A Change of Focus

Hello Dear Reader!
It has been many a day since the Tapdancer has come to the old blog to visit. So much has changed in my life since I was here last - some wonderful some not so wonderful, but today I'm here to show you what I've been up to since I left the blogosphere and ventured forth into the "Internets".

I took up painting again and joined a gallery - two big steps for me and I'm so glad I finally made the leap to join a gallery and have that inspiration and impetus to create new work, try new things. Right now I am working in both acrylic paint as well as digital photography and all the fun possibilities you can create from that for a new show I'm having in April 2015.

Many of these pieces were inspired by a very personal and tragic occurrence this past year, when my oldest son, known as "The Professor" here at the Edge of Reason, was tragically caught in a riptide and drowned. Life has not been the same for me, or any of us really - this totally uncharted territory, coming to terms with the loss of someone so dear. I can only be grateful that I took the time to be a full-time, hands-on mom, because I have almost 17 years of rich, wonderful memories of a boy who was truly exceptional in so many ways, and I was lucky enough to get to be his mother. I regret the future we will never see together, but I cherish every moment of the past we shared, some of which is documented here in this blog - another hidden blessing, all these old posts of the things we did together

Another time, I will perhaps tell you the full story of what happened, but today I want to think ahead, not behind. And if you consider that time is not a straight line, but more of a helix-type configuration, perhaps in creating these paintings, and allowing them to hold remnants of the meaning of my grief, I am reaching back through time, to touch his hand and carry his memory forward with us.

*sniffle*
Okay. So, you want to see what's new?
If you're interested in any of these, contact me at:
receccatoy@gmail.com

Titled "Galaxy II"

acrylic painting 11x14

Price: 85.00

Titled "Galaxy"

Acrylic 12x24

Price: 115.00

Titled "Red Tendril"

acrylic 11x14

Price: 85.00

Titled "Vortex"

acrylic 16x20

Price: 125.00

This one is called "Persephone's Dandelion"

It's 9x12 and is a mixed media piece.

This piece is SOLD

This is called "Red In The Morning"

it is an acrylic painting and is 12x24

price: 115.00

Titled "Spring Swatch"

an acrylic 11x14 painting

price: 85.00

Titled "Emergence of Spring"

mixed media 9x12

65.00

Titled "Little Earth"

Mixed Media 11x14

Price: 85.00

Titled "Mermaid's Hair"

acrylic painting 16x20

Price: 125.00

Titled "Water'y Reflections"

Acrylic painting 11x14

SOLD

Walnut and Spinach Quesadillas (as tweaked by moi)

Having a teenager who suddenly decides he wants to be a vegetarian is a challenge I hadn't anticipated. I confess: I feel a little betrayed that my home cooking isn't cutting it, but I know it has nothing really to do with me. Trying to develop Vegetarian dishes that wow - we tried out tofu the other night: marinated it with a host of savory flavors and then tried it seared and added to stir fry, and then we rolled some in panko to see how it differed. Apparently marinating makes the tofu much more tender and melt-in-your-mouth.Our most recent foray into Vegetarian cooking was Walnut-Spinach Quesadillas. I found the recipe online but it called for making a Walnut-Black Olive Butter, which frankly, didn't blow my skirt up, so we improvised.

The Walnut and Spinach Quesadillas were a lot better tasting than I thought they would be (Resident doubter here, reporting for duty), and the Professor was right there, doing his part in making them.

We started with:
a heated cast iron skillet with some lovely extra virgin olive oil added to it,
then
2 cloves of garlic, pressed
half an onion, chopped semi-fine
6-8 baby bella mushrooms (was about a cup and a half)
1 and a quarter cups walnuts, chopped roughly (tip of your pinkie size)
salt and pepper
parsely flakes

We sauteeed this until it was tender, adding a tiny bit of balsamic vinegar(for meatiness)
and a quarter cup of water near the end, to help the walnuts soften - the water was fully absorbed before we took it off the heat. This concoction went into a bowl to cool while we cleaned up the skillet and got it ready again (more lovely olive oil)

On a cutting board we assembled the quesadillas, using:
1 flour tortilla
handful of shredded mozzarella (I think gorgonzola would be killer in this as well, btw)
serving spoonful of walnut/mushroom stuff
handful of fresh spinach leaves (take the big stems off when you wash this)

Grill in skillet until brown and crispy on both sides, remove and cut in half.

We served this with fresh sliced local tomatoes and it was delicious!
As a non-Vegetarian, I was pleasantly surprised by how meaty and satisfying this dish was.
Thumbs up!!!

