RIP Zombie Hamster

On January 1, 2018January 1, 2018 By aftheadIn parenting, Uncategorized8 Comments

It wouldn’t be the holidays around the Afthead house without a pet dying. Yesterday, when my husband was looking for things to do I suggested he check on Lula, the zombie hamster. He disappeared into the basement and shortly returned shaking his head.

“She’s really dead this time?” I asked.

“Had been for awhile from the looks of her.”

And like the dope I am I burst out crying. She wasn’t my favorite pet, but death is sad. We had a quick burial beside the dead-bunny-bush where Lula joined the baby bunny who died in our window well several years ago. No words were said, because it was 20 degrees out, but her tiny body curled neatly into the hole I managed to spade out of the frozen ground. She looked very Lula-esque as I sprinkled dirt on top of her.

The last time I knew she was alive was December 14th, because she tried to run around on her wheel while I was working at home: the tumor on her hindquarters made movement difficult. I gave her a slice of apple which she nuzzled on for a bit before drinking and heading back to her purple cave. It was a nice final hamster human interaction. (Yes, she could have been dead for two weeks in there, but I was dealing with a cancer scare at Christmas and couldn’t bring myself to check on her.) The last time my daughter saw her was at our Christmas craft party where one of Afthead Junior’s friends suggested feeding Lula to her pet snake. I can’t say that would have been a worse ending for Lula, but my daughter balked at a Lula death by snake swallowing.

This morning, I did a little research. Lula’s life expectancy was 1.5 – 2 years. By my calculations we had her almost 3.5 years. So she lived an entire lifetime as a hamster, then another as a zombie hamster before the zombie-hamster-tumor took her agility, then her sight, and finally her life.

My last hope for Lula is that she and the bunny don’t start some mini Pet Sematary in my back yard. I really hope she rests in peace back there.

My favorite Christmas Present? A Benign Biopsy

On December 29, 2017December 29, 2017 By aftheadIn Tickles my afthead, Uncategorized13 Comments

My new favorite word is benign. Say it with me: benign. It’s a little choppy and doesn’t really flow off the tongue; there may be too many syllables for the length. It wasn’t a word I’d given much thought before last week. In fact, if you’d asked me before that, I would have said I liked the word malignant better. It has a force to it, a weight, and a power that is scary as heck when it might be related to your own body.

Last Friday I was presented with that glorious word, benign. All day I sat by the phone waiting for my biopsy results. Before the biopsy, the mammography center had warned that I might not hear the results until after Christmas, but the surgical center seemed certain that I’d hear on Friday. My husband and I had discussed the uncertainty and decided that if the sample was cancerous we didn’t want to hear until after Christmas. I rationalized that I could fake my way through the holiday not knowing, but would likely ruin everyone’s Christmas if I did know. However, when I discussed my plan with the biopsy nurse practitioner and doctor they looked at me like I was crazy. “I mean, I’ll have questions and I’ll need to know what the plan is if it isn’t benign.” I told them. They assured me that there would be a plan – nay a whole team ready – if the sample was not benign so I capitulated and agreed that they could call, which seemed to satisfy their need for procedure and protocol. (“Not benign” is such a stupid euphemism.)

My arms were deep in the sink, soaking my brother’s Christmas scarf for blocking when my daughter ran in, “Mom, your phone is ringing.” I dripped while sprinting into the study and grabbed my phone. Better to ruin my phone with soggy hands then miss this call. They were going to tell me if the turtle ripped from my body was a good turtle or an evil turtle.

There is no situation that is beyond the absurd in my life. While I was laying face down on a surgical table, my clamped and bleeding boob protruding through a hole, the doctor put up the image of the sample taken from my flesh. It looked exactly like a turtle with a bulbous middle, a head, and four smaller blob appendages. Of course, I shared my interpretation of this image with my medical team. Appeasing me, they pointed out the lighter squiggles on one turtle foot. That was the sample they wanted. The worrying parts of the turtle were now outside of me ready to be analyzed and tested.

The call had no preamble before the nurse practitioner – the one who convinced me that I wanted to talk to her no matter what she was going to tell me – said, “I have good news for you. Your sample is benign.”

That moment is clear in my head. As unclear as the medical guidance given to me by my doctor during the biopsy procedure. He was very kind, but the nurse assigned to me seemed hellbent to ensure any medical information provided was covered up by cheery banter. She entered with the doctor and was “there for me” in some role perfectly clear to her. At the moment the biopsy was about to happen the doctor said, “I’m going to take the sample now. You might feel…” but whatever I might have felt was drowned out by the nurse screaming in my face, “WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE CHRISTMAS COOKIE?” I still don’t know what I was supposed to feel, but Nurse Rose knows I like sugar cookies the best. Her question wasn’t a total non sequitur. She’d drowned out the anesthetic information by asking me my plans for the day, which involved making Christmas cookies.

