Morning

The grim reaper must have been clearing his backlog.  But, at the time I would peer into Chandler's face and search for something that would give me a hint of the timeline ahead.  On the first weekend I did little else besides lie next to my orange kitty.  Husband, between the other chores sat with me listening to our cat's soft breathing.  On Saturday night I slipped out of bed and brought my pillow next to Chandler who lifted his groggy head and massaged me for a few moments with his front paws.

On Sunday night Husband joined me and we slept toe to toe on the L-sectional sofa with Chandler between us.  I never said anything out loud about it to Husband, but it was critical to me to be there when he slipped into his final place.  I woke up a millon times when I thought I heard labored breathing.  Many times, as it turned out over the next several days, I shook Husband awake to say goodbye.

Reality

When the work week started I rushed home in the evenings and usually found Chandle under the desk.   Weeks later I flipped out when I discovered that Jack, without authorization from me had advertised on Craigslist to hire someone to crawl under the desk, pry Chandler out and take him outside for fresh air. But, I was oblivious to her schemes.

With the pending threat of an animal control officer coming to haul Stinky away, I gently suggest to Chan that he just go ahead and go to sleep.  My pleas involved promises to find him on the other side, or if he came back as another kitty to bring him back home. Every morning I woke up and he raised his head when he heard the coffee grinding.

Husband and I had two consecutive evening appointments that week. We agonized over the conflict, but when we came home Chan raised his head from the couch.

Husband thoughtfully dug the grave, and went to the Japanese gardener and brought home two maples to plant over Chan.  We all held on until the weekend and repeated the vigil.  Almost simultaneously, Mrs. W., Jack's ninety year-old friend and neighbor of forty years slid into poor health.  Jack visited the neighbor daily and so husband and I fell out of the habit of eating dinner with her.  Jack seemed to be coping with all the sickness, and was a good friend to Mrs. W.

On Monday morning, I couldn't bear to leave Chandler on the couch while we were at work.  Husband was equally fearful, but he imagined if Chandler died the other animals might panic or harm the body.  It was realistic to anticipate the worse.  So, husband and I decided that we would put Chandler into our still, cool bedroom during the day behind our locked bedroom door.

I dreaded how Jack might react.  I begged husband to just slip out the door with me since Jack was still in her bedroom.  But, he shook his head and said he would tell her and she would just have to accept the decision. I had an inadequate amount of time to prepare for Jack's shreiking: "No, no, let him stay out".  Then, as she met husband's firm resistence she started to wail: "No, no that is cruel.  All yellow cat ever wanted was his freedom." She sobbed: "when Papa was sick we didn't lock him into his room. No, please let me stay with him."

I wept over the horrible way my cat's life was ending.  I picked him up and took the little weightless package of orange kitty and brightly covered towels  to the desk as Husband and his mother attempted to out shout each other.  I crawled under the desk and placed Chandler as far back from harm as I could as Husband shouted to his mother that she was incapable of controlling the situation if Chandler died.

Husband found us and convinced me to take Chandler back to our room, just moments before Jack came wheeling back in a rage, repeating injustices she imagined which seemed to apply more to herself than the cat. That's when it really got ugly between them.  It ended the way those conflicts do, with slammed objects, anger, awful words, and whimpers.

In the evening I was terrified to open the locked door.  But, wouldn't you know it, when I did, it was cool and serene and Chan lifted his sweet head to greet me.  I brought him out and showed Jack that he was okay, and suggested she might want to say goodbye.  She stroked his head with her gnarled fingers and turned away.

The next two nights, I placed my swaddled kitty by my pillow,  I continued reasoning with him, nudging him to gently slip into a peaceful slumber, as I stroked his fragile little shell.  Silly me.  Chandler's death was violent, loud and protracted. So unlike my playful orange kitty.  I am grateful that it happened at 3:00 a.m. while Jack slept, on my watch after all.

We buried Chandler with the Japanese maples.  When the sun rose, it was the most glorious morning.

Mrs. W. died three weeks later.  Stinky died too.