Sadly, no picture this time: we ate them too fast!

Hurry Up And Wait

Okay, so no photos in here yet, as part of the cataloging process, but I have gone through my fairly sizable collection of paintings to see what I already have, and what is (in my opinion) suitable for showing to the public. Example: Brown-skinned woman in the Temple of Bast painting who still has no nipples - not suitable. Cher with a snake in her hair - suitable. Tree series - suitable. Unfinished and very boring painting of the seaside - unsuitable. First of the Water's Edge series - suitable, I think. And so it goes.

I'm halfway through another of the tree series, which frankly, will make up the bulk of this show (which i'm still waiting to hear back about, but chins up (sigh! that could apply to just me - ugh!) it's going to work out - I have faith) and pondering the possible ways to fill an immense brick wall in a trendy restaurant/bar. Too many small paintings could get lost, but I really don't want to do an entire series of huge paintings, just to fill that wall. The tree series has been a lot of fun - every one is different, even though it's more of a formula than I've used in the past. I think I like working in series - it gives me more comparison/contrast to look at and learn from. The next series will be The Water's Edge, and will be more dreamlike. The title comes from lyrics in Peter Gabriel's song "Red Rain" and has to do with dreams, portents, and a ghost that I am searching for still. I'm still formulating this series; not sure if they might not include mixed media to achieve what I'm looking for.

A Moment's Venting:
On top of these lovely distractions comes the news that my dad has cancer. He's been taking his sweet ambivalent time to tell the rest of the family, which is pretty true to form for him, and I feel sure he's still in the (internally) freaking out stage (pretty sure I would be too). The good news is that the cancer is encapsulated, contained in one area, and the doctors are optimistic he'll make a full recovery, and that's the story I'm sticking to. It is scary to think of though, the physical reality of what was an academic thought - that your parents DO get old, they DO get sick, and eventually, they DO die. You would think at 49 years old, I would have come to terms with the physical reality of this, and I have, kinda. I always thought it would be my mother who got cancer first - I've been preparing for that inevitability for some time, because she isn't in great health, but my dad - he's 78 years old and doesn't look it at all - more like 60 maybe - so it's a shock that he would be the first one to have cancer. It doesn't help to know that his father died of cancer, and that his sister died last year from complications due to esophageal cancer, but I'm trying to remember that his mother lived to be 96, and that he is far more like her than he would care to admit, though maybe not so much now.

Not to worry, dear reader: the basket case of crazy will not be unleashed just yet.

And I will try and get some photos up of stuff that I'm considering for the show in September.

Shhhh! No Sudden Moves

Just pretend I'm not here, bumping around in the dark, trying to find my words that I stuffed under a sofa cushion, how many months ago??? Dammit, where did I put them??

I have been painting more, since I stopped blogging, so I haven't been totally mind-sucked into Facebook, and if all goes well, I am hoping to be in the planning stages of a bonafide show very soon. I've never really done a show - I've never really thought I was professional enough to warrant one, but I'm almost 50 and dammit, I'd like to be able to say I had at least one damn show to my name before it's all over. Besides, after a few trips up to Asheville, where we looked at tons of art, I realized that I don't suck nearly as much as I thought I did - high praise, no? And it's time to carpe diem baby!

So with that in mind, I'm going to be using this space for the next few months, to try and organize both my thoughts and my painting body of work, so when September rolls around, I will hopefully have not only my paintings ready to show, but that I'll be able to articulate some kind of thought process or inspiration about how they came to be. You know, the bullshit blah-blah, yappity-yap that artists expound on the opening night - yeah, I don't know shit about it either, so I'm going to have to practice, on you guys.

The idea of doing a show is thrilling and definitely a good thing to be fixating my OC ass on, but there are many unseen forces pulling me in several directions right now; some are the predictably unpredictable, like my boys - the Professor has recently informed me that he can only eat humanely raised meat  now, and preferably, he would prefer to eat none at all - I swear he's my sister's changeling child!!! Other things chumming the waters of my mind right now are murkier and not publicly known yet, so I'll have to promise to divulge when I can, later on.

