Quick! Phoebe's at Petco!

Phoebe is back among us! Hurry! We have to get to Petco!

I was there about an hour ago and this cat is so Phoebe when Feebs was about four months old. And when did Phoebe die? Something like five or six months ago, wasn't it?

Not only that, but the late lamented Midget, a tortie, has reappeared in the same batch. As I've learned to love Taylor, I've learned to hold dear the memory of Midgie, a cat who suddenly appeared in the Florida household. She was a tortie terror, but oh, she loved Xman so much. Between beating the tar out of the other cats, I mean.

Help! Phoebe! Petco! Must go now!

Oh, I know I'll resist. But I remember now that this is why I should not go into Petco. Unfortunately, it's the only place where I can pick up Hill's Mature Hairball formula. I mean, I've only seen it sold in pet stores and they always have cats there. Some I can resist, but this one is sooo hard...

Cumulative Effects

Yes, I know I'm depressed. Yes, I have an appointment today with my psychopharmacologist, aka, my shrink.

Yesterday was hard. I realized that I am not over Katy's death and I am not over Phoebe's death. The Taylor scare was almost a direct hit on her scrawny hide and if I didn't have her to press to my heart now, would be in another tally column.

I realized last night and this morning that I have had a lot of unpleasant things happen to me that I've yet to recover from. Part of this is because I've been in a battlefield situation for the past 11 years. I'll spare myself and everyone else the fact that this has been going on since, oh, 1956.

And I also just realized that I don't want to do a year-by-year toting up of the sad, bad stuff. It's sufficient (and avoidant behavior) to say that a lot of bad stuff has happened and I haven't had time to recover from one bad thing when another bad thing bounces its way into my cave like a hand grenade.

I only know that it has left me sad and exhausted.

Along with the grenades jumping around like Mexican jumping beans, I have to deal with the fact that Everyone's Gone to the Moon is a way of life for me at certain times of the year. I think it's fair to say at this point in my life, I will not suddenly become Miss or even Ms. Popularity and will have to sit in my boudoir with my morning chocolate fetched by my maid, creasing my pretty little forehead with worry over which invitation I will accept. EGttM days are hard on me. I thought I had prepared for this one, but it didn't work out that way. And I didn't have the emotional wherewithal to pull together a Plan B.

I know that if another grenade gets tossed into the cave, I'll deal with it. It's what I usually do. Only I have to figure out a better way of dealing with them than throwing myself on them, belly-down. Throwing them out of the cave doesn't seem to be an option.

I realize this sounds like it's out of self-pity, but it is actually a question. Asked of the universe (silent, as usual) and God (silent, as usual), but I wonder when I'll get a break. Worse yet is the thought that maybe I've had a break. That I'm having one now and not a psychotic break. That would require too much energy and the tank is on E at the moment.

When I consider breaks I would like (right now I'm thinking of a massage in a glass-windowed room overlooking the prow of an ocean liner in the Caribbean), I realize how unlikely they are.

Then I go off to brush my teeth, take a shower, and go to work. And be grateful that I have a job to go to.

I think that overall, this stuff is going to add up and become its own grenade. And it's going to be one big motherfucker.

Ever the optimist, c'est moi.

Phoebe 2000 - 2010

My girl died in my arms this morning. She was gently helped by a tranquilizer and ...well, an overdose of something.

I woke up three times during the night to try to help her breathe. I dosed her with albuterol repeatedly. We sat in the steamy bathroom that was so foggy, it made the smoke alarm outside the closed door go off half a dozen times.

Every breath for her was a Herculean effort.

I rushed her to the vet.

I knew it was time when she began hiding from me this morning. But she died encircled by my arms. I asked her to wait for me at the Bridge.

I will miss her "brrip?!" when I touched her, the immediate switch on her purr box when I said her name. I will miss her soft gray fur and her comic games. The girl had a sense of humor.

There don't seem to be enough words to talk about the goodness of this cat, to fully explain to you how affectionate she was. That whenever I bent my forehead to her head, I felt the light rasp of her tongue on my forehead. I loved her so much. And so she loved me.

What a good, good girl she was! And how lucky I was to know her.

Phoebe Again

Phoebe is going to the vet this morning.

She had a horrible night last night. She's doing a little better right now, but that just means that she doesn't rasp and grasp for each breath.