Sure, maybe making Christmas cookies they day you get a biopsy might seem a little strange, but that’s what happens when you get an irregular mammogram less than two weeks before Christmas. My brother’s scarf was carried with me from waiting room to procedure room to waiting room the day of the biopsy, because I had knitting to finish before the holiday. My potential cancer worries were all wrapped up with holiday concerns – pun intended.

The decision to have the mammogram right before Christmas was an odd one for me. In a flash of uncharacteristic optimism I took the appointment offered because, after my first irregular mammogram in June, my doctor and I looked at the films together. She’d assured me that the worrying spots had been on my mammogram in 2015, disappeared in 2016 and were back in 2017. She said it was probably nothing, but cautioned me that I needed to go every 6 months, just in case.

At the time, the mammogram didn’t seem like it was “just in case,” but in hindsight the lady doing my mammogram got less and less chatty as she took more and more pictures. Since this was my first followup appointment, I just figured she didn’t find my demeanor charming. Or maybe she was also unsure how she was going to get everything done before Christmas. When she asked me to sit in the waiting room I didn’t wonder, but when she asked me to come back into the bowels of the mammography center I got concerned. She led me into a dimly lit room with faux leather chairs around a small conference table and I panicked. The room looked exactly like the special room my vet has for euthanasia appointments. When the radiologist arrived and didn’t bring me a warm blanket and a cocktail of life-ending drugs it was a relief, until he suggested a biopsy.

The warm blanket came right before they strapped my legs to the biopsy table and raised me into the air on the worst amusement park ride ever. Nurse Rose did not find my amusement park ride jokes funny as the table made herkey jerks and my boob was smashed and smushed and poked. I feel like being “there for me” should have involved laughing at my jokes.

The benign call ended awkwardly. When asked if I had any questions I mentioned that I thought the incision was bleeding more than it should. The nurse practitioner seemed taken aback, like the invitation for questions was rhetorical. I was supposed to just hang up in a blaze of relief and joy. When I told her that the bloody spot under my bandage was much bigger than a dime or nickel she said, “Well, if it’s still a problem on Tuesday give us a call” then said goodbye. My Christmas cancer worry was replaced by a smaller bleeding-out worry. Nothing I couldn’t fake my way through, but enough to make me drift off to sleep with images of bloody wounds dancing in my head. (Spoiler alert, I haven’t bled out yet.)

When people ask me what I got for Christmas this year I go blank. I got benign, but almost everyone doesn’t know I had a biopsy. A few friends and family members along with an astute coworker who caught me at a bad time know, but I didn’t tell anyone else. When was the right time? During the band concert? The school holiday party? During our work calendar exchange? At my friend’s dad’s funeral? Had the ending been different I would have had to tell, but now I’m just awkwardly hugging on one side and randomly asking people to carry heavy things for me.

Along with my constant appreciation of the absurd are my rose colored glasses. Even after my Magic 8 Ball told me I didn’t have cancer (this was before the actual diagnosis) I couldn’t help planning for the worst. The silver lining of the cancer scare was my evaluation of the things I was afraid of losing: my family, my friends, my book, my stories and – surprising to me – my Master’s degree. In the week between mammogram and biopsy I planned how to transition my work role to others, write my book at chemo so my mom could read it, and make countless videos and knit objects for my kid to remember me by. (Because a box of hand-knits is almost the same as having a mom, right?) I also hoped I would feel well enough during treatment to go to school. It’s interesting the things that rise to important when you are considering th….

“WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE CHRISTMAS COOKIE?!?!?!”

Now when things start to get serious around here, you’ll understand why I’m screaming cookie gibberish. My surgical pamphlet tells me that one in eight women develop breast cancer and four in five biopsies like mine end up benign. That means many women are having these procedures and it’s all okay, but for each four of me, one other woman is dealing with all the fears I had the past two weeks. If you find yourself in this same uncomfortable situation, my hope is that your turtles turn out benign and your warm blankets just make your uncomfortable amusement park ride a little bit more pleasant.

Goodbye Bart

On March 17, 2017March 17, 2017 By aftheadIn childhood, Uncategorized21 Comments

Ah Bart. Remember him? He was my attempt to prove to myself that I am not the cat grim reaper (or cat hospice provider as so many of you sweetly suggested.) I think it is time for me to write his final chapter.