Patience My Ass - I Need A Cold Front! (Recipe Included)

Where the hell is Fall? It's September 28th and the humidity is still omnipresent, the temperature at night is still around 70, and dammit, that shit has to go! Sure, sure, further north they get winter earlier and spring later, but right now they aren't sphitzing whilst trying to drink a cup of coffee, or having to crank the air conditioner to enjoy a bowl of butternut squash soup. Right now, the leaves are changing further north, and the apples and pumpkins are piled up at the roadside stands. We have apples and pumpkins piling up too, but the current state of humidity will cause our pumpkins to rot and mold by Halloween, and don't get me started on the soft mealy cardboard that passes for apples in this part of the world, or the Koolaid-sweet cider that's made from them.

I know where this is leading - I need a road trip to the north. I'm not going to get one though and it's making me very grumpy. I'm trying to hold out - I hear tell the great cold winds of Canadia are on their way, that by the weekend it will feel like fall, and I want to believe, but right now the air is still soupy and it seems a faint flickering light at the end of a long and miserably hot steam tunnel.

But in the meantime, because it is fall and because somewhere there is lovely crisp fall weather that warrants it, I'm making butternut squash soup. A friend on Facebook asked me to share my recipe for it, so I wrote it out, even though I never follow an actual recipe for it. I don't have recipes for anything but baked goods because, cooking in my opinion should be less regimented, and more open to variation. So take this recipe as a place to jump off from and do something wild with it to propititate the Autumnal God of the North Wind.

Butternut Squash Soup

2 large butternut squash, peeled, cored, and cut into bite-sized pieces (more or less)

1 large onion, chopped semi-fine

2-6 cloves of garlic, minced or pressed

half a stick of butter (see now, I used a whole stick last time, and some olive oil)

2 cups dry white wine

2-3 containers chicken stock or broth (8-12 cups, approx.)

In a large heavy bottomed stockpot melt butter and saute onion and garlic until tender, add cubed squash and saute until browning occurs on bottom of pot. Add salt and pepper to taste at this point.

Deglaze with 2 cups of white wine, let alcohol cook off a little, then add chicken stock/or broth to cover the squash. put on the lid and let boil for about 15-20 minutes. I also added a tablespoon of bacon fat, to add flavor and to tenderize the squash.

When squash is tender, mash up with potato masher, add more stock and cook at medium heat, stirring and mashing for about 30 minutes. The lid is off at this point, allowing condensation, so soup will become thicker. Squash will begin to have an "applesauce" consistency and get thick. Keep adding stock until you are ready to serve or until it is the thickness you desire. (when reheating, you will have to add more stock, as it thickens when it cools) I know that a lot of people prefer to use an immersion blender to speed things up, but I personally think the slow cooking approach breaks the squash down just as well, and allows more time to build flavor with your components.

If desired, add 2 Tablespoons of horseradish to soup and stir in well. The heat will mellow it, but it shouldn't be more than an earthy taste at the end of a spoonful, and a bit of a warm glow on your throat. The longer the horseradish cooks into the soup the less prevalent it will be as itself.

Serve in a wide, shallow bowl, garnished with crisp chopped bacon and green onion, or julienned rare roast beef and green onion. It is also very good with a creamy blue cheese and candied green apples (leave out the horseradish for this variation). Fresh crusty bread or buttermilk cheddar biscuits are a good accompaniment.

Mission Statement For ME

It has been a dark vista for some time, here at the Edge of Reason. The mental weather has been overcast and drizzly for far too long and frankly, my feet are webbing from prolonged exposure to mud puddles of deepest despair. My raincoat of support is old and tattered - more misery gets in than is kept out anymore, and my umbrella of love has been turned inside out - I am drenched to the skin with profound sadness.

The obvious solution, in terms of metaphors, is to get a new umbrella and raincoat, isn't it? But I am used to my raincoat and fond of my umbrella, which makes it hard to know whether I should patch and repair or just replace them. And a metaphor cannot possibly illustrate the nature of the damage done to that raincoat or umbrella.

It's easy to tell someone to snap out of a dark funk - it is far more difficult to actually do the snapping. It's really more like a dragging of oneself out of the pit (of despair) and commencing to dredging the muddy misery out of your clothes, your hair, your soul, while the storm rages on all around, pelting you with more.

I know I can only change myself, I know I need to leave certain pieces of myself behind in order to do that. It is far easier to say it than it is to do it, however, if you consider that it might be necessary to cut out 20 years or more of your life and throw it away.

I wonder sometimes if I had amnesia, if it would make it easier for me to be who I really am. I would no longer bend under the negative opinions and influence of my family, because they would no longer exist. I could discover who I am without their prejudice of who they need me to be. I might actually believe I have some worth if I was out from under the thumb of misogyny and selfishness that is my familial inheritance. This is what I struggle against daily. This is what silences my words, my voice, my soul - people who say they care while they crush me underfoot, and seek to discredit what I say because it reflects badly upon them to have the truth put out there for the world to see. I have offered love and support to my family for as long as I have been alive, and I have received in return their apathy, and the lies they tell to take the weight of responsibility for their damaged lives off of themselves.

