No witty title, I'm just sad today.

Well, if you don't actually read my FB posts, this will be news to you. Come to think of it, if you don't actually read my FB posts, the chances that you're reading this at all are probably pretty slim because I don't post this link anywhere else. Or not, because it is the internet so theoretically anyone with access to the internet could read this.  Whatever.  I'm sooooooo stalling for time.

In my last few blog posts I was talking about the five stages of grief and how they relate to dealing with someone who has dementia.  But now I'm going through the five stages of grief as someone who has lost a different beloved family member, friend, and loved one -- our pupper, Max.  

I don't remember how much I mentioned in here about how he'd been declining in the last few months, but he had been.  I think I was purposely not mentioning it much in real life because it seems like everyone was asking about my Dad/parents all the time and it just seemed like too much to point out -- oh yeah, by the way, my dog isn't doing very well, either. Mostly because I didn't want more pity.  And because I was afraid that people who don't understand pets would try to challenge me on that one, like how dare I put the pain of losing a pet on the same plane.  

Although, you know, no one in my life that I can recall has ever actually done that.  I think by this point in my life, everyone knows that my pets are like family, and/or they also know that losing one is a painful endeavor not to be taken lightly from their own personal experience.  So maybe I just didn't talk about Max not doing well because it hurt too much.  It was all I could do to talk about my parents without crying, I don't think I could've continued to explain the whole Max saga as well, in person.  I mean, I know I told a few people, but not a lot.

So, yeah. I don't know exactly what happened.  He was 11.5 years old, which is pretty darn good for a Boxer.  I still don't want to detail all of what I mean by his declining over the past few months, because I'm already weeping just writing this much.  I'll just say, he started showing his age and then had some kind of event in September (maybe a stroke or something?) where he collapsed and wouldn't/couldn't get up for most of the day, and was never really the same after that.  

Let's see how much of this I can share without becoming a blubbering mess. On Tuesday, November 21st, I came home from work to find him in the middle of the kitchen floor, twitching and unresponsive.  I don't know how else to say it.  That day in particular already sucked, because we had to leave him alone for about 13 hours -- hubby had a class after work, and I was going to visit my Dad after work, and we really tried not to leave him (or any of our dogs) alone that long ever but every once in a great while it just ended up that way.  And sure enough, this was one of those days.  

So I got home at about 7:30pm and it was obvious that he had been down for quite some time, and it was also pretty quickly obvious that he wasn't coming out of it.  Bear with me here and do not judge me because you were not there.  I was thankful that he was basically unconscious, but I still had to sit next to him and try to comfort him, knowing I was really trying to comfort me.  What he had been going through and what he was going through at that time was just awful.  It gave me nightmares for weeks.  But I also feel very, very strongly that I do not want my beloved pets to die alone, so I stayed right next to him.  The whole time.  For four hours as he continued to seize non-stop.  And yes, I considered taking him to the emergency vet -- not that he could be saved at that point, but to help stop his suffering.  But, remember that I said by hubby had a class that night? He wasn't supposed to be home for hours. The emergency vet is about an hour away. I would've had to basically drag my poor dog (who weighed about 80#) to the garage and get him into the Equinox somehow by myself, then drive him there while being a blubbering mess and extra upset because I couldn't be next to him during that time, worried that he would pass away during the drive and I wouldn't get to be with him when it happened.  I texted my son, but he has a thing he does on Tuesday nights as well so I didn't expect he'd be able to come over and help me.  Plus, I liked to think that on some level, Max still knew where he was, and that he'd be more comfortable just staying where he was and being made as comfortable as possible instead of being dragged somewhere else to die.  

And so, that happened at about 11:55pm.  I'd like to say it was peaceful, and I guess it kind of was, because he finally stopped seizing and panting for a few minutes first.  I was still right next to him, I'd put him on a blanket by then and cushioned his head and tried to cover him and make him look more comfortable, and had settled myself in to stay there all night if necessary.  I had my hand on his side. I could feel his breathing stop, his heart flutter and flutter and flutter and then stop.  And mine break into a million pieces at the same time.  

So, yeah. That's what's been going on here.  

It's weird, not having a dog.  This is the first time in like 25 years that we haven't had a dog.  All of my life, we've always had a dogs.  From the time I was born, until I moved out of my parents' house, and then for a few years I didn't because I lived in apartments, but then my hubby and I got our first dog before I even moved in with him, and except for a short dogless time for about five months when the boy was a baby, we've always had dogs.  So yeah. I miss Max.  He was a goofball.  I still think I hear him walking around at random times.  5pm doesn't go by without me feeling like I need to go feed him.  We might get another dog some day, but we both feel bad for working so much right now.  So maybe after we retire.  

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The weird thing is, I've had dreams with him in them almost every other night since he died.  Usually it's been a while before I have dreams with our dogs in them after they pass, but Max dreams started almost right away.  If I was a true believer in dreams having special meaning, I could totally read into that.  :)  Sometimes I like to think they do have special meaning.  Even it if just means that I've been thinking about dogs a lot, lol.  He hasn't been alone in these dreams, though; it's usually been Max and Luger, or Max and Luger and Magnum, or Max and Boscoe and Josie.  In other words, several of our previous dogs at once.  Well, whatever.  It's better than having nightmares about his last night, that's for sure.

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So right now, I think the trauma of that night is starting to wear off, because I was actually feeling more relieved than anything for a while.  Relieved that he wasn't suffering anymore, that we weren't having to scrub the floors 3-6 times per day anymore, or keep the washer and dryer running constantly to wash every towel we owned all the time, relieved that our house doesn't smell like dog urine anymore, relieved that we can sleep through the night again.  Is that horrible? I know it's not; I mean, I loved that dog more than I can ever put into words, and I don't want to sound petty, but, I like my clean house, too.  And we did everything we could possibly do to help him with that issue -- trust me on that one.  We were all miserable by the time he passed away.  

But now, like I said, now I'm really missing the old Max.  The fun Max.  The goofy, silly, loving Max.  Not the sick, grumpy, miserable Max.  

=============================

And I'm also suddenly super sad again about the fact that my Dad is in a nursing home, and doesn't get to leave.  He won't be coming over for Christmas.  He doesn't even know it's Christmas.  He doesn't know what day it is, what month it is, what season it is.  He doesn't know what's going on in the world.  He sleeps 16-18 hours per day.  He doesn't get to make any of his own decisions anymore. He eats whatever pureed crap they give him, gets up when they have people available to get him up, watches whatever is on TV when someone feels like pushing him in the vicinity of the TV.  He has no effing quality of life. What would he have said 2, 3, 5 years ago if I've had told him what life would be like for him now? Would he have wanted this?  He rarely smiles.  I can get him to smile, but it's not that deep, prolonged smile he used to have when I'd visit him at home.  It's more like a quick flash of a smile that I wouldn't see if I wasn't looking at him.  And it breaks my heart because then he goes back to just sitting there, expressionless, and I wonder what is going on behind those eyes.  What is he thinking?  What does he want to do?  Does he want to get up and leave? Does he want to go to bed and not wake up?  