For those of you who missed the early story Bart was a foster cat our family took in back in November when our local shelter became overcrowded with rescue animals from other states. Our mission was to get him healthy, so he could go to the pet cardiologist to have his level 2 heart murmur evaluated. (Heart murmurs for cats are graded from 1-6 with the 1-2 range usually not being a big deal.) Bart was kind of a mess when he came to us, but oh, he was a lover and had a purr that vibrated his whole body. Over the month we cared for Bart he recovered from a wound on his leg, a multiweek long respiratory infection, a perpetual bloody nose from the aforementioned respiratory infection, and being neutered. Just when everything was all better and he was healthy enough to go to the cardiologist a surprise gross abscess burst under his chin leaving bloody puss all over his fur and the floor.

The shelter people told me to bring him in, that they would evaluate this new wound then check with the specialist. Even with his new ailment, he was cleared to see the cardiologist, so Mr. Bart went for a field trip to the animal hospital, and I agreed to take him back and get his abscess cleared up before he went up for adoption. Five more days of antibiotics for Bart at the Afthead house, but he’d get to spend Christmas with us!

December 23rd the shelter called with the results of Bart’s cardiology scan. He had two defective ventricles. The shelter vets and specialists conferred and had decided that Bart was going to be euthanized. His condition gave him only 3 -18 months to live, so he wasn’t eligible for adoption. Two days before Christmas I got this news, and the extra present was that the shelter said that they would allow me, and only me, to adopt him, but I would have to take him back to the cardiologist and be responsible for his heart medication and quarterly/monthly cardiac checkups. The single thing that could save Bart was my willingness to take on the time and expense to care for a cat who probably wouldn’t live two years. I pondered all this while sitting in my study stroking what appeared to be a healthy Bart.

The only person I told was my husband, who doesn’t really care about animals the same way I do, and we agreed that no one else needed this news right before Christmas. We also agreed that I needed time to decide what we were going to do. (Mr. Afthead leaves such decisions to me, since I am the one with a breakable heart.) So I put on my happy face and celebrated the holidays with my family, my own pets, and Bart.

In the back of my head thoughts were churning. How could this happen again? Why would life be so unfair to give this sweet cat a defective heart? Could he continue to live with us? My cats hated having Bart in the house. They had stopped entering the basement, which is where their litterboxes are, and had resorted to pooping and peeing on my bed until I put a litterbox in my bedroom. Could I live with that situation? Bart was sweet, but a destructive cat and had shredded the chair in my study, his domain, and clawed other furniture when given the chance to explore. Unquestionably I could have trained him, but maybe not before he died or had a stroke: either likely situations given his condition. And while we really liked Bart no one in the family felt that he was our cat. We were doing this so that some other family could adopt this beautiful, big purring cat, not so he would be ours.

There were so many ethical considerations. Should we tell our daughter about what the shelter had decided? Should she get to help make the decision about what our family was going to do? Was it wrong for me to keep the news from my extended family over the holidays? Was it my responsibility to care for Bart until the end of his life regardless of the cost or quality of his life? Because I believe in science and medicine I didn’t think the diagnosis was wrong. If I adopted him he would die. What should I do?

I searched my heart and my brain but in the end I came to the same place I’d come before. This was too much. Without telling my daughter anything except that Bart was going back I took him to the shelter and said goodbye.

For two days I held my sadness in and pretended that Bart might be going up for adoption, or Bart might come and live with us to be fostered again. Eventually I started to tell my friends and family what had happened. Because secrets and lies have a way of worming their way to the surface eventually one of my friends told her daughter – a friend of my daughter’s – what happened. When I found out I knew I had to tell my daughter because kid friends talk. I didn’t want my child’s trust and faith in her mother to be dependent on the ability of a 9 year old to keep her mouth shut. I got home from work and said, “I’ve got some sad news.”

“Don’t tell me Bart is dead.”

All I could do was nod. We cried together about the 8 dead cats she’s known in her 8 years. She listed each one and the way they died. Three pets and five fosters all gone. When we were done with the immediate mourning she told me what I had known all along, “Mommy, we are never, ever doing that again.” We won’t. We won’t foster. We won’t keep big secrets from each other. We won’t do that ever again.

I love the community at the shelter, and the foster parents. My foster mentor was so caring when I told her what happened with Bart, and she promised me that my situation “just never happens.” No one loses 5 out of six foster cats in their first two attempts. She shared her own sad stories, and even offered to give me a her healthiest foster litter this spring to ensure I have a success. Behind the scenes I’m sure she raised heck – contrary to the evidence she really thinks I have the potential to be a great foster parent – and a few weeks after Bart died a sympathy card came from the shelter. It made me cry, but it did not make me change my mind. This is not my way of helping make the world a better place. I can’t take any more dead cats.