I'm going to leave her at the vet's for the day. And while she's there, I'm going to ask them to x-ray her lungs again to see if the lump on her right lung has grown.

I think I have a decision to make today.

Think good thoughts about a pussycat.

Phoebe Girl

This morning, I only had to dose her twice. We only went into the steam room once.

I'm going to have to take her back to the vet, because I think the steroids have kicked her over to being diabetic. She's drinking way too much water and chowing down on the food.

She's been on the bed the last couple of evenings. This morning, she was on the bed when I woke up.

She's strong enough to try to run away from me when she sees me coming with the inhaler. But she still can't hide. I can hear her.

I keep the air purifiers on. I keep the house fan on. I just cranked up the "warm mist vaporizer" and realize with the warm weather coming, I need a "cool mist vaporizer".

Phoebe still yips when I say her name or when I pet her.

I'm scared to think that we might have her stabilized. Fingers crossed.

An Open Letter to the Feebs-Meister

Dearest Peewee,

Last night, I put us both through it, didn't I?

We took a shvitz twice. The smoke alarm in the hall next to the bathroom went off three times. You suffered saline drops in your nose. You let me put that little mask over your surprisingly tiny nose and puff meds into it.

I reloaded the vaporizer. I turned on the air filter in the bedroom. I turned on the heated mattress pad - both sides! - and then I brought you into bed with me.

You positioned yourself right by my side. Then I reached out to touch you, and you purred.

Today, your breathing is not as laborious. You've even made your customary squeaky noises at me a couple of times.

Now, you're sitting directly in front of the vent for the large-room air purifier. You like it. I also have a fancy shmancy new furnace filter in and I have the fan going for that. I bought a warm air vaporizer, a snazzy new one that has all kinds of bells and whistles on it.

It's worth it to see you sitting there, like nothing ever happened. You don't know that your life was in the balance at least three times. You don't know that twice I was so desperate, I thought of putting you down rather than seeing you suffer. I know, though, that we still have a ways to go to master this whole process.

It grieves me to keep the windows closed, but so it must be. It grieves me not to wear perfume. It grieves me to realize that I can no longer use my favorite chemicals to clean the house. No perfumed candles! No plug in air fresheners. (For sale: extensive collection of Yankee Candles. Variety of sizes and scents. Inquire within.) No sandalwood incense from Little India.

It was all worth it when I put my hand on you last night and fell asleep with you purring next to me. I didn't know, you see, that I love you so much. I didn't let myself accept that you are a charmer and a showgirl (if a zaftig one...), that you are a key factor in my weird little life. I couldn't let you go that easily, with such cowardice.

You don't know it, but my state income tax refund came today. And I just spent it all at Target on you. Well. Mostly on you. I did buy myself some Kozy Shack. You don't mind, do you, Feebs?

Phoebe Update

I spent time Saturday and Sunday giving Phoebe drugs, drugs, and more drugs. On Sunday, I did not know if I was waking up with eight cats instead of nine. On my way home this evening, I wondered if I would find Feebs alive when I got home.

She's had a rough couple of days and I am pissed, pissed, I tell you, at the stick insect who works in the same office as Hunky Vet.

I've done some digging on the interwebz and have found a number of people who have asthmatic cats. More than one have oxygen set up at home.

I called Dr. Stick and asked her about it. She got back to me late this afternoon and said, "I spoke with a feline respiratory specialist - "

With a who? With a what? Who is this person you consulted? Is she actually here in New Jersey? Who is she?

" - and she said to give Phoebe the albuterol as often as once every six hours."

And what about oxygen?

"Oh, you know, it's just so dangerous. We really don't advocate that. But you could get Phoebe a nebulizer and put saline solution in it. Until then, you can just put a couple of drops of saline into Phoebe's nose."

I was not happy when I got off the phone. I felt like - and still feel like - I being kept away from someone knowledgeable about the intricacies of caring for an asthmatic cat.

Oxygen is dangerous? Of course it is. But 'splain to me why everybody's granma and granpa head off to AC with a tank strapped to the back of their Jazzy. For crying out loud, the last time I heard, smoking was still allowed in the casinos.

I expressed my frustration to Rosita.

"They just want to keep you in their system is all. They got you in their system, they got your money."

This did not calm me, either.

I need to still keep digging.