Ugh. I gotta go back to work. TTYL.

Denial ain't just a river!

In keeping with the theme of the five stages of grief, let's look at one of my most recent examples of Stage 1: Denial, shall we?

I'll refer back, not that far actually, to my blog post of Friday, October 20, 2023, "Speaking of loaded questions...".  Don't worry, you don't have to actually go back and re-read it, I'll bring the relevant parts here to refresh your memory.  

It's in about paragraph 4.  "Dad's doing alright, slowly regaining strength...[h]e doesn't seem to have suffered any great cognitive setbacks from having the 'vid and being bedbound for a couple of weeks..."  

You see, deep down inside, my biggest fear when I first heard he had COVID and was being sent to the hospital was that he wasn't going to leave the hospital.  Because I already knew that most patients with dementia don't die "of dementia" per se, but they succumb to secondary infections (like pneumonia, influenza, COVID) or other chronic conditions (like COPD, CHF, renal failure).  

Shortly after writing that post, I was at my Mom's parents' house, spending a WFH day there to keep my Mom company and help out with a few things when I'm finished working (as I have been doing on a regular basis) when she got a phone call.  I mean, she gets a fair amount of phone calls during the day now, at least when I'm there, and because I'm nosy and also because there's pretty much a straight shot from the kitchen to the living room, I could pretty easily overhear her side of the conversation (if I muted the TV and stopped typing so I could hear).  

The first thing that raised my suspicion was that she moved to the office, which is slightly out of the straight shot from the kitchen to the living room, and struck me as odd and like she was either (A) going there to take notes and/or (B) going there so I couldn't hear.  It made me listen even harder.  I couldn't hear every word she was saying but the overall tone changed and I heard her say "hospice".  Which made me forget everything else going on, instantly.  "Um, what?" I said out loud, to no one.  But I stayed in my seat.  Hospice??  I'm pretty sure that's when Anger started, ha, ha (but not like funny ha, ha).  Of course, you idiot, I yelled at myself.  You are such an idiot.  He's gone from a wheelchair to a Broda chair. A sit-to-stand to a Hoyer.  Mechanical soft to pureed.  You told yourself he was getting better but he's not. You knew better.  The signs were all there.  This one is totally on you.  You suck.

I remember once, a few years ago, when he was first in a long-term facility -- it was when my mom broke her hip and he was at the VA for a while, and I told the VA social worker that, as a nurse I had recognized he was showing signs of dementia but as a daughter I was having trouble "reporting" them to my Mom, know what I mean? And I remember the social worker assuring me that was a completely normal reaction, because I'm not his nurse, I'm his daughter.  It's not my job to assess him.  She assured me over and over again that I shouldn't feel bad about things like that.  But obviously, I still do.  I feel like, if I can't even take care of the people closest to me, what good am I as a medical professional?

Anyway, back to the story, because I've only got 20 minutes of my break left.  Usually after my mom finishes a phone call, especially one about my Dad, she'll come to the kitchen (my "office" when I'm WFH from her house) and update me, but this time she went back to the living room.  And usually I'll let her wait until she's ready to come update me, but this time I didn't. I marched my little "Now I'm In Mama Bear Mode" self into the living room, announcing, "I heard you say 'hospice' -- what is going on with THAT?!?" And she said, "Just give me a minute, and I'll update you."  

So I did. I went back to my "desk" (the kitchen table) and took a deep breath and went back to watching the Zoom meeting I was supposed to be watching.  

LONG STORY SHORT:  The attending provider and care team were recommending that my Dad undergo evaluation for admission (how many more words can I fit in here before I get to the ones I hate writing, ha ha) to the hospice program, because they felt that he "qualified" for it since he had declined "so much" since he had COVID.  They "sold it" as a good thing for him, because he would get extra care with an aide coming to see him at least once a week, and a nurse coming to see him at least once a week as well, and that he'd qualify for extra benefits through the VA and yadda yadda yadda.  

Now, I don't mean to sound so sarcastic with the words I put in quotes in the above paragraph.  As a so-called medical professional, you better believe that I strongly believe in the vision and importance of a good hospice program.  I whole-heartedly believe that is is so vitally important to focus on a person's comfort, happiness, and overall well-being, especially if they are in the end stages of their life on earth.  Take away the unnecessary medications, keep them comfortable, support them and their family in whatever their wishes are as they prepare to transition from this world to the next.

But it is a completely different story reaction when you hear that word in association with your own family. 

Even if you know it's going to happen at some point. Even if you know that point is going to be sooner rather than later.  Even if it's something you may have even wished for, in some ways, because you don't want your family member to suffer any longer. 

For the record, I felt the same way (to different degrees) recently when  I had to review/sign some documents for my parents' funeral pre-planning arrangements, and when I learned that my mom had officially made my dad DNR (if you don't know what that means, ask me another time because I don't want to explain it right now).  I agree, I just...seeing it in writing... it's becoming clearer now why Anger kicked in, is it not?

Anyway.  I think that happened on a Wednesday? And the evaluation was to take place on a Thursday and Friday.  I tell you what, I cried at least once every day after that.  On the Sunday after that, the hospice team asked to meet with my Mom to go over their suggestions, and I asked to be there, too.  Of course, their recommendation was to admit Dad to hospice.  I'll spare all the details for now because it was just a lot of explaining by the nurse and the social worker, and paper signing (none of which was really new to me, because I'd seen it all so many times from the other side and just kind of zoned out so I could be The Strong One for my Mom) and me asking my mom if she had any questions because I didn't want to have to explain it all to her once the social worker and the nurse left.  

The funny thing is, after the paperwork was signed and it was "official", I felt relieved.  I wasn't expecting that.  The overwhelming sadness and dread I had been feeling was still there but to a much lesser extent, and I just felt relieved. I'm still processing that one.  

So now, instead of the "My Dad's in a nursing home" thought popping into my head at random times, making me sad and angry and confused, the "My Dad is in hospice" thought pops into my head at frequent and random times, and usually makes me tear up and makes me sad and angry and confused.  I don't cry every single day anymore, but most days, I'd say.  And usually triggered by some specific random thought now, instead of any old random thought.  Like, at first I would have to force myself to think of other things or else my mind would just focus on that and I'd be a pool of sobbing sadness in a matter of seconds.  But now, it's kind of the opposite.  Most of the time, my thoughts aren't sad, but every now and then a thought or a memory will pop up for no apparent reason and I'll get teary-eyed.  It's all part of the process, I know.  The part One of the parts that sucks is that, for all of these times I'm going through all of these stages of grief, I know there is still going to be The Big One to go through. 

Oh my gosh, I could write so much more about this. There are more things I want to share! Like how sad my Dad looked the first time I visited him after the phone call mentioned above, how I was/am completely convinced that he knew/knows what was going on even though my Mom didn't tell him, and how that image of him still sticks with me and makes me cry and makes me feel like it's my fault.  Like he could read it on my face or something.  Or my sister...don't get me started on that right now.  But, I have to get back to work now. 