Last time this happened I was able to come up with some silver linings, but not this time. I’m sad for me, sad for my family, sad for Bart, and sad for the shelter and the folks who work there. Nothing about this was fair or good or worthwhile. Everyone poured their heart into this experience and the only glint of silver is that Bart was able to live in a warm house with a family for a month, but that seems so pitiful.

In the end, as always, children are the wisest. This weekend my kiddo told me, “Mom, I think that all our cats that died are part of Adventure now.” (Adventure is our only foster that lived, and she’s our pet now.) She started listing out traits of each dead cat and how she saw them reflected in our pet. At the end of her speech she looked to me for approval and I told her, “Yep kiddo, I think you are right,” because really I don’t have any better resolution.

Goodbye Bart. We were all pulling for a happy ending, but it wasn’t meant to be.

If at First you Fail Spectacularly

On December 5, 2016December 5, 2016 By aftheadIn childhood, Uncategorized25 Comments

Fostering cats. It’s the one thing in life that I can look back on and say, “Well, I sucked at that.” Last year five tiny baby kittens were taken into my care and four died three different ways. I broke when the fourth one had to be euthanized and kept the last one to heal my heart. She has since become a beloved member of our household.

For the past year I’ve held onto this failure. I have to admit that I have dubbed myself the Cat Grim Reaper. I’ve lurked on the foster parent group on Facebook and watched litter after litter of healthy kittens grow and thrive under other foster parents care. I’ve watched sick and hurt cats become sleek and healthy. Quietly I’ve kept my training up to date in anticipation that I was going to try again. Once and for all I was going to cement my definition of the kitten event: bad luck or killer.

Our local shelter just had an influx of animals and needed foster parents to take sick, but not dying, animals home to make room for the new really sick animals. With little input from my family or friends, I volunteered to take one of the cats. He has an upper respiratory infection, his leg is bandaged hip to foot, he just got neutered, and he has a heart murmur that needs to be evaluated once he gets over the other ailments. His name is Bart and he’s a beautiful long haired light grey cat. He loves my daughter and has a purr that vibrates his whole body when she pets him.

As Bart snores away on the other side of the bathroom door – he is quarantined because of his infection – I’m not confident that he’ll make it. He hasn’t gotten better in the five days in my care. We’ve had to change antibiotics, and he’s not eating. The plan was to take him back to the shelter Tuesday to have his heart murmur evaluated, but already they are saying I might have to keep him longer because he’s not improving. He is living in a mist of water vapor as I try to keep his nasal tissues from bleeding each time he sneezes.

Thursday I dreamed Bart was playing with my parent’s cats, and woke with one thought in my head, “This is too much.” Fostering is just too much for me, for my family, and for my other cats. I hate saying that. I feel like some aristocrat looking down her nose at hard work and saying, “Oh no, I can’t do that. It’s hard and messy and time consuming and inconvenient.” No part of me doesn’t feel like a failure. But I’ve had to put a litter box in my bedroom to stop our cats from peeing and pooping on my bed, because the presence of the foster cat near their normal boxes makes them nervous. My daughter sits stroking his soft fur with tears running down her face. “I’m going to miss Bart,” she says. I drive back and forth to the shelter to drop him off and pick him up so his bandage can be changed. I wipe bloody snot off our walls, off of my daughter, and off his fur. The truth of the situation is that this is not our path, and not our way to help. Bart will be our last foster and if he dies I will take the mantle of Cat Grim Reaper and wear it, but I will not partake in a third foster experience. I will find other ways to make the world a better place.

It isn’t all terrible, don’t let me mislead you. There are moments like this. I hope that Bart recovers and some amazing family gets to enjoy this giant purr for years to come.

For all those who care for shelter animals, either at the shelter or in their homes, I applaud you. It is the hardest thing I have ever done, and I wish you all the strength and courage to keep doing what you do.

Pets 0; Cars 2.

On November 3, 2016November 3, 2016 By aftheadIn parenting5 Comments

Yesterday was the Girls on the Run (GOTR) practice 5k, and I volunteered to be a running buddy for my daughter and a group of 16 third and fourth grade girls from her school. They have been training for months and the final race is Sunday. Wednesday was a big day. The first time they would actually run five entire kilometers. Buddies were needed to ensure that no one was left behind as the sprinters and walkers spread out across the course.

It was a warm fall afternoon and the sun was shining. I had decorated the sidewalk by the side of our house with chalk hearts, GOTR, and arrows, because our house was on the route. It was my special surprise. At school, the coaches met with the excited girls for a few minutes and gave them their matching sunflower yellow shirts to wear. The parent buddies marveled at the amazing weather while waiting to start running. After no other parents seemed willing to wrangle the sprinters, I took off with the lead group. Steps into our run we heard a horrible noise: a thump and then a cry. One thought crossed my mind as I turned back toward the school and the crosswalk we’d just passed. A kid got hit by a car.