Passages

Besides my husband, my mother-in-law and I have little commonality.  Nevertheless, while we hardly share the same parental approach, Jack and I both are devoted to our furry beasts.[1]  Living together means I encounter open cans of cat food in the linen drawer and Stinky’s accidents in the hallway just outside our bedroom, and she circumvents my rules about “treats” for my animals by delivering them behind my back.
 

Most days we tolerate the situation.  The five animals, two of them hers and three of ours of course, were oblivious to our gripes and settled happily into their routines and territories.  We are blessed that few conflicts arose between them.

My favorite cat, Chandler adapted very well to this place once we accepted that leaving him unrestrained around the house meant that he could graze at Jack’s cat’s food all day, and escape into the backyard on occasion.  Jack expressed her fondness for Chandler, by giving me a daily recap of his escapades, irking me by referring to him as “Yellow Cat,” even though his pelt was more vibrantly orange than a pumpkin.

Jack and I both noticed around the same time that Chandler seemed to be under the weather, but he bounced back and life went on in its warped way here at this house. Except that late one night past nine o’clock I saw an alarming bloody discharge from his nostril, and became concerned about his lack of energy. Husband and I made the decision to go to the emergency veterinarian and pay through the nose for tony Westside animal healthcare. After receiving hundreds of really serious dollars for blood tests and x-rays, the sleepy doctor had no definitive answers. When the antibiotics and other treatments failed to produce any noticeable difference, a few days later I took Chandler back to another veterinarian at that same practice, this time concerned about his swollen left eye, and greater degree of lethargy. 

In response, the vet gave him a large dose of prednisone, and Chandler came home as good as new, even though there still was no diagnosis. With a lump in my throat I say that I so regret that I didn’t appreciate those couple of days when he was his irascible self. Sadly, he declined really quickly losing interest in food, and shunning all human contact by hiding far underneath low furniture. Jack tried to prod him into eating. I know because I came home to find Tupperware lids with uneaten cat food shoved as far as she could manage towards him.

I surmised that Chandler’s life was coming to end. Coping was so very hard for me and my husband, but it became unbearable with Jack’s continual questions about what we were doing to fix our cat.  While we were at work, Jack continued to hover over him, attempting to tempt him to eat or drink, unwilling to accept defeat.  

Naturally, during that week were not left alone with our sadness. Someone else reported Jack to the authorities for animal abuse with respect to Stinky, and an animal control officer arrived at the doorstep to do a fourth investigation about his lack of fur.  I panicked at the thought of a raid, but Jack managed to get a letter from Stinky’s treating doctor attesting to his auto immune disorder, and absolving Jack of negligence.

Jack triumphantly displayed the letter from the good Dr. F., and announced how she would carry multiple copies to hand out to the well-meaning busybodies.  Yes, for Stinky, the crisis was averted.

The next evening after work Jack cornered me as I sat holding Chandler. “Take him to Dr. F. to see if he can make him better,” she pleaded, “I’ll pay.”  Overwhelmed, I broke away from her strong will, and retreated into my sorrow.  But, in the morning I was faced with my uncertainty and guilt about not grasping every lifeline for my precious Chandler and I made an appointment with Dr. F.  

By this point, Chandler was diminished in size and his eye was bulging.  The good doctor studied him and asked about the earlier doctors’ tests and conclusions. Well, we could do an MRI and cat scan he offered.  No more tests, I wanted the bottom line. Without the tests, Dr. F.’s best educated guess was lymphoma, and that Chandler was dying, most likely from a tumor behind his eye.  I asked for palliative treatment and I was sent home with more prednisone and an I.V. to administer fluids.

Amazingly, Chandler rallied. The next morning when my husband made breakfast for the other animals, Chandler weakly lifted his head and wobbled over to his food bowl.  Twice a day, husband administered the pills and somehow I found the strength to give him the IV. Jack was overjoyed. 

But, Chandler wasn’t really well. He started to bump into things from the blindness in his left eye. He completely stopped drinking water, so we hydrated him with an eyedropper. Gradually he became weaker and frailer and then lost interest in his food. For over three more weeks we tried to care for him, but were left helpless as he faded away more each day.