I am done. I am divorcing myself from these people, for the sake of ME. I think I have earned the right to not be involved, to not be held culpable for the poor choices of others. To finally live my life as I see fit.

Paranoid Reflections

Autumn blows in, sharp and cold,

and bitter is the remembered taste

of Autumns past, shrouded in mold.

I hide in my bed, I cannot face

a world turned grey by wind and rain-

sweet Summer's youth is laid to waste.

Wat'ry-eyed November, the days days trickle away,

I lie abed, smelling Winter's dank breath

and hear his knife-like fingers rattling my windowpane.

A torturous game the seasons play, on me and on the Earth,

I hear them now, outside my door, chuckling in their mirth.

Untitled

Autumn blows in-

cold,

sharp

and bitter is the remembered taste

of Autumns past-

the sure knowledge of loss and sorrow.

How is it, I come to this season

always empty-handed

and purposeless?

The Dead Woman's Scales

Back in the fall, Bea got an invite to a party that she didn't want to accept, but in true Bea-fashion, she was conflicted. And guilty. And waffling. In the end she decided to go, and she wound up having a great time and met some new people. The following week, she got a call from a guy who had been at the party - she never actually met the guy, because he was leaving as she got there, but he heard her laugh and wanted to meet her. (I know - how damn romantic is that?!) Of course, being Bea, she waffled and conflicted with herself, before acquiescing and going to meet him at - was it a Golden Corral? I can't remember, though I know the GC comes into it and figures prominently for me, seeing as how it gets my vote as Most Likely Place To Contract Anthrax or The Latest Flu. But that's my story, and this is Bea's. Anyway, she went, she met him, she really, REALLY liked him, and they started to date.

He was from Iowa, or one of those states that start with an I and is way the hell up near Canadia, and he was here, tending to his long-time friend, who used to be his girlfriend but not anymore, who was dying from cancer, and he had promised to be there for her. Again, points in his favor, for being the kind of guy who sticks it out with you, though that was their story, his and the Dead Woman's, and only a side note to this, Bea's story. He had planned on coming and staying with his friend, to help her out in the final days, and he did, but he hadn't any point of reference to prepare him for the horror of the final days of cancer, and try as he might to be a stoic tough guy, it was getting to him. I think he turned to Bea for companionship during those days; someone who wasn't hip-deep in death to help him maintain his perspective through it all.

Long story short, it was maybe a month that Bea had known him before his friend passed away. He began to dis-assemble her household, and in that great shuffling of stuff he passed some things on to Bea, one of which was The Dead Woman's Scales.

It's not like Bea has ever had a cordial relationship with a set of scales - seriously, who does? But she began to imagine that the scales were imbued with the spirit of the dead woman, who maybe wasn't so happy to find even a piece of herself in the home of the New Interest In His Life. She could feel the weight of Her presence residing in the scales, when she was standing on them, when she was looking at them, and especially when she was lying in bed next to the Man. When she weighed herself, the scales always read a higher number than any other scale Bea used, even the dreaded gym scales, which were notoriously biased and judgmental. She debated on getting rid of the scales, but decided against it - they were a gift, albeit second-hand, and she didn't want the Man to be offended. They also served their purpose of weighing in, which sent Bea to the gym to work out in a fever of productivity, in hopes of appeasing the scales. Some days the scales were more inclined towards encouragement, and would register several pounds lost, and Bea would soften towards the scales and their intentions, but on other days, the scales were spiteful, snarky even, and she would know that the spirit of the Dead Woman inhabited them still. Earlier this week, when Bea was sick and moping about, pining a bit for the Man, who had to go back to the place that begins with an I, the scales bitchily reminded her that she was more than a few pounds up. Bea again questioned the wisdom of listening to the advice of The Dead Woman's Scales, and secretly plotted their demise.