Relief when I saw a golden dog limping and whimpering it’s way across the street. There was no blood and no gore just sad sounds and a slow moving animal. One of the Girls on the Run coaches and a mom ran to help the dog. My 6 girls and I were the only ones who didn’t witness the dog getting hit. We paused and the kids asked hard questions like, “Will the dog be okay?” and “Will the dog die?” and I said, “I don’t know.” In no time the singlemindness of 8 and 9 year-olds took over and the runners started again, so I went with them. After all, we were there to run.

There was no hysteria. There weren’t even any tears, but each intersection I stopped traffic – the sound of car hitting flesh fresh in my mind – and girls passed me talking to each other. “That dog reminded me of my dog.” “My mom was crying.” “Do you think it is dead?” “I would be sad if it was a cat.” The conversations continued throughout the run and after we celebrated our accomplishment the dog news was relayed to moms, dads, teachers and siblings. The coach who stayed with the dog told her story. The owners were called, but not contacted and a nice neighbor took the dog to the vet in his truck. “Will the dog be okay?” the girls asked. “I don’t know.”

Today is my work from home day, and I watched our new backyard cat stalk mice, our chickens, and investigate our maple tree. My house cats dart from window to window not growling but fascinated by the cat that’s outside. How did she get there and why isn’t anyone making her go back inside? She’s not our cat, and she isn’t friendly, but chicken bring mice and I’ve been happy to see her hunting the past couple of weeks. It’s been a few years since Mark the cat stopped coming around and since I’d watched his muzzle and then coat turn from orange to white I assumed he’d passed on. He used to leave us mouse presents on our front stoop and while the baby mouse piles were disturbing, I was glad he kept the pest population down.

After picking up my daughter from school I watched the grey cat prowl around our yard. When she disappeared behind a tree I went back to the basement to finish my work day. I glanced out the egress window and there she was, her sleek grey fur gleaming and golden eyes staring at a rodent or bug just beyond the edge of the window where I couldn’t see and she couldn’t reach. I called to my daughter, “Come see the new cat.” My cats each stretched into the window screen and our family examined her. My daughter cooed, “Hi cat.” The huntress didn’t waver from her prey. Suddenly her focus broke and she glanced down at us before leaping into the front yard. We all went back to watching TV, typing, or napping in our cat bed.

Fifteen minutes later I heard my husband come in the front door. He thudded around upstairs and tromp tromp tromped down the stairs. He greeted my daughter who ignored him in favor of her show. He stood by me and said quietly, “You know that grey cat that’s been around. I think she got hit by a car. I saw someone stop and pick up her body from the middle of the road. She’s lying in the yard across the street. She’s not moving. She’s definitely dead.”

“I just saw her. She’s been around all day.” Back upstairs I stared out the kitchen window at an unmoving pile of familiar grey fur sprawled in our neighbor’s yard. Her positioning and stillness left no room to wonder if she was going to make it. Her body was right across from the colorful hearts and arrows I’d drawn. Our new outside cat wasn’t going to help manage the rodent population anymore.

My husband pointed to the white car with blinking hazards, “That was the person moving her. I hope they are calling someone. Did she have tags?” I didn’t remember.

Numbed I went back to my computer and when my daughter asked what was going on I said, “I don’t want to tell you.” I kept working and my daughter went upstairs to find her dad. I held myself together until her little arms wrapped around my neck and she said, “I’m so sorry mom.” Only then did I cry. I cried for the pets, for the owners, for the kids that witnessed a car hit a dog on what was supposed to be a magical day, and for my daughter who would have been “sad if it was a cat” the day before. When I was done, she sobbed. “Mom, animals do so much for us. Why do we run them over?” All I could say was, “I don’t know, kiddo.”

I glimpsed the grey cat’s body across the street while I made dinner. When I noticed my daughter crying while staring out the window I paused. We hugged and she moved on. When dinner was finished I looked and even in the dark I could see that the remains of the outside cat were gone. “Mom, do you think an animal got her, or did her owners find her?”

“I don’t know.”

Bittersweeter

On November 10, 2015January 30, 2016 By aftheadIn stories28 Comments

Dear Sneaker Squeaker,

Today I got a terrible, but not unexpected phone call. It was the shelter letting me know that your heart murmur wasn’t just a murmur, but heart failure. When they took your chest x-ray, nothing was right. Your heart wasn’t right. Your lungs were full of fluid. At 3 months old you had reached the end of your life.

I always thought that something wasn’t right with you. Your meow was strangled and squeaky, thus your name. You panted at odd times. Your eyes never quite opened. I had hoped it wasn’t a terminal “not right,” but it was. The news was a blow to my already bruised and battered heart.

