The Return To Innocence

Back pain back pain back pain backpain backpain backpain NNNGGHH.
It's the lumbar area, leading to sciatica down both legs. Of course, you know? I've got an appointment with my new orthopedist on January sixth, and we're going to get be fitted for true customized orthotics... although I am going to insist they be cushioned, if not highly comfortable. The ones I had as a teenager actually made my feet hurt whilst walking. I still have the left one from those days. It is not comfortable. I understand practicality and function, but still.
Nnngh. Back, hips, legs, knees, ankles. Come on, drugs, work faster.

When we came home from grocery shopping, I looked up at the stairs and whispered, "Mama's home, Rose." I had meant it merely for her memory, for her spirit that now lived in the house, free to leave the clay statue that was a vessel, as Adam had not bound her to it. Adam said, "She's still gone, sweetheart." And I knew, and I reminded him that it was just... oh, I couldn't even find the words. It was just for her ghost. But he knew. We held each other and he knew.

My friends have cried for me, I think, more than I've cried for myself. I will have pockets of moments in which I will break down in gasping sobs, but they are so quick and triggered. A brush that had moved through her fur while I was comforting her in her lethargy, before I understood what was really happening, tufts of fur clinging to the bristles that I may not remove for a while. My pillow, and the soft bean-bag type pillow behind it that served as a general cat pillow but which was generally used by Rose especially in the mornings. A bag of Greenies treats that I realized I no longer had to move to a high place where Rose couldn't grab it and tear into it. Sitting in this desk chair, now, and knowing that Rose will never jump onto my lap and rub her cheeks over my mouth. She will not curl up on the floor, waiting for me to announce that Mama is going to bed so she can lead me there and see me to sleep. Oh. Yes, I'm in tears now. Oh, babygirl. Luna is on my lap now, kissing me, nuzzling. In her own Luna way.

We will be adopting another cat. Yes. It may be sooner than anyone thinks. I've already dreamed of her. I've already named her. I already know her age range. But... you know, someones through the grief and the numbness and the deep deep shock and the horror of physical death, we know deep deep inside that even if it takes only a week or two to get another pet, it is nothing like a replacement. It just means that the throbbing empty hollow burning in our hearts might start to heal, just a little. Luna is still my heart and soul, my queen and my moon goddess, my precious love. Jupiter is still my beautiful big boy, my chatty feline child who brightens my day just by smiling. The new kitten, the new young cat, will never be Rose. She will be herself.
Rose is never coming back, not even in a new incarnation. I'm not even sure I want that; it might hurt too deeply. Rose herself was already the reincarnation of Adam's patchwork dog, Ralph. Rose spent five glorious years learning to love and be loved. In Buddhism, that is a vital thing. All animals understand this. It is slightly Jainist. Adam and I, in our eclectic paganism, are mildly Buddhist in various, often conflicting, ways. It is not possible for us to be fully Buddhist in any way, but eclecticism is a wide arena.

"Life is a journey.
Death is a return to earth.
The universe is like an inn.
The passing years are like dust.
Regard this phantom world
As a star at dawn, a bubble in a stream,
A flash of lightning in a summer cloud,
A flickering lamp - a phantom - and a dream"