Serial Painter

February has been a dark month. That the dark twisty whirlpool held off until February, rather than kicking in straight after the holidays is pretty great, and partially due to the wonderful trip I took up to Asheville, NC with Bea and Ms. Q. We looked at a lot of art in a lot of galleries while we were there, and I found myself asking what was holding me back. I decided that I tend to take on a painting often for the challenge of it, which often leads to unfinished pieces and a sense of frustration. My sister, who makes dolls, has told me that the first doll of any type is always the hardest and most time consuming, because she's working through the process for that particular type of doll. The subsequent ones tended to go faster, even with slight variations from doll to doll. This got me to thinking that maybe I should try to do a series of paintings. I have been photographing trees a lot lately, and I've always been obsessed with clouds, but the sunsets we saw up in Asheville were the final inspiration for this series of paintings.





Forgive the glare: my camera doesn't like low light.But hey, no razor blades or dark twisty thoughts were used in the painting of these canvases, so that's something, right?

Note to Myself

The dark clouds have descended again, obscuring my ability to navigate the chummy waters of my life. I try to keep my despair at bay, thinking of how my depression impacts my children, trying to maintain an atmosphere of normalcy for their sake, but today, I find I cannot care enough about anyone or anything to resist the allure of the darkness. I considered calling my husband at work, to tell him I'm slipping into the dark water, to ask for help, but I didn't make the call, because I know he won't really be able to help me, much less even hear me, surrounded by the stress and pressures of his job. My friends are too busy as well, and my family is non-existent. I tried to paint, hoping it would bring a little pleasure to counter balance this tidal wave of morbid longing, but even that felt distant and trite, and not worth the effort.

It is always the way with depression, that once it rolls over you, encircles you, encompasses you, there is no real way out, only trying to hang on and ride the tide back to the shore of rational thought. There are no life boats to rescue you from the deep, because they never heard the cry for help. There is only yourself, treading water in the icy deep, thinking how peaceful it would be, to just stop fighting, to succumb to the darkness and float down into it's peaceful depths. I cannot decide which is more courageous: to continue the daily plodding or to acquiesce to the finality of the dark.

It's four days until Christmas. I have all my shopping done, most of the presents are wrapped, and mountains of cookies have been made and tucked into a myriad of tins. The menus are planned from tonight through Christmas Day with such savory lovelies like roast beef and mushroom risotto, ziti with Italian sausage, fresh caught steamed shrimp, and homemade cheese ball. The house is (more or less) cleaned and ready for celebrating, and ready or not, the season kicks off tonight.

Now I just need to find my holiday spirit. I think I might have lost it - thrown it away in a box of old clothes during the summer, or loaned it to someone who never returned it. The question is, can Santa be Santa without his/her holiday mojo?

By all appearances, it would seem so, but I can tell you this: it's going to be a dark January.

Trip Rehash (A little Optimism Goes a Long Way)

Alright, I admit it - it wasn't a bad trip. It was actually a really great trip, and being somewhere else had the effect of removing a ton of bricks from my chest, even if only temporarily. Here in the Cackalackies summer is still hanging on with a sticky vengeance, but Autumn was in full swing as we headed up through West Virginia and Pennsylvania to Western New York, and the shore of Lake Erie. The maples and the sumac were incredible shades of coral, scarlet, crimson and russet, especially in upper PA and NY. (None of which, of course, are in this picture, but it's still a good shot of what Western NY looks like)We filled the back of the pickup with apples and cider, kielbasa and pepperoni, horseradish mustard and rye bread, peanut sticks and hard white cheddar; a cornucopia of all the things that mean home to us. We bought our apples at The Red Barrel, out in North Boston. We went to Schwabel's in West Seneca, to have Beef on Kimmelweck and German potato salad, because they've been serving it since 1837 and I think they're still the best. This is their cash register:We went and visited with my aunt, who is now at 65 pounds, but hanging on - she had more energy than I'd seen in her since she had the operation, over 4 years ago, and while one good virus could still carry her off, it gave us hope that maybe, somehow, she might just be able to get better.

I was worried that going with my dad to see his sister, and his friend who is in frail health as well, might tip him (and me!) over the edge into Dark and Twisty-ville - it has to be tough to see your peers passing, one by one - but he surprised me with his resilience. We talked about everything under the sun on the drive up and back, sometimes getting so engrossed that we missed our exits! It was a bonding experience for us both, I think, which can only be good. I think it helped that we went to Oil City and had dinner at the Yellow Dog Lantern, because the ladies who work there love to flirt with my dad, and he loves to give it back in kind. They sat down in the booth with us and told him if he weren't married he would be going home with one of them, couldn't believe he was 77, thought he must be only in his early 60s, and you know he loved that!The drive up to New York from Oil City was eventful - Route 8 ended abruptly above Union City (we were talking and missed the detour signs) so we took a dirt road or two and somehow ended up in New York, near Findley Lake. The Ace Hardware store was in Union City - I love the old bike and the ad for tux rentals in the windows!I missed the guys while I was away, but the rest of the shite, as posted before, yeah, not so much. I know I can't control how other people behave (as much as I might like to, as much as they might be begging to be disciplined), so my task now is to try and forget, or at least to ignore the flingers of bullshit - it's their problem not mine. Now I have to repeat that about a hundred times whilst looking severely at myself in the mirror - it's not my mess, I'm not going to clean it up!