I'll have to update you on Max sometime, too, because he's not doing any better.  

So much I want to write about...so little time...

Stage 2: Anger

 

There are five stages of grief: 

1. Denial,

2. Anger, 

3. Bargaining,

4. Depression, and

5. Acceptance.

And another fun fact, in case you haven't had the pleasure 😩 of experiencing this personally, is that when you deal with someone who has dementia, you go through the grief stages many times.  That's one thing that sucks about dementia; it takes the person away from you bit by bit.  It's awful.  It's like the reverse of watching your kid grow up and learn new skills.  And every time you realize they've lost a skill, you go through the stages of grief to some degree.  

Last week I realized I was firmly caught in stage 2. Anger.  I couldn't remember at the time where in the scale it was, I just remembered that it was a stage. And that I was in it.  And still am.

======================================================

I wrote the above on 10/31/2023, and it is now 11/12/2023.  Now I'm angry for an entirely different reason: that I didn't finish my original thoughts from when I originally started this post! (Ha, ha, ha.)  Because I know I had some really good thoughts to share on Anger.  But now? I'm not feeling it as much.  Which is good, in a way, because going around being angry at everything really isn't a great way to, you know, function productively.   Which is kind of, you know, a requirement of adulthood, at least in my world, since we are not independently wealthy.  

Another comment I want to make about the five stages of grief real quick, before I publish this post, is that they aren't necessarily experienced in order, either. I don't think I've been in the bargaining stage yet.  At least if I have, I haven't recognized it as such.  But Denial, Anger, and Depression, most definitely; and Acceptance, begrudgingly yes.  Although I think my Acceptance is not so much "It happened, and I'm okay with it," as it is, "It happened (or it's going to happen), and there's nothing i can do to change it."  I guess I don't know if that still qualifies as "Acceptance" or not.  I'll ask a therapist someday, perhaps.

But for now, I am going to sign off and go to bed.  I couldn't leave those three paragraphs just hanging, nor could I find it in my heart to just delete them, either.  So, here you go! One of my shortest and shallowest blog entries ever.  I'll post a real update soon.

  

Speaking of loaded questions...

9 ways to ask "How are you?" (Summarized.)

1. How are you?

2. How are you doing?

3. Are you OK?

4. How's it going?

5. What's up?

6. Would you like to talk about X?

7. What's new with you?

8. It's been a while!

9. What have you been up to since we last talked?

Let go and let God?

Here's a fun fact that not many people know about me.  Well, I guess in a few seconds I won't be able to say that anymore, but that's my own fault for having the bright idea to share this random fact that has nothing to do with what's actually on my mind, but it's a nice random non-fiction segue that popped into my head while I was searching for an image to use for today's entry.

I used to be afraid of balloons.  "Afraid" isn't really an accurate description; they made me feel squeamish and nauseated and gave me what I can only describe as the heebie-jeebies.  I didn't want to see them, I didn't want to touch them, and I certainly did not want them filled with helium and tied to my wrist so they could follow me around like some sort of creepy brightly-colored awkward stalker.  

But everybody thinks kids love balloons, and I didn't want to seem weird, so I never said anything.  Besides, it wasn't the brand-new, sufficiently-filled balloons that I had the most beef with.  It was when they started losing their helium and would just kind of float around the house and end up in odd places that they started creeping me out. Or when they'd get misshapen.  Or, if someone was blowing one up and purposely over-inflated it so it popped.  Or if it was underinflated and they squeezed it so it made all sorts of weird aneurysm-type shapes (of course I didn't think of them as aneurysms at the time, but I don't know how else to describe them now).  

I don't know if this is coincidental or not, but it took me a long time to be able to actually blow up balloons as well.  Re-thinking it now, I'm pretty sure it was NOT coincidental. I'm still not a huge fan of balloons, but they don't gross me out anymore, and I can blow them up without any issues, and they don't make me want to puke.  I'm just indifferent, I guess.  I care about them now about as much as I care about, say, streamers...which is to say, not at all.  But back in the day, latex balloons filled with helium filled me with all kinds of dread.

In other news, I'm feeling pretty much better now.  I'm just tired all the time.  I never did have a fever like I did the other 2 times I had the 'vid, which is good.  My hubby never caught it this time, either.  I just had a few days of feeling "icky" for lack of a better term, and now I'm tired.  I'm still working from home, I go back to the office on Friday.  I'm so lucky to have a job in nursing where I can work from home!  

I also wanted to say that just because I do a lot of emotional posting and venting in my blog, doesn't mean that good and wonderful things aren't happening in my life, too.  Most of the time when I blog, it's to get things that are bothering me off my mind -- and why would I want to get the good things off my mind?!  💓  It always kind of surprises me when people respond to things they've read in my blog, because -- well, for one thing, I always kind of forget that other people actually read what I write.  And for another thing, sometimes there's a bit of a delay between when I write and when I post.  Sure, last week all I was all emotional about cleaning out the garage, but oh my gosh, that was so last week; this week I have something else bothering me that I have to write about so I can move on.  (Slight exaggeration.)  

One good thing that's coming up in a month is that the hubby and I are going to a NASCAR race!  We haven't done that for a few years; I miss it.  I think the last one we went to was at Road America, when we went camping and the bearing went out and we were stranded at the campground and then the camper ended up being in the shop the whole rest of the summer.  Wasn't that in the first year of COVID?  I know I wrote about it in here, but I don't feel like looking right now.  It might've been 2021 instead.  Regardless, we're going to the final race of the season, at Phoenix, and we'll be there one month from today!!  And I will be sad because it will be the last race that my man Kevin Harvick will be racing in, because he's retiring this year :(.  He's not even in contention for the championship this year.  But I don't care about that.  I've seen him win a race.  I hope I get to see him win another!

Another good thing is, remember a few entries ago when I said that my new provider started me on Ozempic?  That was way before the crap with my Dad started this summer.  That was back in March.  Well, I've still been on Ozempic through all of this and...drum roll please...I have lost a total of 47 pounds since starting Ozempic!  My BMI has gone from 37, which was Obese Category 2, to 29.1, which is Overweight. The size 18 jeans I was wearing back in March literally fall off me now.  I can see my kneecaps and my ankles!!  It's so weird.  And I'm not done yet, I still have 40 pounds to go to be at my goal weight (which is smack-dab in the middle of the "normal" BMI range for my height).  I hope to be there by March 2024.  Not that being on Ozempic has been horrible, but I can't be on it forever.  I mean, literally I can't be on it forever because once I'm at a "normal" BMI I won't qualify for it anymore. Ha ha ha.  Anyway...

I better get back to work. Break's over.  I didn't even vent this time!! Will have to make up for it next time.  Insert evil laughter here! 'Til then...

Not my first rodeo.

 

One thing I love about social media is that there are genuinely a lot of truly hilarious things out there.  Things I probably would never have seen otherwise.  One of my favorites is this statement:

I didn't realize I was supposed to know how to do everything by my second rodeo.

Seems like a very low amount of rodeos.