When we took you from the shelter you were so tiny and so sick. I would work on the computer with you in my jacket close to my heart. I was committed to you even though I wanted to keep my distance. I didn’t think you’d make it through the first week. I ran steaming water in the shower and sat with you in the kitten spa to try to make you well, and it worked. Yesterday you weighed enough and were healthy enough to go in and get adopted, or so thought my untrained eye.

I knew when I saw messages from the shelter that you were sick. I hoped it was a “we need you to foster him a few more weeks” sick, but it wasn’t. When I called and they told me the horrible news, I wept. When they asked if I wanted to come in and say goodbye I paused, and then said “No.” I had said my goodbyes the day before. I had kissed your soft fur and told you I loved you. I couldn’t do any better than that.

I loved your brown and black stripes that had started to grow down your back like a monochromatic skunk. I love the trusting way you flopped down when you sat on anyone’s lap, certain that they would support you wherever you landed. I loved how you would play with your sister and the big cat. I loved your sweet purr, a whisper of your sisters big engine. Because no relationship is perfect, I need to acknowledge that I didn’t love how you peed all over the house, but that flaw wasn’t enough to keep me from loving you completely.

I had hopes for your forever home, but it turns out I was your forever home. Your forever was 13 short weeks. I loved having you here, and I know you loved being here. Thank you for sharing your life with us. I hope you and your three siblings are somewhere sharing a sunbeam together. Know that part of my heart is still with you.

With deepest affection,

Johanna

P.S. I do want you to know that when I heard you were dying I adopted your sister. I hope you don’t mind, but I needed some joy after so much loss. The sadness was overwhelming. Her whole name is now Adventure Sneaker-Squeaker Blackie Tiny No-Name as a tribute to you and your brothers and sisters. It’s a big name for her, but I think she can carry it. We love you always!

Fostering Kittens is Humbling

On November 3, 2015 By aftheadIn Uncategorized10 Comments

We are days away from the end of our kitten fostering adventure. Two months ago I picked up three kittens from the Denver Dumb Friends League. Of our original three we have one left, and ended up fostering one additional litter mate when his sister died in the shelter. Five kittens were born together, and this week two kittens will go back to the shelter to find their forever homes. The experience has been humbling, sad, and full of love and joy. These fragile creatures are so tiny, yet so big in our hearts. Reflecting back on the experience, we have learned so much.

The Sorrows

Stray kittens have a rough start at life. In the family of five kittens three died. One of the living had a bacterial infection and the other had a parasite and both diseases threatened their lifes. I learned how to give IV fluids, antibiotics, immunizations, and anti-parasitic medicines. If my job goes south I have many qualifications of a vet tech now.
Even with all my dedication, hard work, care, and the wonders of modern medicine accidents still happen and kittens still die. There is a very, very good reason that they stress keeping your toilet seats down when fostering kittens. Of all the life lessons I hoped our family would learn from this, I never hoped to learn that one. Life is fragile. Never doubt it.
When you tell your daughter that the kitten drowning is “family business” she will still tell her friends, who will tell their friends, who will tell their parents, who will ask you point blank at awkward times if a “kitten really drowned in your toilet.” They are judging you, but you don’t need to judge yourself again. Horrible things happen and people who don’t risk taking care of the sick and weak will never have to answer such questions.
The animal foster community is amazing. The foster coordinators who work at the shelter saw me at my worst many times. They were always loving, took my concerns seriously, and gave the best care to the kittens. The other volunteers and foster parents were a resource that this new foster parent drew on daily. Once we were over the hump and the kittens were healthy and growing, the community rejoiced with me.

The Joys

Our kittens were technology wizards. They quickly learned that heat comes out of laptops and modems and always found the warmest place to sit.
Kittens do not make good bookmarks. They are too lumpy.
Anytime you put something on your head that a kitten hasn’t seen before – earrings; hats, sunglasses, glasses – those objects must be explored and tasted.
If you are not a good housekeeper a kitten will reveal every bookcase that hasn’t been dusted under, refrigerator coil that needs vacuuming, and errant spiderweb in your house. They will clean these areas for you, and then you will clean the kitten.
Baby kittens do not have hair on their bellies at first. This makes kittens attractive from the top, but unattractive when rotated 180 degrees.
After 7 weeks of hesitant interactions kittens really taste good.
There is only room in any sunbeam for one kitten, regardless of the size of the sunbeam.
Big eyes help kittens get away with a host of transgressions.

We’ve decided that these are not our cats, and giving them back is going to break our hearts for the hundredth time. When they leave us I hope they find love, patience, a big cat to play with and a bad housekeeper to love them. If you ever find yourself in need of a new pet, I encourage you to adopt from a shelter. You never know the kind of love that may come with your new pet.