Thanks to you all, who came and left a little moral support!

Picture below: the tribal lands where my mother swears they touch her cheek and ask, "What tribe are you?" Yeah, sure they do!

Kinda Eyore-ish

Okay so you're not in my head (and wouldn't a therapist love to scrutinize that!) so you wouldn't know that the reason I haven't been writing is pure depression. I did feel like I was getting kind of hackneyed in the blogosphere, but that was just the tip of the iceberg that I slid off into the arctic sea of Fuckitall.

The kids are both in middle school now, so I have my mornings to myself again, which kind of makes me feel like I'm not pulling my weight, and of course I'm not feeling any inspiration to paint, which adds to that feeling of uselessness, though I have kicked up the home-made goodness as a result, which nobody is complaining about, except maybe my ever-expanding gut.

I find myself still mourning Mrs. Puff, probably because it was so unexpected and horrific, the way she died. I know there was nothing we could have done in the face of an avalanche of hemorrhagic strokes, and maybe that's what haunts me - that sense of complete futility.

I'm having the old recurring issue with living in this part of the world; being a yankee by birth (I have lived in the south for over 40 years, but I'm still a yankee - how about that shit?) and not christian (and I refuse to capitalize such a travesty of a word) is two humongously indelible marks against me in this small, backward-thinking town. Apparently all you have to do for social acceptance is give lip service to being the same religion as everyone else and talk through a mouth full of marbles. I kid you not. It doesn't matter if you're committing adultery, are an abusive parent or abusive spouse, or a dead-beat parent who leaves their kids to fend for themselves - if you profess your faith loudly enough, no one will care what you do behind closed doors (and these aren't stereotypes; every example I listed is someone I know, in all their sanctimonious hypocrisy, who treats me and my family like lepers). Being a kind and decent human being doesn't count for doodly without that "got jesus" lobotomized seal of approval. (Please note: I have nothing against Jesus himself, or what he had to say. My problem is with the trash that insists on using his name to legitimize their petty fear and hatred of anything that doesn't fit into their limited awareness.) I know there are people who are truly good christians - I know 2 personally, but there are so many of the other kind. Aren't they calling themselves the "Tea Party" these days?

So, on top of those delectable tidbits from the fantastic pile of shit that is permeating my existence on a daily basis, I have a trip to make, starting tomorrow. I'm headed up to Buffalo, with my dad. He's going to see his sister and an old friend, both of whom are in very frail health. He hates death, is even kind of phobic about it, so this isn't going to be a pleasure jaunt. I'm a little amazed that he's even going. I have to confess, I'm not sure I'm up to this myself, treading water in my own murky sea of personal bullshit, but I said I'd go. I'm going to take a composition book and try to do some journalling - angst is good for writing, right? I'm also going to try and carpe diem; to take it one day at a time and try, TRY to find some good in there amongst the craptastic chaff.

And at the least there will be apples - lovely crisp New York apples and cider to look forward to, right?

Demise

After watching and waiting for some sort of improvement for most of last week, the inevitable has occurred. Puffin Anne, aka Mrs. Puff, has passed into the shadows and drawn a pall over the hearts of those who loved her. Rest in peace, sweet Puff.

Day Three of My Karmic Payback

Thank you all for your support yesterday - I was really in a bad place and it helped to know you were holding my virtual hand.

Puff came home from the local vet yesterday, with a saline IV and a couple of cans of AD (high calorie wet food). We found the kids'old playpen and set it up in the living room for her, to keep her contained and safe, especially when we're not with her. She had a brief moment yesterday when she actually turned to the right, as opposed the the perpetual left she's been circling on, and walked straight across the room. She also is able to swallow food, which is a plus to keeping her strong.