😄😄😄

I've been meaning to write another blog entry for a while, but I just haven't had time to sit and put my thoughts together.  Well, now I have a few minutes to throw a few words together and see what happens, because my latest lunchtime meeting got done early.  So here you go, in no particular order. 

1. Rona, how I detest thee.  This latest chapter starts on Monday morning when I was at work, getting ready for the first full day of a full week of clinic, when I got a phone call from my Mom.  She rarely calls me that early in the morning (not that it was the wee hours -- it was about 8am), so I knew Something was Up.  The nursing home had called and said they were sending my Dad to the hospital because he was "unresponsive and had a fever".  Unresponsive puts me into tachycardia and when it's used to describe someone I know and love, it makes me feel like my heart has just fallen straight down into my pelvis, but I didn't let on because my Mom was already freaking out.  She'd already told me that she'd seen him the day before and he said he didn't feel good and just didn't seem "right".  That was all she knew; she said she was going to give it some time then call the hospital to see what was going on.  I agreed that that was a good plan.  Then about an hour later, she called me and said that he'd tested positive for COVID.  And they were still sending him to the hospital. 

Long story short, today is Thursday and my Dad is still in the hospital. Improving -- he has COPD and some other lung issues, so was admitted due to hypoxia because of the 'vid and needed supplemental oxygen.  He is now weaned off the oxygen (although he needed it while sleeping last night) so I think the plan was to discharge him back to the nursing home today or tomorrow.  It sucks that I can't be up there to see him personally -- but I'm thankful for the online portal that allows me to see the notes made by his care team so I can keep up on these things ;) because even though my Mom goes up there every day (which is another story...), she doesn't get the same story I do.  I don't mean that in a bad way, it's just that, one of the advantages to being a nurse and to having been a hospital nurse is that I know "the other side".  It drives me absolutely crazy that I don't get to see the nursing home notes (and yes, I have asked) for that reason.  Anyway, I digress.  He's improving, that's the important part.

My mom tested negative on Tuesday morning, so she decided it's OK if she continues to go up to the hospital to visit him.  I could write a whole 'nother blog on THAT but I won't right now.  After notifying the proper management at work of the situation, I kept working in clinic on Monday and Tuesday in-person, but with a mask on and whilst attempting to socially distance as much as possible.  I tested negative on Tuesday evening and was asymptomic.  Wednesday, I worked from home as was already scheduled and started feeling a few symptoms that I mostly wrote off as pyschosomatic, but then I checked my temp before bed and it was 100.4*F.  So I notified my manager and the HR manager, and made arrangements to work at home instead of going into the office today. And this morning I tested and...hello, round 3! UGH.  Rona, how I detest thee.

I feel "ok" so far.  Throat is a little sore, my head hurts, I'm tired.  I don't have a fever this morning now.  I'm working from home.  My nose is running and my body aches.  Maybe this round won't be as bad.  Honestly, I wouldn't have even tested for the 'vid if I hadn't knowingly been exposed to someone who came down with it two days after I'd been with them last.

2. Dementia still sucks.  I have so many thoughts about this, I could write a book and I can't think of a creative and witty way to title it, except that it just sucks.  

So we've been cleaning out my Dad's garage.  I call it "my Dad's garage" even though technically it's "my parents' garage" seeing as how it's a part of the property they both own, I guess, but let's be honest: my Dad is the car guy. Was the car guy.  He was the mechanic.  Everything we're cleaning out in there is his.  Was his.  Are there things out there that belong to my Mom? Sure.  Technically.  But 99.7% of the things out there are his.  And it just feels wrong to be going through it all without him knowing about it, or without him there.  Most of it is being packed up and brought out to my place, where it will be either given a new home here, or eventually sold (and the money will be going back to my Mom).  

But cleaning out the garage is emotionally and physically draining for me in ways I can't even explain.  I suppose it will be the same way when I eventually have to clean out the house, too.  But the garage is different.  It is ALL only my Dad's stuff.  It has been eye-opening for me how little my Mom knows about my Dad's stuff out there, and how much *I* know about it.  KWIM?  Not that I'm an expert in any way, in fact my hubby is better at identifying a lot of the random things we find than I am...I don't know. It's hard to explain.  It's very hard not to talk to my Dad about it when I see him.  I want to tell him about all the cool things we're finding, and ask him about some of the cool things we're finding, but I can't.  Per my Mom's request.  It might make him upset. 

That's all I have time for, right now.  Work beckons.  TTFN!

I'm [not] a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world...

 

...and for really super real, I don't think you could pay me enough money to see that movie.  

OK, like, maybe you could? But I don't know how much it would take.  Because I've never been a big, like, Barbie fan.  Or a big, like, fan of the color pink.  Or a big, like, fan of doing things that are super, like, mainstream. 

I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel.

Just like everyone else.

Seriously, though.  Are there many other girls out there who can say they never owned a frickin' Barbie doll?  I can't be the only one!  I'm not saying I never ever played with them.  My sister had some, and she had the cool 70's townhouse with the inflatable furniture, and the motorhome, and maybe some other crap that I don't remember off hand.  I liked the motorhome because it was a big thing with wheels.  I liked the townhouse because my sister didn't want me touching it, heh heh heh, and she really hated it when I'd pull the elevator up to the top floor (the thing had like twenty floors, which in reality was only probably 3 or 4, but seemed like 20) and then let go of the string and let gravity slam it all the way down as fast as it could go. Sometimes with the dolls in it, sometimes not.  

But what I really only used the Barbie dolls for was for riding my Breyer horses.  And they pretty much sucked at that, too, because their hips had terrible range of motion and they didn't sit right on horseback.  And their heels would NEVER go down.  Which was sort of OK, I guess, because they didn't fit in the saddles anyway.  So mostly I'd get bored with trying to get the Barbies to play nicely with the horses and just ditch them and play with the horses.

However, I wouldn't mind seeing Oppenheimer.  😆

So, here we are, another week gone by.  The words "My Dad is in a nursing home" still flash through my head many times a day, but they don't make me cringe quite as much as they did at first.  Not every time, anyway.  I don't know, I guess I have to keep telling myself that because it still doesn't seem like it's true.  The person that I go visit there doesn't really seem like my Dad.  For the first few seconds when I get there, it looks like it could be my Dad.  But then he says something, and poof!  Gone.  Not the Dad I know anymore.  He even looks less and less like my Dad.  The guy I see now is in a wheelchair all the time.  The things he talks about, don't even really make much sense.  When I try to engage him in conversation (which is not my strong suit, even with people who aren't dealing with neuro-cognitive issues!) I have to work very hard to find topics that I think he might (a) find interesting at that specific moment in time and (b) be able to respond to appropriately and hopefully even (c) continue conversing about back and forth a bit.  Even his voice is different now.  He's quieter.  When I get there after work, it's always when they're in the middle of dinner, so the dining room is noisy and I have trouble hearing him and I usually always have to ask him to repeat what he says; most of the time, this frustrates him and he repeats himself with a louder, angrier tone. 