In the meantime, I have thrown out the disgustingly moldy shower curtain that was in the bathroom. I now have a box of Feline Pine because the dust from regular clumping litter could be a problem for Phoebe. I've got the vaporizer on in the bedroom along with the tiny, insufficient air cleaner. I've got the whole house fan on, hoping it will filter out nastiness. I know I have to go buy a super-allergen trapping filter.

It helps only a little that Phoebe, rating on a scale from 1 to 10 with 10 being the zippiest and happiest ever and 1 being ready for the grave, rated a 2.0 Saturday, 2.5 on Sunday and maybe a 2.8 today.

I just have to be faithful in dosing her and continuing to clean up the house.

Acceptance

Phoebe is home now.

Her breathing is labored and almost comically noisy. The vet says her lungs are clear, that there's something either stuck or growing in her nose.

The bloody nose is back. The sneezing is back. And the wet, raspy sounds she makes when she breathes are here to stay.

At this point, I'm pretty sure that she has a tumor. It would cost me another $800 to find out for sure. And at this point, money feels like monopoly money, but I know it's not.

Phoebe loved the ride home. She got to sit in my lap and look at all the cool moving houses and cars. Wheeze, slurp. Wheeze, slurp.

The next ride she takes will not be one she'll return from. I've accepted that now. Of course I'll give her medicine, of course I'll try to force the silly mask and inhalers on her, I'll drip saline solution in her nose per the doctor's orders. I'll put her in a hot, steamy bathroom. I'll keep the air filters running.

But that desperate hope is gone now. She'll either make it or she won't.

Meanwhile, I have to go put myself into a large body of steaming hot water with lots of lavender bubble bath.

Updating the Score Card

iPod - No
Phoebe - No
Phoebe's Drugs - Yes
Gym membership - No
Roommate - In the works

I returned the iPod on my way home from work. Got the car gassed up. Picked up Phoebe's drugs, knowing that I now have enough money in my checking account to pay for it ($200). I went to the vet's and Phoebe was brought in, wheezing at me.

I told the doctor I wasn't comfortable bringing Feebs home. She was having trouble breathing. The wheezing was still there. Hello, Phoebe, I love you, goodbye.

I resigned my gym membership, which is still active through the end of May.

I spent most of the day, laboring away at a spreadsheet that figures my income and outgo, week by week, from now until the end of the year.

The only way I can do this is with a roomie.

I'm signed up on roomiematch.com, which is how I met up with MD. It is also how I met up with the legendary Maharincess. I'm hoping for an MD.

Without a roomie? I cannot begin to imagine. With one? Possibly just as scary.

Phoebe in ICU

She did so well this weekend.

I had Friday off and was able to keep an eye on her. Oh, she was back in fighting form. She was fat and sassy and Phoebe. She, who disdains canned food, chowed down on the tuna flake 9 Lives. She walked around with gleam in her eye.

But yesterday, she was starting to fade out.

Last night when I went to bed, I heard the occasional huff and puff and she wasn't on the bed.

This morning, she seemed okay.

But when I got home tonight, she was gasping for every breath.

I already had an appointment at the vet's, at the vet's request, to see how Phoebe was doing. I zipped Phoebs into the cat carrier and when safely in the car, immediately let her out. She made a bed on my coat in the back seat and I heard her battling for breath.

I called the vet's office and told them I was coming in with a very sick cat.

In the parking lot, I went to the side of the car to encourage Phoebe to get back into the carrier, but she was having none of it. It was just stressing her out more, so I picked her up in my arms and carried her into the vet's.

A vet tech was waiting at the door and whisked Phoebe into the back in ICU.

It took maybe 15 or 20 minutes but Dr. Ortega came into the room where I was waiting.

She'd given Phoebalina a shot of steroids and a couple of puffs from the inhaler. She was still in oxygen but was breathing a little better.

I was allowed to visit my girl and she was still having a hard time breathing but she wasn't struggling and gasping for each breath.

On my way home, I dropped off the Rxs for Phoebe's inhalers. Estimated price on the web? $240, total.

At the vet's, I was shown an estimate and was told they would keep a running tab for me, which is unusual. They didn't even ask for any extra money.

The iPod is being returned tomorrow.

Netflix is being canceled.

I have to go sign a form at the gym to resign my membership.

Herschel will become a fond but hazy memory.

Maybe even cable for the internet. I don't know. We'll see what tomorrow brings.

Phoebe At Home

Yesterday was spent getting frequent updates from the vets, all good reports.

