So, where the frak do I even start to begin?
In 2017 I and my girlfriend at the time started fostering kittens. The first set was Odin and Loki. When it came time to take them to be adopted, we specified they were a bonded pair of brothers, and should be adopted togeter. I would stop by on the way home from work every day to check on them to see how they were doing. One morning, I stopped and only Odin was there. He was our first Foster Failure.
Now don't get me wrong, a lost of people hear "Foster Failure" and think that it is a negative thing, however in this instance Foster Failure is defined as "A scenario in which pet parents take in a foster animal, but ultimately adopt them as a permanent family member. "A scenario in which pet parents take in a foster animal, but ultimately adopt them as a permanent family member." So Odin came home and joined our family (Me, My Son, the girlfriend, and Ollie (her Fur Baby dashund).
Fast forward to 2018, we took in a foster who we named Sansa. Needless to say, she didn't even make it to the adoption agency, we failed right out of the gate. Sansa was by every definition a lap cat, any time you were sitting she was in your lap. Eventually, as all good things must do, my girlfriend and my relationship ended (on a good note, we are still friends to this day). Sansa and Odin stayed with me and my son, and of course Ollie went with her (although, I still got visitation with him.... see I told you amicable).
Last year the utter shitstorm of grief and pain started. Ollie (at the age of 14) crossed over the rainbow bridge, surrounded by family and friends. In all my years, I've never really experienced the loss of a pet, and even though Ollie wasn't mine I was still (by his mother's words) his dad. Even as I type this tears are welling up in my eyes just thinking about it. Ollie was pure love, there was no other way to describe him. I think I may dedicate a whole other blog to how I met him, which is a funny story to say the least.
Now, let's talk about the shit storm 2024 has been. Sansa got sick in the first few weeks of Febuary. After a couple of days I took her to the vet (BTW if you live in or around Ooltewah TN, take your pets to Applebrook), it was time for her annual checkup anyway, plus I was worried because she had stopped eating for a couple of days. The first thing that we discovered is that in the past year she had gone from 8lbs to 5lbs. Not a good sign. Tests were done, xrays taken, and the determination was that she had something wrong with her liver. I was given meds and a special formula food to take home to feed her with.
A week of trying to force her to eat, and she ate very little, spit most of what I fed her out. She'd drink water (which I'd mixed with pedialyte) but would not keep much if any food down. After a week I took her back to the vet, and she'd lost a whole other pound. Conversations were had, her liver was failing. There was a discussion of taking her to an emergency surgery vet, but my vet said he didn't think she'd make the trip. While they took her back to see what they could do, I called my ex (still technically Sansa's mom) crying. We had the conversation and made the choice to let Sansa cross the Rainbow Bridge.
I felt like such a failure as a pet owner. How did I miss the fact she'd lost so much weight? How did I not notice how sick she was? How long did she suffer in silence? All the while still crawling in my lap and purring her cute little lungs out. Could I have done something sooner? Should I have done something sooner?
So that was Feb 15th. You'd think that would be enough right? No, the universe wasn't done with me yet. Shortly after midnight on the 17th, my sister-in-law calls me. She never calls me. See, my brother Gordon had been taken to the hospital that Wed (14th). I had planned on going to see him on Sun (18th). So when I picked up the phone the only thing I could say instead of "hello" was "Please don't tell me what you are going to tell me." But of course, the universe seems to hate me this year, and she informed me that Gordon had passed away. So, there was that.
Mind you Gordon was not my "biological" brother. We met in summer school thirthy-four years ago. They say sometimes you get to pick your family, and in this case we soon got to the point where we stopped referring to ourselves as "best Friends" but instead as brothers. In fact, Gordon was fond of reminding me that "I'm not your friend, I'm your brother damn it."
So within two days I'd lost one of my fur babies, and my brother. I think a week later I woke up having a panic attack. No idea what triggered it, all I know is I woke up with my heart pounding and breathing like I'd ran a marathon (like I would ever do that). That is when I decided that maybe I'd start looking for a therapist. Yeah, fuck that noise. the least expensive one I've found was $150/session, and wanted to do three sessions a week. I can afford, comfortably, on my budget one session a month. So that wasn't an option. As an off hand note, if you try to use Betterhelp, hit yourself in the head with a 2x4, it will be more therapudic.
Now we come to March, and April. March 21st was the 7 year anniversary of my dad's death, the 23rd was Gordon's birthday, and April 6th will be the 23rd anniversary of my grandmother's death. I started trying to write a poem, poetry is my escape, but it turned into this.
Needless to say, I have no clue where the hell my head is right now. I just know I had to get this all out, and since journalling is supposed to be therapudic (and apparently cheaper than actual therapy, god I fucking hate the American health care system) here we are.
Be on the lookout for more of these as times go by, because for some reason I think I'm gonna need it.
Thanks for reading
Mark