She’s still an active little girl.

And yes, we have questioned the wisdom of staying with the same local vet. The anemia issue plus some other things with her and Chase Bird have led us to the decision that we’re probably going to be finding another vet.

Right now, Abbey is going through a hard time because of Chase Bird. She’s eating and running around, but she’s also lying around more and is quieter, less playful. She also looks for Chase Bird. That breaks my heart.

But Abbey is a plucky little soul. We look forward to many years of her companionship.

See you Monday!

Misery loves grits

Looking towards the train tracks and a passing train in Altavista, June 2014. The Staunton River runs among the distant trees.

If you’re in the kitchen at 4 a.m. eating a bowl of grits, you know things aren’t normal.

That was me yesterday morning. Cooking a bowl of instant grits in the microwave while Larry and Chase Bird slept. Eating the hot grits in an attempt to feel better.

Grits are a comfort food for me. No matter what kind of illness I may have, the warm blandness mixed with a dab of butter can calm down nausea, give a little energy to fight a headache, or soothe a sore throat.

Larry got a bad cold last week, and being the generous man that he is, he shared it with me. At least we are miserable together.

Of course, we’re not really miserable in the sense being unhappy or in dire straits or seriously ill. We just feel bad enough not to feel like doing anything. Just bad enough that walking to the mailbox at the end of the driveway seems too big a task. So bad that we believe if we don’t stop coughing soon, we are going to die of misery.

I took a book with me to the doctor’s office to read while waiting. I never opened it. I didn’t feel like reading. If I don’t feel like reading, I know I’m miserable. Or feverish.

I did have a fever. When I got home, Larry was sitting in the den, wrapped in a blanket, trying to get warm. We croaked hello to each other.

Then he left the house to run some errands. He had noticed our bare pantry shelves, too, and since he had been sick longer and hence was supposedly on the road to recovery already, he was elected to go to the grocery store.

He brought home things we really don’t need. A berry pie? Frozen pizza? Ah, things you buy when you shop while miserable. Or terribly hungry.

So here we are, taking our medicine, offering each other advice on how to feel better, eating food that isn’t good for us. Poor Chase Bird just wants us to stop coughing already. And get over this misery.

What is your best treatment for the common, miserable cold?

Update on Sam

I snapped this photo as Sam came out of her bed to drink some water.

Late last week, we thought Sam was doing better. However, late Friday night and early Saturday morning, we found blood in her urine.

We took her back to the vet on Saturday morning. She had a temperature and blood work showed high white cell counts. She was also very depressed, reacting very little to the work of the vet and her assistant.

The vet said she had an infection that seemed to have gone into her kidneys.

She said it was very serious and life threatening for a cat Sam’s age.

She has been on antibiotics and pain medication over the weekend.

The vet suggested that we offer her sliced chicken or turkey or baby food, or perhaps some roast chicken, to entice her to eat.

She loved the roast chicken we bought and the sliced turkey. She didn’t like the baby food. She likes dry food soaked in water.

But her eating has been erratic. Sometimes she eats, sometimes not.

They gave her subcutaneous fluids at the vet’s office on Saturday, and then Larry and I gave them to her Sunday morning. She’s drinking water on her own, too.

She’s mostly staying in the bed we made for her in what we call the futon room, right off the den. We don’t want her high up on furniture because we’re afraid that she will fall.

She comes out to use the litter box and to drink water, occasionally to eat, but goes right back to the bed.

Larry took her into the den Sunday night and sat her on the couch with him, but she wanted to get down. He put her back down on the floor and she walked back to her bed.

We have an appointment to take her back to the vet Monday morning.

We are concerned, of course. We’re very worried and very anxious. It’s hard to keep the anxiety at bay. We are hoping for the best.

I am trying to remind myself that healing takes time, that Sam needs to rest and perhaps she needs to stay in her bed.

Thank you for all of the kind comments you left on Friday’s post. Please keep Sam in your thoughts.

P.S. After I wrote this post and put it in Blogger, I heard a noise just as I was ready to press publish. I looked up and Sam was getting out of her bed. She walked into the den to find Larry. She walked around a bit, then went back to her bed. That's reason for hope!

I'll be back when I can.

Ready for the dirt, and other randoms

Hello! It’s Friday, and I’m participating in a meme I enjoy so much, Random 5 Friday, hosted by Nancy at A Rural Journal.

It has been a strange and seemingly endless week. I was busy but feeling a bit under the weather. So if I didn’t visit your blog as usual or if I commented way after the post was published, I apologize.

And now for the randoms for the week!