It occurred to me today that the local vet didn't send home any medication for Puff, though she had been given a dose of some kind of steroid before she left. I was reading online today that many vets prescribe cortizone, antibiotics, and even baby aspirin as part of the supportive care for a cat who's suffered a stroke. Yeah, well they weren't the vet in my town, but don't let me get on that rant right now - I knew when I took Puff to them it would cost a lot and there would be no definitive diagnosis - that's how they roll every time I've been there. So I called Doc, who is my personal veterinary hero, and he also pegged Puff's condition as a stroke over the phone, based on the symptoms, so I asked if there was anything I could give her to help with her recovery. He recommended Decadron, the miracle steroid for cats, and children's Motrin if she seemed to be in pain. He also verified what I had thought; that the enlarged spleen was due to the stroke and was working to process the blood from the rupture in her brain.

Apparently there are two kinds of strokes in cats - Ischemic and Hemorrhagic (and I'm pretty sure I've misspelled at least one of those)- Ischemic is when the blood supply to the brain is cut off and the brain basically suffocates, Hemorrhagic is when there is a rupture of a blood vessel in the brain. Based on the blood found in her ear, and the presence of blood behind her eyes, I'm thinking it was the Hemorrhagic one.

She is ambulatory today, albeit still circling to the left; she is agitated, which is also to be expected, but she can eat, she does sleep and wake up, and sometimes she responds to our voices. Doc seemed to think she might well recover, but that she would need to be on Decadron permanently to avoid further strokes (it's no guarantee, but what in this is?)

Bea came over last night to see her beloved Mrs. Puff, and offer support. I told her, half-jokingly, I thought this might be my karmic payback for talking her into adopting Bella, a polydactyl Siamese with a cancer of the mouth tissue. It does seem sometimes like I've become the geriatric guru of cats.

Did this ramble much? So sorry, I just needed to purge. Thanks again to all of you for your support - it really did help.

Evening Addendum - I should have thought about what the hell hemorrhagic really means, because as I sit here this evening, knowing that Puff suffered yet another stroke this afternoon, she isn't going to make it out of this. It is my hope for her, and probably for myself as well, that at this point, she goes quickly. We're going to keep her hydrated and comfortable, and try to ease her out of this world in as loving a manner as possible. And now I'm going to go blow my nose again and eat some damn chocolate.

And Now We Wait

I saw Puff lying in the grass yesterday, when I came out of the house to go to the gym. Something about the way she was lying there, curled up next to the driveway, made me stop and take a look. She had a lot of debris in her fur, which granted, it is springtime and there is a lot of pollen on the ground, but it seemed like more than usual. I rolled her over to look at her face, and stroke her belly, check for anything unusual. She wasn't real responsive, but I might have just awakened her from a nap. I left her to her slumber and went to the gym.

When I got back from the gym, she wasn't lying by the driveway anymore, and I went inside to phone my husband before I had to go pick up the middle school kids. I looked out the front door, and saw her lying in the street. Garbling something to my husband, I slammed down the phone and ran out to get Puff, expecting her to be already dead. To my surprise, she was alive, but strangely not wanting to move.

I scooped her up in my arms, and ran to the house, where I laid her gently on the rug inside the door and ran to call the local vet. While I was on the phone she got up and half-limped through the kitchen and down the hall, seemingly searching, but for what I didn't know.

I took her to the vet, and the technicians examined her while we waited for the doctor to arrive (and why there was no doctor there at 2:30 pm on a Tuesday, I have no idea - there was only one other client there as well). The one technician discovered that Puff's eyes were not dilating evenly, and her left back leg seemed to be partially paralyzed. The vet arrived and gave her a once over as well, before deciding to do a few x-rays. With her permission, I ran home to check on the kids, who had come home with a neighbor while I was gone.

They did 3 x-rays of her body, and found no significant damage anywhere; no broken bones, no wounds or lacerations, just a little bruising near the back left leg, and a little near her lungs. They gave her steroids to reduce the swelling, and an IV drip to keep her hydrated. An enlarged spleen and kidney showed up on the x-ray, which in turn led to a blood test to screen for any underlying deficiencies, or metabolic issues. It came back completely normal. Meanwhile Puff was anything but normal; she was circling to her left continually, and her eyes appeared fixed and dilated still.

The general concensus is that Puff suffered some sort of trauma to the head, or possibly and more rarely, a stroke. I'm leaning towards the trauma diagnosis, though for the life of me, I can't imagine what happened to her. I mean, wouldn't a car have done more damage? She stayed at the vet overnight, and I brought her home today, but she is by no means out of the woods.

It is now up to me to make sure she gets fluids sub-cutaneously twice a day, and to try and feed her by syringe as much as I can, to try and keep her organs functioning as normally as possible while hopefully, she recovers. She also has no control of her bodily functions, so I'll need to clean her several times a day, when she evacuates or urinates.