It just seems so unfair and there is so much I don't understand.  For instance: Why?

For background, I've always been a strong believer of the concept that everything happens for a reason. Seriously, always.  Way back when I was too young to even really understand what that meant, I believed it.  The "today years old" me (cringe) (because I hate the phrase "today years old") will stand up and say, that is clearly because the Holy Spirit was working in me, even way back then, before I even realized it.  But back then, I just knew it was something I felt super-strongly but couldn't explain and I didn't know why I felt that way but I just did and that was that.  I can, and have, looked at the bad things that have happened in my life and eventually been able to see the good that has come out of it.  Don't get me wrong, I'm simplifying it to the nth degree for the sake of this story, but that's a summary of my general goal in life: to try to focus on the positive.  To try to keep things homeostatic, if nothing else. 

And, I suppose this can be said of every chronic, terminal illness.  

But what is the  point of dementia?!?!

This is, obviously, a rhetorical question. I don't know what lesson this whole...thing is supposed to be teaching me us, but the curriculum seems very cruel and unusual.

If you think growing up is tough, then you're just not grown up enough...

 

The songs I get stuck in my head (and therefore use as blog titles) always make things sound so much more dramatic than they actually are.  Maybe that's why I keep using them.  Insert laughter here...

Today's title is from another Barenaked Ladies song, called Baby Seat.  It's kind of inspiring, actually.

You can't live your life in the baby seat,

You've got to stand on your own; don't admit defeat.

It's from the album Maroon (2000).  That was a good tour.  That was the first BNL concert we saw, I do believe.  That was many, many BNL concerts ago.  For serious; we've seen them so many times, I've lost count.  That's how good they are in concert.

Well -- that's how good they used to be in concert.  That was a long time ago, and at a large venue -- I think it was at the Target Center in Minneapolis?  The good news is that you can now see BNL in smaller, more intimate settings -- I believe the last time we saw them was at Mystic Lake Casino, from the third row.  

The bad news is that they're not really BNL anymore.  Not since Steven Page (former co-lead singer) left.  The side-bar good news from that is you can also see Steven Page in smaller, more intimate settings -- we've seen him twice at the Dakota in Minneapolis, and I actually much prefer his solo stuff to the "new" BNL stuff that's out -- but I digress.  This is not what I came here to write about.

I came here to write about that it is, indeed, tough growing up.  To give a quick update from my last blog post, my Dad "finished" rehab at the nursing home and was cleared to be discharged back home.  

What a joke that turned out to be.

So, he was discharged on a Saturday. I drove into town (it's so funny that I call St. Paul "town" now) to pick him up and bring him back to his house.  My mom had said that she personally had seen him stand up on his own without assistance and without any problems, up out of his wheelchair, many times, right?  And that was the hurdle to going home, was being able to transfer himself, and being able to walk a few feet at a time with the use of his walker.  All of which he could apparently do in physical therapy.  

The first red flag should have been that it took us like half an hour to get him transferred from the wheelchair into my car.  Mostly it seemed like he just didn't want to, which seemed more like a dementia thing than a physical thing.  But no, we were determined to get him out of there, so we pushed forward.

The second (and third and fifteenth) red flags should have been when we got him back to their house, and it took like literally an hour or so to get him from where the car was parked in the alley, to the back door of the house.  He just had, like, no strength in his legs. He was getting frustrated, my Mom was getting frustrated, I was trying to keep it together and figure out how to get him inside and NOT get frustrated like everyone else was.  He literally made it like 10 steps out of the vehicle and then we ended up getting his 4-wheeled walker, the kind that has a seat on it, and sitting him in there in order to wheel him up to the door.  Oh, I just made that sound waaaaay simple!  I forgot to mention that this involved going down a slight sidewalked incline, and that it was a hot day so we were all sweating, and I was trying to hold my Dad up and keep him from falling while also directing my Mom on things to grab because apparently, in her frustration, she completely lost the ability to formulate any sort of critical thought whatsoever.  And I mean that in the nicest way possible.

I mean, I still had faith that once we got him in the house and in the air conditioning, maybe rehydrated and fed and rested up, that he'd be okay again.

I'm a daughter first and a nurse second.

So we got him to the steps to go inside.  Three steps. That's it.  Sounds easy enough.  Except we were all exhausted and frustrated by that point.  My mom and I are both giving my Dad directions on what to do and trying to help, I'm kind of lifting him from the back to keep him from falling backward and she's trying to guide him from the front, and our directions are often contradicting each other and my Dad is usually doing something else entirely. And, once you get up the three steps, immediately to the left is the steps down to the basement, which my Dad is now terrified of falling down -- as we are all terrified of him falling down as well.  But, even though I've basically just lifted my Dad (who weighs about 250#) up the three steps and got him somehow into a kitchen chair at the top of those three steps (one of those kitchen chairs on wheels because my parents have had the same kitchen set since the early 80's), I don't feel like I could lift a feather, I know in my heart of hearts there is no way I'm going to let him fall down those stairs.  (Spoiler alert: don't worry, I didn't!)  

Reliving it now, just to write this, makes my muscles ache again.  

So no, he didn't fall down the stairs.  And in the interest of time, we did get him in the house the rest of the way.  Got him fed, rehydrated, eventually got him changed (into some summer clothes, he was still in sweatpants) and after a while, tried to get him settled into his new power lift recliner.

I knew I had the inner strength in me somewhere, because even though I was dead tired I knew I would've kept him from falling down the steps if I'd've had to.  So when it came time to help him transfer to the chair, and he just got tuckered out again after walking to the living room and we had to grab the walker again for him to sit on, and my grand idea to just have him pivot transfer to the recliner didn't work so well and I thought, no big deal, if I can just get him in the recliner, I can pull him into a comfortable position, everything will be alright.  Right?  I mean, this is what I used to do, working in the hospital.  Um, with assistance, of course, which I basically didn't have (yes, my mom was there, but she wasn't much help by that point) but if I could get him in a close-to-good spot, I could then pull him (with the help of gravity -- that new chair almost goes into trendelenberg!) into a better spot, et voila. Mission accomplished!

Except, no.  My inner strength failed me.  I couldn't move him an inch.  I tried so effing hard.  We got him into the recliner but couldn't boost him up where he needed to be.  My mom finally succumbed and called the paramedics for a lift assist. I hate calling the paramedics for a lift assist.  Three strong guys showed up and it took two of them 5 seconds to do what I couldn't do.  I'll quit beating myself up over that now.

Because the next morning, bright and early, my Mom called me and said she couldn't get my Dad out of the chair. Again.  And that she didn't know what to do.  That if she called the paramedics, he'd end up right back at the hospital and right back at rehab again and she didn't want that.  She said she was going to call and have him taken to the VA instead.  I eventually convinced her that if she was going to call the paramedics, she should still go to the local hospital and not the VA (I'll get into that another time). So that is what she did.

Short story long...they/we spent a few hours back in the ER, ruling out any acute causes for his weakness.  Again.  Nothing was wrong this time -- no new heart issues, no UTI, everything came back good.  The consensus was that he was still too deconditioned to go home without help in place because my Mom can't help him transfer/ambulate.  