One

Larry has nearly finished the raised bed garden. It’s ready for the dirt and, in due time, seeds and plants.

The bed is mostly fenced in to keep out the wildlife critters that visit our yard. The two ends will be open, so I’m sure the animals will get a little bit of something.

The enclosed bed is 4 feet by 12 feet. To make access easier, Larry put in two gates on both sides.

When I went to get my camera to take the photos of the finished project Thursday evening, I couldn’t find it. So these photos are taken with my iPhone.

Two

It worried me that I couldn’t find my camera. I take it to work each day and bring it back home every night. I thought I had brought it home Wednesday night (I was off on Thursday). But it wasn’t in my car or on the table in the living room.

I thought I must have left it at the office, but I couldn’t be sure. And I didn’t want to wonder all night about it until Friday morning.

So Larry went with me to the office Thursday evening to retrieve my camera.

It was in the office, thank goodness. And while we were out, we saw the almost-full moon and I got some pictures.

Three

This week has seemed so long. The visitation and funeral for my aunt were Monday evening and Tuesday morning, respectively. It was good to see cousins that I hadn’t seen in years, but sad that the only time I see them is when someone dies.

The funeral was in my “home church,” the church I grew up in in the community I grew up in. The memories flowed as I drove down the country roads to the church, and as I walked through the cemetery, where many of my family members, including my father, are buried.

Four

I started taking antibiotics this week for an ear infection. My right ear started hurting Monday, and by Monday night, the hearing was muffled in that ear. I didn’t have time to see the doctor until Wednesday.

I’ve had ear problems off and on since I was a little girl. When I was a child, my mother would warm a towel in the oven (NOT a safe idea, by the way) and lay it on my pillow. I would lie down with my ear on the warm towel, and it felt so good.

Five

I work 32 hours a week, so I usually have Thursdays off. When I reduced my hours earlier this year, I knew I would enjoy the extra time at home. I just didn’t know how much I would enjoy it.

Lately, I’ve been seeing quotes here and there and reading articles with really good advice about time management. I think I’m getting the message that I need to start making better use of my time.

Do you ever feel like you’re seeing or hearing the words you need to at just the right time?

OCD and a sense of guilt

My father, Christmas Eve 1996.

He couldn’t speak anymore, but he could mouth words enough to be understood.

“Worried,” he said.

I stood by his bedside, looking down into his face. He stared back up at me.

“What are you worried about?” I asked.

“No food in . . . “ and he held up the fingers and thumb on one hand and one finger on the other hand to signify six. “. . . weeks.”

My father had gone into the hospital in May 1997, through the emergency room. He had uncontrollable vomiting. Nothing would stay down.

Tests showed that a flap in his stomach that was supposed to close after eating was remaining open. The food wasn’t processing through his intestines. It was coming back up.

The doctors thought it was likely caused by continued damage by strokes.

Some medication had worked for a short time in helping him keep food down. But eventually, it didn’t work. To get him some nourishment, the doctors had surgically inserted a feeding tube that bypassed his stomach.

He was in a nursing home because the level of care he needed just couldn’t be given to him at home.

But now in late June, he was back in the hospital because he was dehydrated. And he was looking to me for answers.

He never took his eyes off my face.

“Yes, it has been a long time. But we’re hoping that this feeding tube is temporary,” I said. “We’re hoping that you’ll be able to eat again, and you’ll be able to go home.”

I can hear my voice now, 16 years later. Cheery. Bright. Hopeful.

And I did have hope. I wasn’t trying to pass along false hope.

Daddy nodded his head and didn’t say anything else about it.

Back at the nursing home, his health continued to deteriorate.

He died on July 9, 1997.

I struggled with that conversation in the hospital for years.

Plain old-fashioned guilt would have carried me along just fine. But my OCD made it worse.

I obsessed over my words to him. What could I have said differently? How could I have said it differently? What could I have done differently? Had I not done enough?

After almost a lifetime of OCD compulsions to try to protect my family, had I ultimately failed and let my father die?

OCD wants you to feel guilty. It wants you to question yourself about things over which you have no control, over things about which there is no certainty.

It had an easy target in me.

But I outwitted OCD. I was already on medication to help it, but I did more. I learned much more about OCD than I ever thought there was to know, and I learned ways to work with it, to work around it. I followed self-help guidelines. I got therapy that targeted OCD.

I know now that I did the best I could. I shared with Daddy the hope I had. He was a smart man. He knew what was happening to his body. He wasn’t looking for me to give him a definitive answer. He wanted to talk with me and share his concerns.

And he wouldn’t want me to feel guilty.