My Soul is Tired

On September 25, 2015September 25, 2015 By aftheadIn Uncategorized10 Comments

Eighteen days ago my world turned upside down. I figured it would be no big deal to bring tiny kittens into my house and foster them. I’d feed them, clean their litter box, give them fresh water and continue on with my life as normal. No big deal.

Wrong.

Three dead kittens later, eye drops, antibiotics, steam showers, and subcutaneous fluids have eaten up every spare moment I have and several spare moments that I don’t have. What the heck was I thinking? The care of these kittens has not just drained my energy, it has drained my soul, and this is a problem.

It’s a problem because tomorrow is the day. It’s the day I have planned for eight weeks. The day to break open my novel and read it for the first time. I should be excited and jittery, but I’m exhausted. My wonder has gone the way of dead kittens, and that is not a happy place.

Do I seize the time I’ve carved for myself and read? Do I wait for the next free moment, even if it means waiting until November?

Fostering was supposed to be fun and a great life experience. Who knew these tiny cats were so fragile? I haven’t felt this raw since the pediatrician uttered the words “failure to thrive” over my tiny daughter’s body. I was not a good mother to a newborn human. I am not a good mother to cat newborns either. They consume every ounce of me, these tiny new beings. I give more than I have and then I give more.

Tomorrow. Do I read? Do I not? This too is supposed to be fun. The anticipation of the first read. The triumph or the tragedy when the last page is turned.

What to do….

A Quiet Frustrated Rant

On July 27, 2015 By aftheadIn Uncategorized7 Comments

Open any news site today and you’ll see reports on two different theater shootings. The Holmes trial is in the sentencing phase, just miles from where I live. The Houser shooting happened less than a week ago. These two events have me ranting in a quiet anguished way. Three factors make these events personal to me: proximity, gun control, and mental health.

Proximity:

July 19, 2012 I flew home from a work trip. It was late. I drove home, and from the highway I could see the Aurora movie theater where less than three hours later James Holmes would open fire during The Dark Knight Rises. I was right there. Holmes could have passed me on the road as he made his way to start killing.

This February my family and I stopped at a great restaurant in Lafayette, GA while driving from New Orleans to Houston on Mardi Gras Day. I made the mistake of ordering barbecued shrimp, forgetting that they come with the heads still intact. After beheading my lunch I enjoyed my meal just blocks from where John Houser opened fire in a movie theater and killed two women and himself on July 23, 2015.

There is something about proximity that makes horror real. I was there. I can picture both of these places. I have swam in meets at Arapahoe High School and have friends who went to Columbine. It makes me wonder, are each of us one step away from knowing a victim or knowing a shooter?

Gun Control:

I want there to be an easy solution to this problem. I want some politician to stand up and say, “That’s it! No more guns in this country, at all, ever.” Except I don’t. I am solidly torn on gun control. I grew up with guns in my house. I learned how to shoot, I learned to respect guns, and I fondly remember the hours I spent watching my dad and grandpa reload after target practice. I enjoyed target practice. If I walked into a gun shop today the smell of it would bring back happy memories.

My dad hunted. As a child hunting put meat on his family’s table. I don’t hunt and never have, but I can tell you that nothing will teach you to respect a weapon like watching your uncle and dad gut and skin a deer they have killed. I have never questioned what a gun can do to a living creature. I don’t like play guns. We weren’t allowed to watch violent movies or play violent video games as kids. We were taught to respect guns to the point that I still feel a little weird pointing a Nerf water gun at my daughter and spraying her.

There are people who believe they need guns for personal protection. There are so many guns out there already that we can’t make them go away. I can’t round up every kid in the country and teach them the power of a gun, install new morals, and make them respect weapons. The problem seems insurmountable especially when there seems to be no middle ground.

Mental Illness:

The other thing Holmes and Houser had in common was a history of mental illness. So there should be an easy solution there. We just need to take care of the mentally ill in this country and we won’t have anymore mass shootings. Well, let me tell that it is not an easy problem to solve either. I’ve got close personal experience with mental illness in my family: depression and bipolar disorder have wreaked havoc on the Aftheads and extended Aftheads. I can tell you that even when mentally ill people want help it can be next to impossible for them to get it, or for their families to get it for them. There aren’t enough doctors, there is horrible stigma, the meds are expensive and can make people worse instead of better.