So, I'm gonna speed this up a bit, or else I'll be telling the story for two weeks.  Ha, ha.  He was admitted as observation to the hospital, with the plan being he'd stay there until home health care could be in place to begin the day he was discharged back home.  But there were issues with that, and he ended up in observation for like a week before he was admitted to another unit while plans changed and he was awaiting placement back at the nursing home again.  This time in long-term instead of rehab.  For how long, we're not exactly sure; but, that's the plan.

And that's where we are right now.  Told you I was going to speed the story up.  ;)  About a week and a half ago, we moved my Dad back into the same nursing home he was at before, only this time he's in the locked "memory care" unit.  I have all kinds of feelings about that, which I will share at a later time.  He was in the hospital for about 3 weeks before going there, and that wasn't very good for him, either.  Believe it or not, this is actually better.  Maybe not for us, emotionally, but definitely for him.  

I feel like I've aged about 30 years in the last few months.  I don't know if 30 years is accurate; I don't know how old I feel, exactly. I just know I feel older. Like I've lost some of my youth.  The thing about dementia, in case you haven't had the pleasure of experiencing it yourself, is that you lose your person in stages.  

I remember the first time I realized I'd lost part of my Dad.  I don't remember exactly how long ago it was, probably 5 years or so?  I had been at their house after work, probably to go out for supper and visit and such.  And it was one of the first times that my Dad kept repeating himself in conversation with me.  I don't remember the exact question, it was probably something trivial like what my husband was up to or something, but when he asked me the same question less than five minutes later and I realized he was dead serious and didn't remember that we'd just had that conversation, I felt a cold chill go through my body.  Like a slap upside the head or something.  Like a confirmation, yelling at me, HEY IDIOT!  You know how you've been trying to deny that your Dad has dementia? TAKE THAT!!

I cried on the drive home that night.  Not for what had happened, necessarily, but for what was to come.  And for the first realization that I was starting to lose my Dad.  And ever since then, shards just keep falling away, slowly.  Sometimes in clumps, like in the last few weeks.  It's awful.  

My very first job in nursing, as a brand-new nursing assistant back nearly 30 years ago, was on a locked dementia unit.  I don't have time to ruminate right now, but I've always had a soft spot for people with dementia, and at the same time I've always prayed feverishly that none of my loved ones would ever be afflicted with this terrible illness.  And here we are.  

You can count on me to mess it up

No, not really.  Maybe.  It's from a song.  Because (and here I'm about to let you in on a little secret as to how I come up with these wildly imaginative blog titles) I just re-read my previous blog entry in preparation for writing this one, and the closing said something about "next time" which brought to my mind the Barenaked Ladies song "Next Time" which is now firmly embedded in my puny human brain.  So my first inkling was to use the chorus as my title, and I had actually even typed it out, but "You can always get it right next time, next time" didn't look as good in print as it sounded in my head, so I went with the first line of the first verse instead.  

You can count on me to mess it up, 

You can count on me to let you down again,

And in time you'll see that I'm your only friend.

But I don't want y'all to think I'm feeling down on myself at this very moment, hence this wordy over-explanation.

Remember that one time about a year and a half ago when I was blogging from my parents' house because I was staying with my mom because my dad was staying at a skilled nursing facility temporarily for short-term rehab after having been hospitalized for generalized weakness?  Deja vu!  That is exactly where I am right now, and for the same reason!  I was hoping to not make a habit out of that, but at least this time my mom isn't also recovering from emergency hip surgery, so that's a huge bonus.

The short-story-long version is that in late May, my Dad spent a few days inpatient at a local hospital for exacerbation of CHF.  He was basically refusing to get out of his recliner so my mom eventually ended up calling the paramedics to transport him to the local hospital for evaluation.  They ended up putting him on IV lasix and getting about 10 pounds of fluid off of him before deciding he should go to transitional care for rehab before going home.  I'm leaving a lot out on purpose.  My mom begrudgingly agreed.  He hadn't been getting around so well lately, prolly on account of all the fluid in his legs and feet making it hard to move.  (Again, I'm leaving a lot out. They're in the process of getting home health care set up but the people who have been coming out to see him don't really know his baseline yet, so, IDK. Bad timing I guess. IDFK.  I can see both sides of this argument so I'm going to stop myself right here.)  So for the last 2 weeks he's been at a...a...a nursing home.  Not the VA one where he was last time; this one is actually closer to home, and it's about a 6 minute drive from my office.  How handy!

And, we're not in the midst of a pandemic, and my mom is completely ambulatory and mobile, and there isn't a COVID outbreak at said facility -- so unlike last time, we can actually go and visit him all we want.  Unlike last time when we had to go a whole month without even seeing him, and I was sure that was going to be the death of both of my parents. 

Not that this has been what I would call "easy". If what we went through before was an 80 on a scale of 1-100, with 1 being the easiest and 100 being the hardest, this time is a solid 55 on a good day, and 65 on a bad day.  The worst part was when my mom realized that "TCU" and "short-term rehab facility" were just synonyms for "nursing home".  The second worst part was me seeing my dad in a nursing home.  I still haven't cried about it yet, but I'm going to, one day soon.  I used to cry about it, when I was a CNA working in a nursing home, taking care of people just like what my dad is like now, praying to God that my parents would never, ever, ever be in that situation.  Because, while I knew I was a caring, kind, respectful, empathetic CNA who treated people with dignity and compassion and talked to them like they were people and not just "work to get done", I worked with so many others who weren't like that, and it broke my heart.

But I digress, for now.  In case I haven't mentioned it yet, my dad has dementia.  So he doesn't make his needs known very well.  He's slow to answer and people get impatient and frustrated with that.  He doesn't understand what's going on or why.  My mom has anxiety and doesn't do well being away from my dad, nor does she really understand a lot of the things....well, a lot of the things that I understand. IDK how else to say it. 

And I have to get back to work for a second.  TTYL.

What did the momma tomato say to the baby tomato? Catch up!!

 

Here's a fun and totally irrelevant fact: when I was a kid, I loved eating plain ketchup.  You know how if you have fries or tater tots or whatever, you typically make a little puddle of ketchup next to it for dipping? I would do that, but then just eat the ketchup with my fork. And my parents would let me, because I was a picky eater. I don't have confirmation of this, but looking back on it, I suspect it was one of those cases where they were just happy that I was eating something.  

I used to do the same thing with grated parmesan cheese, when we had spaghetti.  I liked spaghetti noodles, but I didn't like the sauce.  My mom always made her own spaghetti sauce and put canned mushrooms in it, and I've never been a fan of canned mushrooms. She'd put other things in it, too, but I don't remember what else, and it's irrelevant anyways because I couldn't get past the mushrooms. So I would have noodles and grated parmesan cheese, but I didn't like them together (because the cheese doesn't really stick to the noodles if there's no sauce on them) so I'd have noodles and then a little pile of grated cheese.  

