Remembering Cleo

My beautiful girl.

I think I need a teddy bear. My sweet kitty, Cleo had to be put to sleep early Monday morning and I miss her like crazy. I keep hearing things and thinking I see her out of the corner of my eye.

In my mind, I know she's gone. But, whenever I start missing her, I automatically reach over to where her bed was next to me. And that's when I really miss her. So, I think if I had a super plush stuffed animal, I might feel better having something soft to pet whenever I need comfort. What really worries me is that I wonder if I might just carry it around all day.

To retrain myself, I've purposely been doing things I couldn't before. I leave the closet door open all night, piles of laundry on the carpet, and just now put my lunch plate on the floor. It's a reflex to resist all these things.

My, what big ears you have!

I would love to have another kitten, but I'm in major work/life reboot and not having a pet will make the transition easier (logistically, anyway). So as I launch into my second start on life, I know I can't take on the responsibility of a pet, but I sure would love to foster shelter pets temporarily. 

I write the following facts for the reader, because knowing them doesn't make it any easier on me, anyway. But telling the funny stories might.

Cleo had been sick on and off for a couple of weeks and had stopped eating, drinking, and pooping. She had an extremely tender spot in her abdomen, and had already experienced a lot of muscle loss. I couldn't afford to run the tests that might pinpoint her illness, and I wasn't going to keep her hanging on through months or years of continuous treatment. So let's call it cancer.

Cleo was 15 years old. Yep, that's getting up there for a cat. I got her when I first started teaching in Las Vegas. A cat show lady on the airplane once told me she thought we was part Egyptian Mau. She was the most gorgeous spotted tabby with a raccoon tail that I've ever seen. She was a big girl, and at her heaviest, my mom said she looked like a beaver. When I picked her up to go to the vet, she felt like a rag doll.

She loved only me. She tolerated a couple of people but actively hated everyone else. I knew I was doing the right thing when she didn't even hiss as they took her temperature at the vet. She was really practiced in the art of showing off all her teeth to friends, relatives, and strangers. People wanted to love her with her pretty eyes and baby kitten meow. I felt sorry for them, because it'd kill me if she wouldn't let me pick her up and love on her.

This is as close as Cleo got to enjoying the outdoors.

I don't think she was very smart. Some of her nine lives were spent early on. She constantly got herself stuck behind the washer/dryer combo in my Las Vegas apartment. One time I thought I'd take her outside on a leash, she couldn't navigate stairs and fell through the cracks while I was locking the door. As she dangled on the end of her leash, essentially strangling herself, I was so stunned it took me a moment to let go of my end, dropping her into the shrubbery. Every time she'd attempt an escape after that, I'd find her at the base of the stairwell, paralyzed in fear of the great outdoors and neighbor cats.

Love that fuzzy, spotted tummy!

She loved playing with a knotted rope, feather on a string, milk jug pull tabs, and a mouse hanging on an elastic string. She loved being brushed. As a kitten, she'd jump at least three feet in the air and perform back twists. She had no interest in laser pointers.

As she grew out of kittenhood, I thought she was depressed, so I got her what I thought she needed: a kitty. Josie was never really my cat, she was Cleo's. She'd groom her, worry about her when she got her head stuck in a kleenex box, and take a back seat to her play. She didn't seem cheered up, so when I moved to Portland I gave her away. Other than a disastrous experiment with a roommate and her cat, it's been just the two of us ever since.

Enjoying a drink a water from the window.

It's been a really challenging year for me with my back surgery, and then quitting my job, but I'm so glad that meant we had a lot of time together. I think I'd feel really guilty if I'd been too busy to spend time with my Cleo this last year. 

Patience. I thought I had it?!

I've taught second through fifth grade for 15 years (with some near disasterous moments in kindergarten and summer school)! I was pretty sure I'd developed a strong sense of patience.

BUT! Waiting for the doctor's office to schedule my surgery is the last straw! 

I've been patient...

My hip started hurting in September or October. I thought my new mattress was too hard and bought some memory foam. In November, a friend told me she had similar pain from bursitis. I looked online for exercises and took it easy. 

Right after Christmas, I saw my doctor when I started having trouble walking. I told her my pain level was a 10. I got a hip X-ray and some Vicodin.

In January I started physical therapy. It didn't get better, it got worse, and I asked for a specialist and an MRI, and stronger painkillers. I was unable to work, walk, sit, or get off the floor after January 17. On the 25th of January, I hurt so badly, I finally broke down in tears and had a friend drive me to the emergency room. My doctor gave me stronger Vicodin. I had now discovered pain levels 11, 12, and 13, but I had hope that I was going to receive treatment soon.

I've been so patient...

On January 31, I finally saw a spine specialist. He reviewed my MRI and referred me to a pain clinic. In February, I had epidural steroid injections in two places in my back. They made me feel a little better for a week, but I had now run out of sick time and was still stuck in a prone position. Praise God for the generosity of friends and co-workers who folded my laundry, brought me food, and drove me to the doctor. 

 

It was determined by the pain clinic and the spine specialist that I would not undergo another series of injections, and I would move forward toward surgery on two bulging disks. The spine specialist told me it could be three weeks or a month to meet the surgeon and schedule the operation. That was when I finally really lost it. The nurse assured me that he didn't know anything about scheduling and they'd be able to get me an appointment the next week. I had to call them to find out when my appointment had been set.

I was patient...

That was a week ago. I was told that I had to wait for my insurance to authorize the procedure and then the surgeon's office would schedule it.

I called them on Friday. They'd faxed the authorization request on Thursday. I called them yesterday. The authorization had arrived and the woman who does the scheduling would call me back that afternoon. She didn't. I called again yesterday afternoon only to find they stop answering the phones at 4:00.

I'm am no longer patient. 

I called again at 10:30 this morning. The woman who does scheduling was "with another patient" and yes, she'd received my messages and would call me back today. What in the world do they have her so busy doing that she can't schedule appointments?

I have spent eight weeks in a prone position on the floor. I am out of paid sick leave and will run out of 2/3 disability in two weeks. I've seen at least eight different doctors, physicians assistants, and nurse practitioners, and a physical therapist over 15 separate office visits since December 30. That's not counting x-ray techs and other support staff. And I haven't even started recovering from surgery yet.

Maybe that doctor was right when he told me it'd be another month... or three to get a date set.

I need this woman to call me and schedule my surgery now. I have had it with being optimistic and patient. It's about time to really start making some noise!

Edit: I rallied a little more patience and waited for her call at 2:30. I'm go for surgery Monday! (phew!)