January 21, 2018

A beloved cat, a car, the vet ICU, brave children and husband, tired

January 21, 2018/ Em-i-lis

I slept fitfully last night. The March was great in many ways, but it was emotional too. There is so much work to be done. And then there are tidbits like this:

The White House Changes Its Comment Line Message to Blame Democrats For the Shutdown
and
A new Trump ad calls Democrats complicit in all murders perpetrated by illegal immigrants.

Both are utterly deplorable and disgraceful and sick. And it's all a lot to process.

In any case, I'd finally settled in to some sort of slumber when I awoke with a start to Tom yelling, "Oh NO!" I sat up, heard Ol run by, asked him where Tom was, and we both raced downstairs. I heard a terrible sound of an animal in terrible pain, and then saw Tom round the corner with a bloody Nutmeg wrapped in a bloody blanket in his arms.

He had been hit by a car. Thankfully, the driver had stopped and stayed with Nut while a neighbor who knew where Nut lived ran to get us. I am so thankful for the kindness and honesty of near-strangers. Truly, he'd have died alone and in the street had they not helped.

Jack was still asleep, and we had no time to wake him (think hibernating bear), so we jumped in the car and raced to the veterinary ER nearby. As an aside, I am beyond grateful that there is an excellent 24-7 vet ER near us. Oliver was wearing Christmas jammies, Tom was in his pjs and had no shoes on (still clutching Nutmeg as he bled and mewed), and none of us had brushed teeth. Nutmeg was struggling to breathe.

Nutmeg was taken into the ICU immediately. After a while, the doctor emerged and kindly attempted to prepare us to lose him. His head had taken the brunt of the hit, his pupils were dilated and his eyes were going in different directions, he'd lost a rear claw, dirt and skid marks were everywhere, his face was swollen, the front of his nose was scraped off, his jaw was broken and dislocated and an incisor was gone, and he continued to struggle to breathe.

Tom sank to the floor and ultimately had to lie down. He was drenched in sweat. Oliver was pinned to my lap, and I was crying silently. We were all crying. The doctor said they would get Nutmeg as comfortable as possible and then take X-rays to assess his internal organs and any damage to them. Tom steadied himself and went home to get Jack and put on shoes.

In that moment, I looked at my husband -sweaty, pajamas splattered with blood, shoeless- and I thought, marriage is awfully hard but you sure married a good man. A solid man. A man who will scoop his very injured cat from the street and not even think to change out of his pajamas or put on shoes before going to the vet, who cries with you and your children and holds you all tight, and who continues to assert that your cat will make it through.

All of us were shocked, but Nutmeg's lungs looked ok, and his blood pressure improved. He was given lots of hardcore stuff like ketamine and tucked into an oxygen tank. I can't tell you how wrenching it was to see him, his jaw askew and his mouth unable to close, his face swollen and cut and bloody, IVs and monitors in three of his paws. The boys were so brave.

Oliver and I went back to visit him this afternoon, and I will go again tomorrow whenever his surgery and recovery allows me to. The vet staff said he was an absolute champ and a flirt and a darling love who they expect to survive and heal. The house feels empty and quiet tonight, and I keep looking for him.

I am so very grateful. We all are. It's incredible the love we can feel for animals, how much they enrich and bring joy to our lives. Hug your loved ones, human and furry, and be kind! It makes such a difference.

March 31, 2016

"If he's happier..."

March 31, 2016/ Em-i-lis

Oliver had just finished his cinnamon toast and started in on his scrambled eggs when he innocently asked, "When is Percy coming home, Mama?"

Bleary-eyed from nausea and a fitful night of sleep, I fumbled briefly and paused.

Jack won’t be home until tomorrow; is it wrong to tell Ol first? Should I wait for Tom? Oh, how I have been dreading this, but oh, how I want to cross this threshold.

I sipped my tea and glanced at my darling boy, wearing only super hero undies and smiling as he speared egg with a Lego spork he outgrew years ago. I took a deep breath, put my tea gently on a coaster, and said, “Sweetheart, Percy is so happy with Suzanne. Do you know that she makes him meatloaf every day and that they sleep together?”

