An Cat Dubh

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Hmmmm.

I am doing pretty okay, considering and am now trying to decide if my mouth has mutinied.  I had a discussion about my sister about jaw clenching and how I’d been feeling like I’d been doing it lately but was relaxing and it was going away.  Now the whole thing feels sore and there’s a big discomfort and pressure when I move my mouth a certain way and I feel panicked and stressed DEFCON 11.   It was demonstrably fine all day and now, oh my gosh, broken.

I have also freaked out once today that my tongue was broken so…I am kind of taking everything with a grain of salt.  Kind of.

This is, if we’re paying attention, and I am so trying to now, one of the hard places where I in the past have just thrown up my hands when facing its challenges. In this case, it’s a health thing and a money thing.  I’m freaked out because something doesn’t feel right, I’m thinking the insurance is all questionable, and I feel insecure about dealing with what I need to do to get that squared so that I can get in if it becomes essential (I’m due for my appointment in a month or so) (I think).

But I am going to see what I can do about that.   I am at least going to give them a proper going-over with the toothbrush and letting myself relax where I can.

Tonight, I’ve actually gotten some cleaning done.  Got my desk cleared off and cleaned up.  This has been a task I needed to do, but also, it’s me wanting to not think about our dear sweet Madi (I think of it as spelled Maddie, but I have long since been overruled on this point and she was not, in the final analysis, my cat.)   We had to put her to sleep today.  My sister nursed that poor thing in the last few months of her life when a throat tumor at 16 overwhelmed the little thing.  She was small, even on kitty cat terms, having been feral and trapped in a trailer in Oklahoma before turning up in a cat rescue where our friend worked.  We were visiting her and, if I recall, going to A-Kon in Dallas for my sister and her friend to appreciate anime and for me to go any new place I hadn’t been before.  On the way back, we or…perhaps, I, was not planning on having any unexpected travelling companions.  My sister decided to bring home this black cat who had been at the cat rescue for two years.  I thought there had to be something wrong with her if nobody wanted her and wasn’t clear on why we should be the people to change that.  I remember being faintly testy about the whole arrangement, while my sister was totally clear.

But still, there she was, in the back in a cat carrier, crying in a desperate, mechanical music box voice as we drove under a billowing storm somewhere around Limon.  I was studying Gaelic at the time.  Half-studying, a dilettante, really.  As a means of distraction against the idea that we might all be blown to bits in some unforeseen tornado, we were tossing around names for this displeased creature.  I said madra was Irish for cat so we could call her that and shorten it to Maddie.  Turns out, with the sort of check that Google would have taken care of were we getting her today, that madra means dog.  And cat’s just cat, pronounced with a lovely Irish inflection.

But things stuck.  The cat stuck.  And she became a loyal, pleasant, jealous, good little house cat.  She didn’t want anything, but to be loved and so she was.  Until we had to say goodbye.

So today had that rough bit in it.  But we knew it had to happen, and so, here we are.  I feel the energy gone in the house, the change.  There’s just the one cat, my Lilybean, remaining.  I feel there was a gift in the compassion and love she engendered in us, and now in the psychic space that has been stretched wider as she’s gone.

More to say, but we’ll find a way to say it later.

 

Chill Pill

beautiful-pills-1453117-1599x965Worryingly, one of the cats who had something of a cyst on her tail doesn’t anymore because it’s erupted in some sort of way that is not appropriate for post-dinner conversation and I myself don’t know what this means.  My sister has leapt into action and is taking the dear little black cat, who is small enough to really just be handless sock puppet, to the vet and I hope that she’ll get there in time to get properly treated.

That was not the way I had intended to finish out the day.   Another day of me choosing less than, of me scuttling forward with my shoulders around my ears.  In parts, in bits.  Not completely, but enough to pay attention.  It’s not copacetic, it’s not thrilling or relaxing, it’s rough right now.

It would be nice, I thought, as we daubed blood off the cat’s tail and as I scrubbed it out, out damn spot from the floor, to have you with me when things like this happen.  Mr. Future.  You with your ethereal aura and your wormholes to travel the world.  It would be nice to have you on the line or in the bed when we curl up and say, oh, dear, that was terrible?  To not just have to say “I’m okay” and have to draw from my own stores for the stuff that will distract it enough to survive.  To have a hand on these knotted-up shoulders. All of that would be really nice and it is verging on necessary.

Sublimation can make a life, but what kind of life does it make?

So, I tell the Faithful Light who never fails to extend her hand, a hand that is never to rub the shoulders, never to offer comfort, but ever to pull me to my feet and get me back on the pathful path, I tell her to point me westward.  I stumble a few steps and keep trudging.  Not dancing, not leaping, but not flat on my back waiting for geology to make its use of me.

I am willing to listen.  To not shut down the idea of more and betterer.  To be mindful.  To revel in the possibilities this world offers.  To endure another day.

I am willing to open up Pandora’s Box and  to think of you again.  To think of myself as part of you, to think of myself as able to share this sort of half-empty angst with you, to think that the pains and hurts you swallow and survive might be lessened by being sent to my heart.  That this might be why love happens at all.

Mr. Confusion darts across my mind from time to time.  Well, less of a dart and more of a deliberate stride beyond my faculties.  Mr. Rochester goes, too, as ghoulish and ghostly as he dares.  Both get lost in the patterns in the wall if you don’t focus on them.  They weren’t the right ones.  You know?  Whatever they were or did or wanted or added or subtracted, they weren’t, in the end, someone who could take the quiet of this worried moment with me.  They didn’t stay.  They weren’t the right ones.