Changing subjects now, I decided that trying to play Catch Up and retrospectively write about everything I didn't write about as it happened over the end of 2022 until now just will not work for me.  This isn't my memoirs, it's a blog.  It's where I write about how I feel about what is happening here and now, not just a historical documentation of what happened in my life and how I recall feeling about it months later.

Although I will touch on the highlights quickly.  My hubby built two new rooms in the basement and we had new carpet installed down there just before Christmas -- it turned out awesome! Our basement was officially finished before, but it was basically one big 1000-sq-ft. room that the previous owners had set up (or at least staged for showing) as a big party room with a dry bar.  We didn't need that, so we turned it into a workroom for the hubby, a craft room for me, and we still have a generously-sized living room area (with a gas fireplace that was already there).  We had my parents and the boy over for Thanksgiving, and then we had my in-laws over for Christmas.  It was actually really fun! We had the house somewhat decorated and everything.  In January, my baby boy turned 25, and a week later he and his roomie came down with the 'Rona :(. I missed it that time, but about a month later, the weekend before Valentine's Day actually, the hubby and I caught it again.  (The first time we had it was in October 2021.)  It was not fun.  I will just say that it wasn't as bad as it was the first time, but it still sucked and I still would not wish it upon my worst enemy.  At least I didn't end up in the ER this time!  The coughing wasn't nearly as bad this time, but I was so incredibly tired.  I think I slept for like 3 days straight.  

What I've really wanted to come here and write about is that my new PCP (primary care provider) started me on Ozempic a few weeks ago.  That was actually a completely unexpected move.  We found out at the end of last year that our previous PCP (yes, the hubby and I used to have the same PCP) was leaving the clinic, and that the clinic was going to be making some major changes, undergoing new management.  I was really bummed because I liked our PCP and, more importantly, I liked the cocktail of drugs she let me get away with had me on and I didn't want to mess with that!  *ahem*

So I did what they suggested and made an appointment right away -- virtual, of course, because it was more convenient -- with one of the other practitioners.  And then, that practitioner cancelled my appointment the day before, stating that they wouldn't see me because I live in Wisconsin, and that they won't prescribe one of the medications I was taking.  (The living in Wisconsin thing is bullshit; even though the visit was virtual, when making the appointment they stated I would have to physically be in the same state as the provider and I said I could do that. I could do the video visit from work or even just drive across the damn border to be in Minnesota. I run virtual visits from the practice side all the time, I understand how that works. But nooooooo, suddenly that wasn't good enough?!)  So I was like, forget it, I'm going back to a "real" clinic.

Let me explain that real quick. It's not like our old clinic wasn't a "real" clinic.  It just wasn't affiliated with one of the big well-known health systems, KWIM?  It was technically a private wellness center, which was actually really nice because the co-pays were already taken care of so we didn't have to pay anything out-of-pocket when we went there, and they could do on-site labs, and send referrals for imaging and other diagnostic testing when needed, and they also had their own on-site pharmacy for which we didn't have co-pays, either.  (Which is another thing -- with the new year and the new management, the on-site pharmacy with no co-pays was going bye-bye.)  I will admit that I was leery of it at first, because I liked my hometown clinic where I knew the providers and the system and the routine, but I got used to the wellness center and driving into the cities just to go to the doctor, even though it was a pain in the butt, but it was kind of on the way if I had to go to work anyway.  However, with all of the good parts starting to crumble, as I was starting to say, I decided I was going to go back to the hometown clinic where I know the system and the routine.  We've since moved to a different town so I don't know the doctors anymore (and even if we hadn't, I haven't worked there for over 7 years so not many of the ones I knew before are even still there anyway!) but that's OK.  Fresh start and all.  

As it turns out, there's a clinic in our network about 10 minutes away from home.  Perfect!  Because let me tell you, there is not much else that is 10 minutes away from home out here.  And I feel better just knowing that the next time I'm sick or if I get hurt or something and feel like I should go see "my doctor", I can just zoom into town instead of trekking to the cities.  

So, I met her for the first time a few weeks ago.  And, I mean, it's no secret that I'm overweight. I can't exactly hide that, and if you're reading this you probably know me in person or have at least maybe seen pictures of me on FB.  So long story short, while we were going through meds and stuff - and I remember this clearly because it wasn't on my mind as something to discuss -- she busts out with, "Do you want to try another medication for weight loss?"  Because yes, I was on a medication for weight loss at the time, but it wasn't doing jack squat for helping me lose weight.  It made me feel GREAT!, and I wasn't gaining weight while taking it, but I wasn't losing, either.  But I digress...

"Um...I would not be against that," or something along those lines, is what I think I replied.  It may have been a resounding, "YES!" or I may have been trying to keep my cool, I honestly don't remember.  

I'll have to finish this later. Break's over. 

============================================

Ha ha ha, break was over about five days ago.  Such is life.  So to pick up where I left off, my new PCP offered to start my on Ozempic. I hadn't heard much about it until then, honestly. I went into that appointment resolved to be completely honest with my new PCP, provided that I felt comfortable with her (which I did), and committed to being open-minded with whatever she suggested, but honestly I thought it would go more toward adjusting my mood meds.  

And let me just take a moment here and say that even though I myself am what they call a "health care professional", I am NOT one of those people who will go into an appointment and say, "My problem is this, and I need this."  It is not in my scope to diagnose.  :)  I might internally self-diagnose, but for the record, I am leaving that to the more educated professionals.  I'm their patient, after all.  

So...yeah.  We had a good long discussion about the GLP1 class of medications and how they work, and I agreed to start this new medication, in place of one of my previous medications.  

GLP1 stands for glucagon-like peptide 1. Ozempic is a GLP1 agonist (although the term "agonist" is frequently left off in casual discussion) meaning that it mimics the action of a hormone called, guess what? Glucagon-like peptide 1.  The generic name for the main ingredient in Ozempic (and Wegovy, and the oral formulation called Rybelsus) is semaglutide.  Semaglutide was originally developed to help people with type 2 diabetes, because it helps stimulate the body to produce more insulin after eating, which helps lower blood sugar levels.  However, it was found that people also lost weight while taking semaglutide.  Apparently researchers aren't exactly sure why yet; it is known that semaglutide slows gut motility (the movement of food from your stomach to your small intestine) which makes you feel fuller faster and longer.  It's also been shown to lower the risk of heart disease in people whether they have diabetes or not.  People have reported decreased appetite while taking semaglutide.  So, it is also now prescribed for weight loss -- and embarrassingly, for serious weight loss only.  Not just to drop 20-25 pounds. 

However, there are a couple of issues, as there always are with medications.  For one thing, Ozempic and Wegovy are once-weekly injections.  I mean, I personally don't have a problem with that, but I'm a nurse; I've given countless subcutaneous injections, to others.  I didn't have a problem signing up for something that meant giving myself injections once a week.  I especially love that it's only once a week, and I can get rid of a daily medication (that I was worried I was addicted to, anyway) in it's place.  Problem number two is that it's only brand-name right now, so it's pretty expensive, even with good insurance.  Problem 2a, we'll call it, is that Ozempic is not FDA-approved for weight loss, but Wegovy is, and during our discussion my PCP said those two words that no one who works in healthcare wants to hear: "prior authorization".  

