We love you,
but you may not live as long
as some of the rest of us.
I don't think anyone can fix that.
Read more,
deeper in this article.
A special welcome
to anyone new to The Grieving Room.
We meet every Monday evening.
Whether your loss is recent,
or many years ago;
whether you've lost a person,
or a pet;
or even if the person you're "mourning" is still alive,
("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time),
you can come to this diary
and say
whatever you need to say.
Unlike a private journal,
here,
you know:
your words are read by people who share your values
and have been through their own hell.
There's no need to pretty it up
or tone it down.
It just is.
.....and then eat pie.
Here is the link to all the previous The Grieving Room diaries:
http://www.dailykos.com/...
I'll tell you about the zombie cat first,
then the smokers.
We have a yellow tabby cat,
named Fuzz Lightyear.
He came to our home,
a gift from a co-worker
of my brother-in-law,
Michael.
He was just a little bigger than a kitten,
when he first came here.
Tonia and I
took over the duties
of feeding him,
setting up a litter box,
etc.
He apparently did not spend enough time
with his mother
to learn to hold back the claws
when making friendly gestures,
so he often drew blood,
from Tonia and I,
when he was trying to show
affection.
We made him an outdoor cat.
For a while,
he ate the same Dog Chow
I was feeding the dogs.
As the days were getting colder,
he once refused to eat his dog food,
for 24 hours.
So,
we started buying him cat food,
and he loved it.
When it rains,
or is extra cold,
I'm forced to carry the three dogs,
one by one,
into the house,
into a large pet taxi,
setting in the kitchen.
On my way back and forth,
the cat trips me up,
getting right in my path,
to force me to feed him,
and give him liquid water,
when his water dish is frozen over.
We started seeing a large, grey cat,
a feral cat we've seen prowling around before,
that same cat,
eating our cat food,
drinking our water,
as our cat sat by,
and watched.
Apparently,
a female cat.
Our cat was feeding his girlfriend.
Anyway,
our cat was getting fatter
and furrier,
looking healthy and content,
in spite of the colder and colder weather.
Then,
something happened:
he showed up with something on his chin,
something that looked dark and wet.
There was more of the something,
on his tail,
and on his feet.
Was he getting into
leaking sewage
in our crawl space,
or that of another house?
It smells like sewage,
or something rotten and nasty.
Cats are usually so clean.
At the same time
as the dark, wet slime
appeared on his chin,
he started acting ill.
His friend stopped coming around.
He stopped eating.
He stopped drinking water.
He was looking like a zombie cat,
a cat I could not help.
This morning was the coldest time
in a long time,
and I thought he would die of hypothermia,
I thought he would freeze,
and we would bury him,
and be done with trying to help him,
when we don't have the time,
energy,
or money to pay a veterinarian,
to fix the cat.
We can't fix the world.
Besides,
there are many feral cats,
here in Wichita,
either dealing with the cold,
or dying,
as we speak.
We can't save them all.
However.
When I got home from work last night,
around midnight,
he was not frozen,
he was not dead.
He came walking to my car,
asking for more help.
I took the three dogs out,
so they could pee and poo,
eat and drink.
I gave the cat more food and water.
He drank some water.
That gave me hope.
I brought him inside.
It was zero degrees,
wind chill 15 below.
It was so fucking cold.
He spent the night
in the pet taxi
with the two dogs.
They had trouble for a while,
then they all went to sleep.
I took them out in the morning,
then,
when I brought them back in,
the dogs were too lively,
so I put the cat
in a plastic tote,
in the kitchen,
next to a heater,
with a heavy box on top,
so he can't climb out.
He's there now,
as I write this.
It's so cold.
I just want to spend
the rest of my life
in our warm, king-sized bed,
with our cotton flannel sheets,
that I bought at my Walmart workplace,
and quilts on top,
Tonia and I together.
I don't want to deal with
the chores of life.
Trying to help zombie cats.
Trying to console humans.
But it's in the
Bible,
visit the sick.
I'm a non-believer,
but I like the Bible;
it's like the movie,
Groundhog day.
The lesson is,
do what you can
for others.
Now for the smokers
in my life.
My wife's brother,
Michael,
is a smoker,
but he's still young,
he's still healthy.
My younger brother,
Brent,
and his wife,
Briggitte,
are smokers,
but no news is good news,
so far,
regarding their health.
One of my co-workers,
a man I worked with
for six years,
was born the same year as my brother,
is the same age as my
younger brother,
55 years old.
His name is Tom.
He worked very hard,
for six years,
unloading the trucks,
lifting the boxes,
out of the truck,
setting the boxes,
large and small,
heavy and light,
one by one,
on the steel roller wheels,
on a gentle slope,
and sliding them into the big back room,
where the rest of us
picked up each box,
and placed it on the right pallet.
Tom got sick recently,
he was home sick,
for a long time,
and when the news filtered back to us,
we heard
he has four kinds of cancer,
and restricted arteries.
He's not coming back to work.
He's dying.
He'll be dead in a few months.
I looked it up,
and, yes,
smoking can cause
many other kinds of cancer,
not just lung cancer.
Tom always liked me,
we looked at our duties at Walmart
in the same way:
make sure the items get put
where they belong;
if either of us
saw a batch of rugs or mirrors
off to the side,
in the back room,
we were eager to get them out,
out to the sales floor.
He liked the way I stack the boxes
on the pallets;
I stack them so they don't fall.
We have great respect,
and love,
for each other.
But he's a smoker,
and now he's dying,
soon.
Pre-grief.
I have two sisters
who aren't smokers,
and,
even though they are a few years older than I,
they are tough and smart,
they know how to make things work,
and stay healthy,
so they stand a good chance
of living longer than me.
I will likely die of cancer
at the age of about 85.
They will live to the age of ninety,
at least.
But my oldest sister,
Adonna,
is a smoker.
She's about to turn 66 years old.
One of my healthy sisters,
Laura,
called me,
just before Christmas,
to give me the news.
She has cancer,
in her liver,
and her kidneys.
Remember,
I looked it up,
and smoking can cause
many types of cancer.
Now,
Tonia and I need to visit my sister,
Adonna,
soon.
Pre-grief.
I want to stay in bed.
But I must do
what I must do,
to interact
in whatever way I must.
Interact with the zombie cat.
Interact with the smokers,
my sister,
my brother,
my sister-in-law.
Thanks for reading.
I'm leaving these quotes in,
from the last time I posted here:
Work like you don't need the money.
Love like you've never been hurt.
Dance like nobody's watching.
Satchel Paige
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/...
Here's my latest great poem,
the only one I've put in a quote box lately,
and formally called a poem:
Life Poem
We do what we can
with what we've got.
Our life is only that.
We stand,
at the end of the day.
We see some respect from a few,
our friends.
We smile for a moment.
And then we're gone.
Thanks for reading.
The comment thread
is an open thread,
for you to use,
to pour out your heart,
reveal your pain.
It usually helps
to write it out,
and crying is healthy.
So,
don't hold back.
.......and then eat pie.