Since I am still in shock, I feel like I'm moving through the Kubler-Ross stages of grief completely out of order. I've accepted that Rose is dead and I am deeply depressed. While I held her waiting for Adam, I knew she was dying and I was already angry and bargaining. When the vet said she was critical, I accepted and realized she was probably going to die. When she coded and they couldn't revive her, I accepted and understood, then went right on to bargaining again, blaming myself and how I just kept waiting. It became anger, wondering how the fuck a five-year old cat with a clean bill of health could suddenly present with congestive heart failure and die so quickly. I became angry that we hadn't figured it might be genetic. I became depressed that I couldn't have known. I still blamed myself for not finding a way to take her to the clinic sooner.
When we held her body, I went through acceptance and depression again, followed by deep gratefulness that at least she waited until Adam came home, that Adam got to hold her, that she knew how much we loved her. Depression again. Acceptance.
No denial. Slight isolation.
I updated Facebook right there in the clinic's comfort room, since in this age of instant communication it was much faster than a sobbing phone chain. We finished holding Rose and signed the private cremation form. We walked to the car. My best friend Beca called and all I could hear was her screams, and I cried. She and her husband James came over with food: Whole rotisserie chickens that I ripped into because I hadn't eaten all day. Alcohol because it helped dull the pain. Being a doctor, she commanded that I keep taking Klonopin, as well as baclofen, two to three times a day just to keep my mind and body from shattering.
I realized how desperately I needed them there, and she knew it, and late that night she brought me to bed, fed me my drugs, and climbed into bed with me. Adam was downstairs on the couch with James.
I clung to my plushie ginger tabby Haiku all night. Beca and James left early this morning, and Adam came up to sleep with me. I woke up and instinctively reached behind my head to the soft pillow where Rose would be sprawled out, and I made a soft whimper of intense pain, because she wasn't there.
And Jupiter has been meowing, softly. Meowing and meowing. I don't know how much he understands yet. Luna has been so quiet, but always there, always ready for a hug. It's only been a day. I've only shed a few tears. The real grieving hasn't begun.
People are gently discussing taking me across the street to the new shelter on Solstice or after Christmas, to let me adopt a cat. Others have suggested waiting a few months. I cannot wait. Because I don't believe in waiting for too long. My heart cannot take it. I cannot spent months mourning and empty when a pet dies, otherwise I may lose my mind. See... After Tuesday died in November 2006, I spent four agonizing months with a growing, burning, echoing hole inside me, until I begged Adam to take me to the old shelter on Rothgeb just to look, just to see... and that was where Luna stole my heart and filled my soul. And one year later, my other best friend Charlotte begged us to come see her former coworker's new litter of five female gingers, and Adam picked up one, looked into those wide bright sunny eyes, and announced she was coming home. And Rose took our hearts and ran.
I never expected the baby of the family to be the first to die.
I think we will always be a three-cat house now.
I want and do not want isolation. I don't want platitudes. I am completely fine with "I'm so sorry for your loss" - as "sorry" is shorthand for "sorrowful" and it helps me to know that others feel the loss and mourn with me. But I am depressed. And I don't know what to say.
We have been getting so many phone calls and messages.
She was only five years old. I guess it was genetic. She was so young.

Now, her soul resides in the gold-cream clay sculpture Adam had made in her likeness months ago. Adam absorbed her energy, stored it, released it, and made sure she would stay with us.









The house of Rose's soul.
Oh sweet Bast, please love Rose and care for her. Give her sweet cuddles and nuzzles and kisses. And give her as many treats as she wants.
With Adam Paul, the sculptor.

A song for Rose kitten.

***
Maybe I didn't pet you
Quite as good as I should have.
Maybe I didn't brush you
Quite as often as I should have, oh.
Little treats I could have found and gave
I just never remembered the time
You were always on my lap
You were always on my lap

Tell me that your sweet paws haven't dug in
Give me, give me one more chance to stand up
To stop you mashy pawing, pawing.
Maybe I didn't hug you
All those interrupting times
And I guess I never told you
I'm still happy that you're mine.
If I made you feel second best,
Kitty, I'm sorry I call the other cat my precious.

You were always on my lap
You were always on my lap

Now please get down off my lap
Now please get down off my lap

You are always on my bed
You are always on my bed.
***

Fibromyalgia flare-up again. Sciatica flare-up again. Tension headache again. I was doing so well.

Cats have been comforting. Last night, Luna stole my spot in bed when I'd gone to the bathroom. After trying to stare her down, I concluded that she wanted me to lay toward Adam. When I pulled up the covers, she scuttled under them and pressed up against my legs, purring. It was fantastic. Adam, Luna, and I slept all spooned together all night.

Rose delighted and frustrated us this evening with her adorably persistent insistence that neither human leave the couch while she was on it. She covered us in kisses and purrs until she concluded that she had given us enough love.
She is now lying on Adam's chest while he plays a video game. My human, she says. Mine.
No, honey. Mine. I got there first.

Of course it did not last.
Back to my normal.
It hurts, and my left submental lymph node is slightly swollen. This is common with fibromyalgia, honestly. Fevers, swollen lymph nodes, flu-like symptoms. Crazy, no? Adam is becoming fascinated with my immune system's activity.
Ow.
Dr. Romano, the chiropractor, has some theories. He will expand on them when I see him next.
Cerebral palsy is a multi-headed Hydra bitch, but so is fibromyalgia. Dozens of syndromes and symptoms piling upon each other until I lose track.
My muscles are shaky and spastic and shivering now. They burn and burn, but I expected that. I had to pay some sort of price, part of my brain thinks that, hah.
I will take a shower soon.
I am not even sleepy. This is another problem with fibromyalgia. I am tired, fatigued, exhausted, and awake. Time for passion flower and valerian. They tend to keep the nightmares back.
(My nightmares almost always include trying to run away from something. What chases me always changes.)