Turned out not to be an issue. :) And no, I don't have diabetes.  I don't know what happened on the inside, all I know is she sent my prescription to the pharmacy at almost 5pm on a Friday, and with my knowing how the whole prior authorization thing can work from the clinic side, I figured that it wouldn't get approved until the next week, maybe Tuesday or Wednesday.  So imagine my surprise when I got a text from the pharmacy on Saturday afternoon saying my prescription was ready to be picked up!  Cue the choirs of angels singing, that was truly a miracle!

Anyhoo, I'm rambling now.  That was about 5 weeks ago.  I'm not incredibly open about this in real life, but then, it's not like I tend to go around in real life saying, "Hey! Guess what medications I'm on?!"  I did tell my two officemates at work because I was pretty nauseated at first and I wanted to let them know I wasn't down with something contagious.  I told my parents, because I have dinner with them once a week or so and wanted to explain why I suddenly had no appetite.  Oh, and I, um, decided to start documenting my journey on TikTok because I wanted to document it somewhere with photographic evidence, and quite honestly, I did look at some FB "support" groups but they were all total and complete rubbish.  So I guess I am open about it in real life, but not necessarily to people I interact with every day in real life.  If that makes sense.  

But I want to document it in writing, too, because I'm just more comfortable in writing than I will ever be at monologuing.  Is that the right word? Vlogging? Talking to an imaginary audience? Whatever. So here I am.  

And again, another break is over.  I'm going to post this, though, otherwise it's going to sit for another five days without being updated, and I'm going to change my mind and not publish it.  I'll share my updates and side effects next time. 

TTFN!

Rona Round 2...but first, look what cat I dragged in!

Ugh. That is all.

Except it's not "all".  I haven't written in here since November, I'm not going to just leave it at "Ugh". 

Let's see...the last time I wrote in here, we had just brought the horses home.  Nothing else major to report there.  Everything has gone fine.  I believe the last line of that blog was something like, "...and I didn't even get to tell you about the new cat!" so that sounds like a good place to start.

We have a new cat! 

Ha, ha, ha.  I crack me up.

Alright, alright.  Well, if you're friends with me on FB, you've already "met" Sierra.  The Monday night before Saturday we had scheduled to move the horses, I was at Monday Night Bible Study (which is 100% online) and one of the other participants -- whom I didn't know very well at the time -- asked if anyone needed a cat.  What timing! I still don't have the tabby twins here (which is another long story) (not really but...well at least you haven't missed anything there) and I just had it in my head that I had to have horses and cats here at the same time.  So I said -- Sure, we can rehome a barn cat that needs a new barn to call home!  

Because that's what she was at the time.  A young cat that someone had apparently dropped off and had found her way to my friend's barn, and was trying to be friendly with the resident barn cats, who wanted absolutely nothing to do with her.  So my friend wanted her to find a new home, because she couldn't stay there.  And that's how we got a Sierra.  

Sierra was a very friendly little cat at first.  She loved everyone, especially Maxwell, and the horses.  She had no fear of anything.  She'd rub all upon the horses and around their legs and she'd follow Max around the yard like his shadow, and every chance she'd get she'd try to get into the house, but we were adamant that she was a BARN cat.  She had to stay outside.  

Most of the time. 

Except that sometimes during the day, if I was home, I'd let her inside for a little bit.  She was fine, she just followed Max around, and when he curled up to sleep, she'd curl up next to him. And when he wanted to go outside, she'd go outside with him, and they'd both do their thing out there, and come back in.  

One Saturday, Sierra was up by the house, trying to follow us into the truck as we were getting ready to leave. I don't remember where we were going.  I had to actually kick her out of the truck and close the door quickly before she could jump back in, and I watched her in the rear view mirror as we drove away. She looked so forlorn and abandoned.  Goofy cat, I thought.  Just go back to the barn with the horses, you'll be fine.  

However, I didn't see her for about three days after that.  Which was very strange, because as soon as you even touched the door handle, she would be on the other side to greet you.  If she somehow missed that cue, you only needed to say her name or "kitten!" or the like, and she'd come bounding out of the shadows of the barn to rub up against your legs and beg for pets and scritches.  So for there to be no sign of her at all after we got home, it made me sick to my stomach.  I didn't know if she got carried off by a hawk or an eagle or an owl or a dog or something, or what.  I just knew that the more time that went by, the more I missed her.  

You'd think I'd know better than to get attached to barn cats by now.  But nope.  If I feed you, and name you, and you purr at me, that's it.  It's done.

So...imagine how I felt a few days later when I was scrolling through FB, and on the local town group, there's a picture of a cute little grey tabby cat with a caption that said, "FOUND: Very friendly female cat. Gets along with other cats and dogs. Found at [name of our road] in [name of our town]."  It was like 10 o'clock at night and I'm all, THAT'S MY CAT! THAT'S SIERRA! THAT'S MY CAT!! So of course I messaged the person, and it turns out to be the girlfriend of one of my next-door neighbor's sons.  And poor Sierra, I forgot to mention that she'd had a yucky upper respiratory infection at the time that she was on antibiotics for, so she was also all sneezy and wheezy and goopy and she showed up on our neighbor's deck looking all cold and pitiful, and they took her in thinking she had been dumped by someone, or something, because they didn't know us very well yet and didn't know we had just adopted this cat not even a week prior.  She was literally next door the whole time.  And I hadn't even met the neighbors yet because we're all introverts, but my need to get this cat back overtook my social anxiety and I actually went over there (the next day after work...) all by myself to collect my kitten, and chatted with the neighbors for a while, like we exchanged phone numbers and everything, and it all turned out really well.

And then I went home with Sierra in my arms, and walked in the house and set her down in the living room.  And my hubby said, "So you're putting her back out in the barn now?" and I said, "Nope!" and that's how Sierra became a house cat. :D

Max has adjusted.  He's been an Only Dog and the Only Inside Pet since September 2020.  He's coexisted with the barn cats just fine -- that is, without Luger.  (Luger was our other dog, who died in September 2020. Luger H-A-T-E-D cats. When Max was with Luger, Max would also hate cats. But without Luger, Max is fine with them. Go figure.)  As I mentioned before, Miss Sierra has loooooved Max since day one.  He wasn't quite sure what to make of that, especially once she stayed in the house all the time.  It's been a few months now, so he's pretty much used to her.  She seems to think the world of him and he's like -- meh, okay. Whatever. 

It's weird, though. We haven't had a house cat for a while.  Not since shortly after we got Luger, anyway! She's a good little cat.  She just got spayed last Friday (today's Monday) which is awesome because she was going into heat like every other week.  She seems to have allergies or something because she's still kind of sneezy and wheezy, but we'll work on that now that she's spayed.  

Alright, that's all I have time for now.  I'll get to the rest later. TTFN