I don't want to give up on her, but I also know that she might not come back from this. The vet and I agreed that I would try to keep her going for the next week, and see if she made any neurological progress in that time. It's a quality of life issue here: if she can't walk or feed herself, or use the litterbox, I have to make the call, and let her go. It's breaking my heart to see her like this, my beautiful, sassy, flower-catching Puff, just lying there, her eyes vacant and unseeing, her left side too weak to support her. We just lost Willow a few weeks back, to renal failure, and it's only been a year since Jasper and Squeak both died. I feel full up and unable to deal with death right now, but there really is no choice, other than the one I've made.

Please, send a little healing karma her way, won't you? We all love her so much.

Just Another Reason Why I Love Bea

Because she comes up with gems like this:

SNARKY

Just Say It.

The last one was:

SHARTING

Taste the Rainbow.

She does have a way with words!

Neurotic Fears and Growing Pains

It's been an interesting week.

Last week, my mother had a mild heart attack. This week, today in fact, she went into the hospital for a catharization (Sp?) diagnostic and they found an area in her heart that had 80% blockage. They're putting a stent (and the Blogger software is again having issues with my spelling!) in and she should be feeling pert in no time, but wow...

It would seem the halcyon days of my parents' good health are shifting into what is inevitable with aging, but hard to accept, which I believe is also par for the course (and I really hate it when I can't think of a better phrase than a golf-related one, for crying out loud). I've always told my dad (who's older than my mom by 6 years, I think) that he is way too much of an asshole to ever die young. Sheer ornery stubbornness will keep him going into his late 90s, barring any freak accidents with fence posts, shot guns, or wild animals - just to list a few possibilities in his skill range right now. But my mother, that's another story.

I have this horrible fear that she has given up on living - I know, that sounds terrible doesn't it? Maybe not so much as give up on life, and not giving a damn about confronting her mortality and trying to boost her odds with maybe giving up or reducing her cigarette habit, and getting regular exercise. It scares me, the idea of having a heart attack. I imagine it to be a claustrophobic squeezing of your chest; your heart sputters, your lungs close up, and you drown in a sea of stagnant blood. Sorry to be graphic, but nightmares often are.

What is worse than imagining my own heart attack, is to contemplate my life without my mother in it. It's not like I talk to her every day, or have Sunday dinner there every week, but I do rely on her, not only for advice on sick kids, or what's missing from that recipe she gave me last week, but you know, to be there. The last little piece of my childhood is still intact, that from-birth sense of continuity that all is as it should be, as long as my mother is in the world. I know I can't have it that forever, all things yield to Time's erosion, but maybe just a little longer, please?

Wow, Ramble Much?

Well, could yesterday's post have rambled much more, or had more redundancy of word choices? Creak and groan, I am so very rusty at this!

Okay, so here is my edict to myself, concerning blogging, Facebooking, and general productivity elsewhere:

"Young lady, you are NOT allowed to log into Facebook more than twice a day, and ONLY after you have done your household chores, and written or drawn something. And you NEED to put that damn mini cinnamon roll down and go to the gym as well!"

I am already disobedient to myself, as I bite into the last mini-cinni on my plate. (It's already been touched - might as well eat it, right?) "Being bad feels pretty good" as Bender from The Breakfast Club would say, as I wash down the last morsel of sweet carby goodness with the dregs of my second cup of coffee, and ponder the crafting of today's juicy rationalization for avoiding the gym. I had a doozie the other day, you want to hear it? Okay, here it is:

So this time last year, I was pushing major maximum density, and in May I joined a gym. I lost 32 pounds working out and dieting (more or less) by mid-November. If I started back to the gym in April and worked out steadily until late fall again, I could lose about the same amount, maybe even more this year.

Isn't that a beauty? It sounds so rational, so logical, so very full of shit. How about this one:

Well, at least I haven't gained any weight back!

Only I have - about 5 pounds, which is pretty good, considering the cookie/doughnut/sweet roll trifecta I've been worshipping lately. (Again with a rationalization!)

Another ode to John Hughes, with paraphrasing:

"I'll just keep eating and gaining...I'll go, I'll go, I'll go...shit! I'll go!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In other news, I read this post yesterday and it was so beautifully written, so completely apt, that I think I need to read it every day, as a motivator. Check it out:

http://slowpanic.blogspot.com/2010/03/hope-fear.html