In completely random, superficial news: Cinema Secrets Ultimate Foundation in 601-18, Ben Nye Matte Foundation in Cine CE-3 Light Beige and and Shinsei SH-1 Fairest, Cory Cosmetics Cream Foundation in Whipped Cream and Sandy Beige, Earth's Beauty Cream Concealer in Light Beige. Gods, my skin tone is bizarre. So neutral that I can wear yellow beige and neutral beige and they both look good. Meh. Beige, beige, I am a chameleon. Half pure Italian, half mixed Romanian, Russian, Hungarian, German (Russian and German Jewish as well). Drugstore and department cosmetics can never match me truly.

Oh my gods, I wish we still had a digital camera. Adam is lying stretched out on the longer couch, and Rose is reclining on his chest, falling asleep. She is leaning her head against his chin, and she's purring quietly. It's beautiful and heart-stoppingly adorable. She still makes those really young baby kitten noises when we pet her.

Aww.
Rose has a new toy.
Adam bought a bunch of pipe cleaners in various colors, and Rose is having the time of her life. She's snagged a glittery silver one and is galloping around the living room with it in her mouth.
Also, I think she's singing.

I still hurt. But it's a little better.

So exhausted.
Struggling not to scream.
Too exhausted to scream.
Back muscles are still tight and spastic and driving me crazy.
At least the ADD symptoms are under control. (I have the daydreamer type.) Thank you, Gotu Kola and Ashwagandha.
I feel like my eyes have been scraped with sandpaper and sawdust. My brain, too.
Lovely feeling.
I hope my husband is having a better day than either of us did yesterday.

I have nothing else to say, so here is a macro of Rose, made by my husband.



(She's good at this)

*sniff*
My kitten smells like yellow cake.
Seriously.
*sniff*
(Without frosting.)

She's hanging out on my lap right now. I've realized that every time I snuggled her, I smelled yellow cake.

Adam says she smells like pine.

I've read posts on cat lover forums that talk about this. Some people say their cats smell like blueberry muffins, or wildflowers, or plain bagels.

Not every cat has a particular smell, apparently. I just sniffed Luna and Jupiter and I got nothing.
Wait. *sniffs again* No, wait. Luna smells like blueberry muffins and Jupiter smells like freshly turned earth.

Huh.

Fascinating.

*sniffs again*

Rose definitely smells like cake.

Adding this to the list of Stuff I Never Really Did Before: Having a small kitten curl up on my chest or shoulder and tuck her head under my chin -- and stay like that. Rose climbed up my leg, onto my lap, stretched up her little paws for a hug, then settled onto my breastbone, just above my right breast. If I was a bigger cup size, she'd have a pillow or bed. In any case she seemed incredibly comfortable. Made me feel like the Chinese emperor whose cat fell asleep on his sleeve, and rather than disturb the cat, the emperor cut off the sleeve. This required me to slouch down a bit, and I couldn't type like that. So I moved to the couch, and together we watched the last two episodes of season seven of the Simpsons. I carried her on my shoulder back to the table when my lower back started aching even through the hydroco/apap. She seems to prefer when her human remains perfectly still and silent. If you shift or speak, she mewls and gives you a look, and promptly burrows tighter under your chin.
I mean, my gods, this little beast is the most affectionate creature I've known. Beyond Luna, and I thought Luna was the friendliest. Rose wants to be snuggled constantly. She loves to curl up right under the chin, directly on the breastbone. She'll ask for hugs. Hugs, people. I swear she says Mama sometimes, or tries to.
She can sleep on my lap for hours. Not even Luna and Jupiter are lap cats to this extent.
I want every single one of my friends to come to my house -- not all at once -- so I can see how many people Rose cuddles with. I just gave her to Jason, who has a headache, because I believe cat cuddling can relieve pain.
Part of me wants to rename her Sunshine, mostly after the title character of one of my favorite urban fantasy novels. And because that's what she is, what she looks like, what she brings into our lives. Adam and I had considered it for a bit.

Dear friends list, please share similar stories of cats and kittens that have loved you so utterly. I love those stories.

Not going to talk about pain levels right now.
They're too high to measure, and I don't have the right words.

Instead, I'll mention that Rose slept in my lap for two hours before Adam came home. I had settled in one of the armchairs and she climbed onto the chair with me. She'd snuggle, shift, squeak, shift, snuggle. Occasionally she'd wake up, look at me, stretch up her little paws toward my chest, and say "MEW!" and then curl up in an even more adorable position, purring happily.
It was the best two hours I ever spent not moving.