Updates

Not much really to report.

I've had my brother Gordon on my mind the past few days. This has been reinforced by the fact that my spotify playlist keeps playing songs Gordon played into the ground. I swear at one point in my life if I head Rascal Flats' "Life is a Highway" one more time I was gonn jump out of the moving car.

Father's Day is coming up, and that is just another reminder that Dad is no longer with us. Grief is wierd, you go months without thinking of someone you lost and then you hear a song or see something that makes you think of them and that scab is ripped right off the scar. I can't get over how the pain, when remembered, is as strong as the day it happened.

Connections. And this will be vague. Why do I find myself drawn to the unobtainable? Why is something I want 3,635 km away? Logistics are being worked on, so we will see how that comes out.

One Year Later

It's been a year since I had to put Sansa down. A whole year of questioning what I did wrong, how I could have prevented it, what I could have done different.

Currently, my sleep is off again. I typically get 4-5 hours each day of sleep. My brain is foggy, my body feels worn. Right now I'm at work and all I want to do is make it through the next four and a half hours so I can go home and sleep.

It seems the only times I can sleep is when I take Zquil, but then I wake up feeling drunk, not hung over, but drunk. Even now I'm finding it hard to find the words to put here.

SO at any rate, that's where I am. Tommorrow is the one year anniversay of Gordon's death, so I'm feeling that too.

Eight Years

Eight years ago today, my dad had a stroke. This was the beginning of the end of his life. So while Dec 19th 2016 was the day it started, he remained with us until his heart attack on March 21st 2017.

I miss him. The wisdom that he carried that makes mine seem so small in comparison. How much he loved Christmas, so that now in his absence I tolerate it's existance. I -hate- that he didn't get to see his grandson graduate from high school, education was always important to him. I -hate- that he didn't get to see that same grandson get married, and the happiness his wife brings him.

I was at work when it happened. I got a call from my stepmother telling me dad was at the hospital. I am fairly sure I violated all sorts of speed laws getting to said hospital. Apparently there is this medicine that they can give you that prevents several of the nasty side effects of a stroke. If they can give it to you in time. Good news, they were able to administer the medicine in time. Bad news, dad was allergic to it.

A nurse came out and spoke with me. Told me that dad kept trying to scratch, the medicine was making him itchy, and that I needed to come back and find a way to convince him to stop or they would have to strap him down. Dad HATED hospitals and disliked doctors "It's called a medical practice, why should I let them practice on me?" he would say. So I knew if they strapped him down he'd lose it. SO I went back.

My father was the strongest man I knew. Physically, mentally, and emotionally. As I held his arms down, to see my dad writing, crying, begging me to stop the itching broke me. They were coming with medicine to make the itching stop, but we'd have to wait, and then wait for it to kick in. But to see him, laid up in the bed begging for it to stop like he was being tortured. Damn I fucking broke.

He got better, was in the hospital for a few days and able to be home for Christmas. It was the last Christmas I'd have with my dad. It was the last year I have a picture of me, him and my son together. I know it seems odd for a fifty-one year old man to seem this upset by not having his father around any more, but you have to understand something.

During my teens, into my early twenties, my relationship with my dad wasn't the best. Hell it wasn't until after my sone was born that we started really bonding. I'd spent thirty years of my life feeling as if my dad loved my step-brother more than he loved me. And I learned way too late that was not the case. So I had to work through that resentment, towards him, towards the step-brother, and also in small part my step-mother. So I had, what thireteen good years with dad?

Death doesn't take a holiday. It doesn't care. But nor is it evil.

I miss my dad.

I Miss My Lap Cat

Tomorrow, July 20th, would have been Sansa's 6th birthday. Five months later and I am still questioning what I could have done differently.

I've looked up signs of what cats typically do when they are sick. One of those is hiding. She never hid. Any time I sat down she was in my lap purring away.

How did I not notice she was sick? If I had noticed sooner, could it have kept her alive? How could I miss any sign that she was in distress? Was I a bad cat parent for not noticing? Why do I keep blaming myself? What could I have done different?

I am emotionally and mentally exhausted. When I am not at work, all I want to do is sleep. And then I'm reminded of how she always slept with me. Always wanted to be curled up under the blanket with me. So, when I do sleep, I don't sleep well. I go to bed, and I wake up feeling like 6 or 7 hours have passed, and it's only been 2.

And then there is Odin. He has been more affectionate and playful since Sansa left us. At the same time, you can tell he misses her. There are periods of the day where he roams the house looking for something, crying out.

People ask me if I will ever get another kitten. Part of me wants one, and part of me is afraid I will fail a new kitten the same way I failed Sansa.

And that seems to be the core. No matter what any one tells me, I feel as if I completely failed her. I feel as if I should have done/noticed more to help her. I feel as in her last days, weeks she didn't know why I wasn;t helping her.

Yes, I know way too much thought and emotion to attribute to a cat, but then again how do we know? How do I know?

How do I get past this? This is as much grief as it is me tearing myself apart and blaming myself, and I CAN'T.GET.PAST.IT.

Like butter that has been scraped over too much bread

I'm tired.
Not physically, but mentally I am exhausted. Lately, my routine has fallen into a cycle of work, sleep, errands, sleep, work. When I get off work, all I want to do is sleep. When my alarm goes off, all I want to do is hit snooze and sleep. When I'm at work, all I look forward to is going home so I can go to bed.
I've discovered this 'condition' is called hypersomnia. But again, without having seen a doctor, I have no true diagnosis.
I get three days off work a week, but typically I spend them running errands, or other things so it is almost like I am working, even on my off days. Add to that the exsessive heat we have been experiencing, and that leads to all sorts of just tired.
I wish I knew what to do. There are some studies on hypersomnia that say it is tied to depression, and I personally feel that could be the source. After the year I've had. Sure, my son getting married was a good day, but that is one good day compared to Sansa and Gordon's deaths. The anniversary of dad and granny's deaths. Sansa's birthday next week. Gordon's birthday a few weeks after his death. It just seems to be one loss compounded by another and the only outlet I have is this journal.
On the plus side, I've lost twelve pounds, so I guess that's a good thing?

2024 can go to HELL

So, this year has been, without a doubt, the worst year I can actually remember. I mean we all thought that 2020 was bad, and after it was over things would get back to normal. Sadly nothing could be further from the truth.

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