When he couldn’t walk any more we left him bundled on the couch in blankets and Jack found comfort in looking over him, and stroking him with her gnarled fingers.  Husband and I grimly faced the inevitable day ahead and discussed where we’d bury him. Husband prepared the place and we waited.

---

[1] Stinky is predominantly without fur, but you catch my drift.

Inside Our Fridge

Brief

As a person reared in Los Angeles, I naturally duck and cover when life gets shaky.  And, so I have for all this quarter year 2012 avoided exposing my angst, lest my soul gets choked with my debris. I have not generated anything newsworthy to report about my life with Jack. Pity parties are so pathetic, and don’t lead to solutions.  The result is a life pretty raw and unresolved.

Distance and Reach

I took husband’s cousin’s exasperated call.  She, an esteemed professor who lives in Virginia was in Los Angeles for professional reasons, but made time to take her African-born husband and young son across town to lunch with Jack. Following the date, she asked my mother-in-law for driving directions from the Westside to the Wilshire Grand hotel in downtown LA. Go figure.  She spent hours with Jack. It is pretty obvious that Jack is in a wheelchair.  Her advice was S#(@!  So, after the cousin ended up in a ghetto she called our cell phone.  Because husband was driving at the time, I, the passenger picked up and coached her back to Wilshire. I am quite sure I will never be recognized for my contributions. She got her family to the hotel without incident. My point, why would you count on Jack for directions? 

Okay, she may inspire confidence because nothing seems to deter her from getting from point A to point B.  Just by way of example, she had the notion that she wanted husband to celebrate his birthday at brunch at the Magic Castle.  After a few calls she realized that an invitation from a member was required for us to get a reservation.  She tried to score a connection through her sole entertainment-business buddy, Marge, a neighbor who appears in headache commercials.  When Jack, deflated, reported the dead-end I tried to come up with alternatives. A day or two later, however, husband mysteriously received a calling card from a Magic Castle member.  A little digging revealed that Jack advertised in Craigslist for the invitation.

Similarly, few things come between the old lady and a snack.  If the object she desires is on a high shelf or in the back of the refrigerator she jimmies it out with my late father-in-law’s cane. Though she cannot shop in supermarkets, the market gladly comes to her bearing a tower of food bins delivered directly into the kitchen. If it’s an apple pie from McDonald’s she is craving she’ll pay someone to score it for her.

Once, when I was newly married to my husband and my father-in-law was still alive, Jack became furious with the slow service at a neighborhood Chinese food restaurant. But, when it became clear that she meant to wheel into the kitchen to yell at the staff, my husband--who is quite strong--grasped a wheel and kept her at the table.  From a family dynamic perspective, it is interesting to me that my late father-in-law did not attempt to prevent her from making that scene, and my husband, who is a pacifist, did. 

As a daughter-in-law, I have always chafed against that strong disposition. For example, for years I have begged her not to feed my animals because she feeds them toxic treats to excess. But, her will to feed them overshadows my reasonable request.  Fortunately, we have few outright conflicts these days.  A recent one however is quite silly as I put it to paper.  She, husband and I were in the kitchen, as husband and I were pulling dinner together from her recent, crazy supermarket delivery. She suddenly gassed the lever to the wheelchair, backed up without any thought and pinned me against the open door of the refrigerator.  I screamed and yelled for her to stop her recklessness.  Her retort was something snide.  My poor husband.  As I stormed off, he explained to her I was under a lot of pressure at work. Yeah.

Appearances

While I am not acutely self-conscious, I generally try to present my best side, most of the time. My mother's first career in the fifties was as a beautician, a concept that has as much resonance today as the three-martini lunch. I surmise that those were different times. And she was beautiful. When she left our house she was flawlessly dressed, with her styled hair and fresh application of lipstick. She and my father were also very conservative, in the middle class Catholic sense. For me and my sisters that played out as strict curfews, long hemlines when minis reigned and an immaculate mien. While naturally I rebelled, my picque with their directives only extended as far as they tried to control my social lifestyle. For some reason much of the rest of it stuck, and today as I type this on my Ipad I am making an appearance in court as a member of one of the most buttoned down professions, in a black wool crepe suit.