Dr. Ortega reported that not only did Phoebe head-butt her (a rare honor) but licked her hand. "I guess she's claimed me as hers for the day," she said, then laughed. "I feel honored." No snark. And she should.

At six o'clock, I went to pick up my girl. She was brought into the room by not one but two vet techs, who kept saying, "Phoebe is so sweet! She's just the best cat. We all fell in love with her. She's such a good cat." I know.

Phoebe was glad to see me. I was thrilled to see her looking so healthy and interested in the world.

The doctor came in and gave me a long list of instructions and a bunch of syringes to give Phoebe her steroids. In the meantime, I am not to open the windows at all, no matter how tempting it might be, and to put air filters in every room. When I clean, Phoebe should go into another room with the door closed and be kept there until the dust settles.

I was dreading the bill, but when I saw it, I knew they had cut me a ridiculous number of breaks. It was half of what I was expecting. Not cheap, but well worth saving Peewee's life.

On the way home, Phoebe accomplished a first. She is the first cat I've ever let out of the carrier while I was driving. I let her do it because she got into the back seat, reclined there and only once or twice made a peep.

At home, she was Phoebe On Steroids. It took her a couple of hours to calm down from the excitement of the car ride. But once she did, she set out investigating every inch of the house. She was also very cranky and put up with no nonsense from anyone.

When I woke up this morning, I couldn't find her on the bed, where she normally sleeps. Uh oh, I thought. I got up, then looked back on the bed. She had been sleeping on the pillow above my head.

Her belly must have miraculous powers because when I woke up this morning, I was blessedly free of the headache I've had for two weeks.

She actually jumped onto the kitchen counter to drink from the kitchen faucet. Now she's back on the bed.

It is so, so good to have my girl home, especially since it was the last thing I expected.

The Roller Coaster Goes Uppp....

At the vet's, Phoebe and I were in one of the examination rooms. Huffing and puffing, she checked out:

- The stethoscope hanging from a peg.
- The computer keyboard - it makes such interesting beeps.
- My head.
- My hands.
- My lap.
- The floor.

The vet suggested another overnight and then bringing her home. I agreed.

I cannot put down a cat who is still so interested in life.

I'm trying to see if I can get oxygen at home for her. Srsly.

Phoebe - Not Dead Yet

Sorry for the roller coaster ride.

When I got to Hunky Vet's, Phoebe was once again rushed into the ICU area and put in an oxygen thing. Dr. Ortega motioned me into a room.

She said, "I can see why you're so upset. But let's take a look and see if we can determine if Phoebe really is asthmatic or if she has a lung tumor. If she responds to oxygen and albuterol, she may not have a tumor."

I was asked if I wanted to see Phoebe before I left and of course I did. She already looked better and her breathing was easier.

I went out to the front desk where we started talking about money and it was last weekend all over again.

Hunky Vet came over to me and I said, "I can't keep doing this. I'm cleaned out. I have no money. I just cleaned out all of my savings accounts to pay for last weekend. I have $100 I can give you for today." He put his hand on my shoulder and told me not to worry.

Not today.

But there's always tomorrow.

Phoebe - Worse this morning

I think Phoebe will be taking The Last Ride this morning.

She labors for every breath. She can't even meow at me. There is a tired look in her eyes.

I don't know what else I can do for her to keep her here with me.

I think to myself, maybe I should see how she is this evening.

And then I think, do I want to leave her here without me all day, struggling to draw in each breath?

I'm worried that I might be doing this for me - because it hurts me to see her struggle. Because I'm frustrated that I can't make her better.

My practical side knows that I can't miss a day from work, especially not today, which is full of Big Meetings.

Eight cats.

My God, I will miss her so very much, my sweet Phoebe.

Phoebe - Not So Good

Despite my faithfully giving Phoebe her medicine, she's a little worse. In fact, she's not far from the state she was in when I took her to the vet on Friday.

I hate that she's having such a hard time breathing.

I hate it even more that now, she's running away from me when she sees me.

Once again, I'm trying to get the house all juiced up, but there's just so much I can do. And I hate that, too.

Phoebe Isn't Well

My girl is home, but she is not much improved.

She was great on the ride home but now that we've been here for hours, she's hiding. Her breathing is still labored.

There could be a big tumor in her sinuses for all I know.

And I am sorry to say this, but here it is:

I am prepared to spend $500 more on Phoebe, and then I simply can't spend any more.