I’m obsessed with the news filtering in about Houser because it is all so true. I’m not surprised by the loophole in the law that allowed him to buy a gun. The rights of mentally ill people are slippery. Even if someone is a danger to themselves and others, there is a limit to what you can do to get them help. In the end, they are people and you can’t just go around limiting people’s rights, even if the people who love them are begging for help. I’m not surprised by his brother’s comments that the shooting wasn’t a surprise, and his words resonate with a truth that only some unlucky families get to experience. The kind of sick his brother was will rip apart families for a lifetime. I’ve seen it happen. Eventually you have to pick between your own life, your own family, your own safety and caring for the guy who just might end up being a shooter. With little to no help, no support, and no power what is a family to do? The problem is so big it seems hopeless.

The Solution:

This is a hard problem, and you do not make hard problems go away by ignoring them or doing nothing. I know that. We all know that. So, we have to start a conversation that’s going to make everyone uncomfortable. We are going to have to talk about guns killing people and we might slip up and talk about crazy people and we might end up with a solution that limits some rights. This will all piss people off, but isn’t it okay to piss people off to make sure that there is never again a room of dead first graders? (I’ll admit, as the mom of a daughter who just graduated first grade Sandy Hook is a horror story has a closer proximity than I can even comprehend.)

My favorite article about this topic is from one of my favorite authors, Stephen King. It’s called Guns, and it’s worth the $0.99 to read it on your Kindle or $2.99 to listen to on Audible. I have both versions. Know that if you buy it you are supporting the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence. You might not be into such a charity, or Stephen King, so I’ll highlight his three measures to curb gun violence:

“Comprehensive and universal background checks.

Ban the sale of clips and magazines containing more than ten rounds.

Ban the sale of assault weapons.”

These seem so reasonable to me, and such a good start. Yes, people can still die if you have a gun that has a clip that holds ten rounds, but Holmes couldn’t have done what he did without assault weapons. Sure, people can still steal guns or buy guns for their family members, but Houser couldn’t have bought a gun with stricter background checks. King doesn’t provide a road-map for solving the mental health issues in this country, but he does ensure that when someone has a history of going to dark places they can’t buy weapons. That’s a start and we need a start. If there is a chance that someone is going to use a gun to kill another human being, isn’t it worth it to limit that freedom to make sure that we don’t end up being a country where every single person either knows a shooter or a victim? Can we start taking some steps to solve the hard problem before the next tragedy?

The Death of a Matriarch

On January 15, 2015January 15, 2015 By aftheadIn Uncategorized1 Comment

I was looking through my closet tonight trying to decide what I’m going to wear to the funeral this weekend. l have a hard and fast rule that I only wear things to a funeral that I am willing to never wear again on the off-chance that it becomes “the dress/pants/sweater I wore to Emily’s funeral”.

Funerals make me sad, and that’s hard as part of my husband’s family. They are quiet-solemn sad people. I am a blubbering red-swollen-face sad person who blows her nose, a lot, and they tend to avoid me at funerals. I do acknowledge that in this situation, my awkward fear of sobbing in front of them is nothing compared to their pain. Emily was their matriarch: mother of four, grandmother to seven, great-grandmother to my daughter and three others with three more great-grandchildren on the way. Her 95 years on this planet were full of learning, creativity and love.

Emily was an inspirational, story-telling, life-loving matriarch. I am jealous of my husband, and my in-laws as I see the Facebooked and e-mailed pictures of Emily. In one, she is pulling her grandkids on a sled dressed like Jackie O. In another, she has two kids on her back playing horse. My husband is unusually sentimental when he talks about his summers with Emily: eating fudge swirl ice cream and sugared cereals. She loved her family ferociously and they loved her.

I didn’t know her like they knew her. Our relationship was focused in short intense visits with my husband where we would sit and talk with her for hours. She awed me with her experiences every time I saw her. I remember clearly the day I said to her, with the hubris of a 21st century mother, “I just don’t know how you did it, having four kids.” She replied, “We didn’t have any way to stop them from coming.” Her stories of boiling diapers and feeding two babies with one bottle – because when you can’t stop pregnancy the babies come close – they weren’t just nostalgic stories: they were her life. Her stories about boarding with a family and cleaning their house so she could go to college to be a math teacher put in perspective how much she valued education and what she had to sacrifice to do what I took for granted.

On Saturday I will go and mourn with Emily’s friends and family, and celebrate her life and how she enriched our lives. I will shamelessly cry for her family and what they have lost. I will cry for the end of her stories. I will bring extra tissues in case this time the loss is great enough to open other’s flood-gates. Today though, I write to remember her and to bring her essence to a few more people, because not long ago she said to me that I should be a writer. While I never told her about my novel or my new writing avocation, her words inspire. Today I write a little of her story to thank her for the extra confidence she gave me, because I never thanked her in person.

Now I’ll go pack my favorite grey sweater and black boots for the funeral, because remembering Emily often might be an okay thing.