I watched as the brightly-colored utensil arced slowly toward Ol’s plate and felt my heart break as my boy started to understand where I was going with my lengthy answer.

“Suzanne is very happy too, Ol. Her pugs died last year, and she has been lonely for a dog to love. Percy is lucky to get to live with Suzanne.”

I watched as the spork landed on the china plate dusted with cinnamon sugar and a rapidly chilling yellow-orange mound. I saw my boy’s eyes fill with worry and the first tears, watched him take a deep breath and bravely ask, “Is Percy going to stay there, Mama?”

“Yes, precious. He is. Daddy and I feel it is the best thing for him. We couldn’t love and care for Percy like he needed and deserved, but Suzanne can.”

My arms opened as Ol scurried around the table to my lap. He and I always feel so in sync. Like when we’re walking and our hands find and clasp each other’s tightly, even when our eyes are on the path ahead or the sky above.

“But why, Mama? Why? I do not think this is the best decision. I love Percy and I want him here.” His tears wet my pajama shirt, and I struggled to hold him in a way that didn’t allow his sweet tush to feel like a pair of pile drivers into my thighs. Vomiting for hours really screws with your muscles.

Neither Jack nor Oliver has ever known life without Percy. I forget that sometimes; that Percy came first, and the boys after. The kids never seemed terribly connected to Percy, didn’t hang on or try to sleep with him, didn’t talk to him in the ways some children do with their pets. And so while I knew they would be sad, I wasn’t sure how that anguish would show itself.

Ol and I sat together for a long while. He cried and snuffled, and I kissed and comforted. And then I gently reminded him about school and his field trip and suggested we get dressed. I emailed his teachers and was lucky to find that a dear friend was Ol’s group chaperone today; loving eyes were on him.

At pick-up this afternoon, he seemed buoyant, and I took him for a frozen yogurt date. I let him get an absurd amount of toppings, hoping some extra sweet would ease whatever pain might be coursing under his beautiful surface. One of his friends was there, with her grandmother and little brother, and Ol whispered, “Mama, would it be nice if I asked them to come sit with us?”

“Oh, yes, sweetheart, that is a fabulous, kind gesture.” And so he did, and we enjoyed their company, and I smiled upon my little boy who is both simple and complex, young and old, placid and feisty.

Afterwards, as we pulled up into our driveway, I heard Ol’s voice from the backseat. “I have so many happy memories with Percy, Mama. It didn’t make sense to me this morning, your decision, but it makes sense now. If he’s happier…” As he trailed off, I glanced in the rearview mirror, dumbstruck by what a seven-year-old had just said.

We got out of the car, and I knelt on the ground and pulled Ol to me. “Oliver, you are an amazing child, and I am lucky to be your mother.” And for the second time today, we just stayed there, as if a mother-child sculpture cast in an ephemeral moment but one that could represent so many of the small moments mothers and children share.

There are times that motherhood is the opposite of this memorable, moving bliss; times I very nearly hate it and all it demands and asks and takes; times in which I am so fatigued that I’m not sure I’ll be able to give for another hour, another day; times in which I miss having time.

But too there are experiences like those I had today, where in a child I see such courage and wisdom, where in that child’s understanding of an event I am able to better understand my own understanding of that same thing.

Our brief exchange in the driveway this afternoon felt profound. I can’t explain it better than that. A little boy received some sad, surprising news, carried it with him and processed it all while visiting the National Portrait Gallery and being fully present there. All while enjoying his friends and recess and our fro-yo date. All while acting chivalrously too.

The tears came again tonight, as they so often do when darkness and tired seep in. I held him tight and answered his questions and softly but firmly said that the decision was final. We turned on an audiobook, and before I could blink, he was immersed in the science mystery Einstein Anderson had begun to solve.

“Goodnight, Ol. I will come check on you later. I love you so much.”
“Goodnight, Mama. I love you too. I hope you feel better soon.”
~~~
This post is inspired by:
my need to write and remember this day with Ol;
this week's Finish the Sentence Friday prompt "The things I've seen this morning...", hosted by Kristi Campbell and Leanne Russell;
and my 40 in Forty series. Today's bit of wisdom: listen to some of that which comes from the mouths of babes.