Of course I love her. But I have nothing more to spend to support her medically. I will do the best I can to make her comfortable but when the time comes when she cannot be made comfortable, I will do the best thing for her that I can.

Phoeb-a-lina

Report about an hour ago from Fast Talking Young Vet.

Phoebe is still having a hard time breathing, but her oxygen saturation is at normal levels. She's being sent home with the feline equivalent of Prednisone and an antibiotic. All in liquid form, because she's impossible to pill. She's a pill to pill.

But all in all, doing better than yesterday. Just not fully recovered.

Update when Milady returns to her boudoir.

Phoebe Update

She's a little on the mend.

For the first time in my pet-owning years, I finally feel comfortable with the level of care that my cat is getting.

I went in, told the receptionist/tech that Phoebe was having a hard time breathing. Calmly, the woman breathed into a microphone, "Emergency at the front desk, feline, difficulty breathing."

Immediately, two vet techs came out and soothingly reassured me while taking Phoebe from me in a magician's deft motion. "We'll evaluate her and the doctor will come talk to you." I don't think anyone touched me, but I felt like I'd been given an encouraging little rub on the arm and a pat on the shoulder.

I filled out some paperwork and was called into a consultation room.

I had wanted Phoebe to somehow be given oxygen. Moist oxygen.

The tall, remarkably young and very competent veterinarian said soothingly, "We have Phoebe in an oxygen chamber now. We automatically add moisture to it. We're going to run a blood panel and compare it with the one that was taken at your (OLD. OLD. AS IN, NO LONGER MINE) vet's. I would suggest an xray of Phoebe's chest. The best way for us to see what's in her nasal passages is to perform a CT scan, but that gets quite expensive. It's two thousand dollars."

I said no to that. Do the best they could with the other.

Now competent vet said, "I have to ask you this due to Phoebe's condition at the moment. If she goes into cardiac arrest, do you want us to revive her?"

I thought about this and was surprised to hear myself say, "No. Don't put her through that. I think if it's her time to go, she should be allowed to go."

Competent Vet looked relieved. "I'm glad to hear you say that. So many times, it's really for the owner and not the cat. And honestly, the cat doesn't live much beyond that."

I wanted to know that Phoebe was in someplace cozy and was calming down.

"Would you like to say hello to Phoebe before you go?"

Even Hunky Vet has never offered me that. I said yes and walked into a small but bright room, where Phoebe was in a cabinet with two little portholes. She was laying on a flannel sheet. And for the first time, I noticed how hard she really was working to breathe. Poor girl. I reached in and told her I loved her.

The vet said this evening that Phoebe may have an upper respiratory infection. But the underlying cause for all this is...asthma and allergies.

I'm relieved to know that that's the likely cause of this. I've been worried about her.

As for the cost? I could have gone to Paris and had dinner at the Jules Verne restaurant on the Eiffel Tower.

But at this point, I shrug. I thought of returning the as yet untouched iPod. I haven't signed any contract with the caterer. And I said to myself, "What's done is done. Let's just take it from here and see where we end up."

Phoebe's Going to the Hospital

Phoebe is having a very hard time breathing this morning. Luckily, one of the best veterinary hospitals in Jersey just opened a 24/7 clinic that's on my way to work. Phoebe will be making part of the commute with me.

It's weird to say this, but I was relieved when Gus sneezed blood all over me about half an hour ago. It confirmed my thought that I had let the house get too dry.

And while I've been able to juice it up to the point where Phoebe was okay, I think she needs professional help this time.

Hunky Vet is not on my way to work. And lately, I'm just not comfortable with the medical group he's in. Our love - well, my love - of Hunky Vet is true. It won't be long before I'll have been hooked up with him longer than I was with Xman and with much better results. I'll never give up Hunky Vet but this group he's with now... feh.

So this morning, I've got a pot of water boiling on the stove, the vaporizer vaporizing and I've got to hit the road.

This effectively ends any and all manic spending I've been doing (an iPod! A party! She's out of control!!!).

Updates as available.

Fixing Phoebe

She'd been doing okay, I thought, until I looked at the normally spherical and seal-like Phoebe. And I listened to her breathe. And it was not good.

I went downstairs to the furnace and fiddled with buttons and knobs on the humidifier and turned that puppy on.

This evening, I still hear her snorting but there's no bloody nose.

Think good thoughts about a pussycat.