I experienced a magnificent rush of love for my husband soon after the start of our courtship despite his scuffed, inexpensive shoes with broken shoelaces and his dingy shirts and frayed cuffs. He demonstrated his love for me by cleaning up, and still does--most of the time. Fifteen years after our hookup I still experience a significant culture clash with the in-law nonchalance. I've described at length how the house resembles Miss Havisham's. My mother-in-law is a sight to behold as well.

Yesterday at dinner we were recounting what a drag it was to come home after a perfectly lovely afternoon to another animal control officer on the door step investigating yet one more animal abuse complaint about Stinky. My mother-in-law chimed in. "People stop me on the street and ask me if I have enough to eat," she craggled with an air of disbelief. "Do you think" said I, "it's because of that big hole in your shirt and because you don't comb your hair?" Oy vez.

Minutia

Give me the cursed and flawed Broadway play, Turn Out the Lights, I could do something with it.  I know I could save it.  Action, drama, character flaws. My life is less than epic.  Picking up the pace would be welcomed. I pick up filthy forks from the floor. 

I had my first meltdown. I cried. Over the unrelenting unsanitary condition of the kitchen, compounded with the fleas that Jack’s cat doled out to my animals.  I must add that I had an extraordinary event that week—another lawyer was physically violent and insane towards me and my client during a deposition. That, not Jack put me over the edge.  We had a long weekend to regroup, and to gain some perspective. 

Husband soothed the way he knew how. He cleaned our room and authorized the hiring of a housekeeper. I flipped through the MLS for affordable condos.

The Husband Weighs In: Magma, I'm Home

Husband guest-blogging here.

 

Just got new job.Gonna have at least one 12-hour day a week, probably two. Biggest concern? Wife's cranium.

 

It is routine for the first one home from work to encounter paper plates of dessiccated cat food on the floor, a lamp knocked over by a wide turn in the electric wheelchair, half-empty cans of dog food entertaining flies in the kitchen, CNN blaring on tv and 96.7 ("The way--uuh-aaave") on the radio.

 

All quickly remediable, but tedious and not fun to come home to after slaying the red-eyed dragon that is the westbound 10.  This is especially true for my wife, as these are mother-in-law quirks we're talking about.

My wife's private space was reduced to one bedroom when we moved in, and I fear she might blow like Kilauea one of these days. Gotta get her out of this place, if it's the last thing we ever do. But the stars are not yet aligned, and the fact is everyone is trying their best to make it work -- orange cat, other cat, mom's cat, Stinky, Superdog, my best half, the old bat and me.

 

Will my new hours stir up the magma? I hope not.

To Be Honest Witch You

Life deals plenty of place markers. When I was first married I took great care to select keepers. That, in retrospect is a challenging task when you are in your twenties. Really, the adult hologram looks at that first wedding and sighs. Yes, I know they were meaningful to me when I was twenty-five. Not so now. I look at photographs and count seven people who are still alive and actively part of my life. I am a big town girl who lived in more than one country. I've lived with a different reference point.

So now I am chagrined about the headspace that Carlotta and Alex siphon from my brain? These are Jack's two caregivers. They are both hardworking women. Carlotta has the weekend shift. She has never been a minute late to her afternoon shift. I trust that she will care the best way she can for my mother-in-law and that should suffice. But, I fret.

Part of her pattern with Jack means that she shares weekend dinners with us. Thankfully, husband and I always have an away Saturday dinner plan and so she and Jack cook up some fast food adventure. Come Sunday it is a different story.

Left to my own I would be happy to cull the fridge, make a lovely Sunday repast of leftover
parts made into salads, pate and delicasies. But, I halt when I hear, "to be honest witch you" ... "I don't eat fish" ... "I don't eat pork"...to be honest witch you...."

Cassie skulks in the morning when we are gone, at 11:45 am to deliver her services mid -week, and weekday evenings around 8 pm when she finishes her shift at the fancy house in the Palisades. She also is remarkably responsible with time. She hates me. The situation should be explained some day when she and I are both earning over 200 k. Meanwhile, suffice to say she is a bitch. A bitch who strikes me as singularly motivated by the dream of a Bakersfield tract house. To be honest witch you.

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