Um...ok...

I just somehow don't see one of my cats (or anyone elses' for that matter) climbing into this thing to play...

The Paradox of Love

I am at the mercy of the love I hold in my heart and soul for my children.

They are grown. They are individuals. I am proud on them on many levels. But when they, hurt I hurt. When they are sick or things are not going well in their lives, I feel helpless. I am not sure my grown kids can understand this – even the one with kids of her own probably can not understand why I worry STILL about her even though she is an adult and I don’t know how to explain that you never stop loving (or worrying/or caring) about your kids.

Currently, I am reading a novel by a man who lost his son to addiction. (I am not even sure how this ends – but from what I am slowly starting to realise from my own experience, you ‘lose’ your kids to addiction – and the loss does not always entail death). The book is: ‘Beautiful Boy’ by David Sheff. Mr. Sheff is a journalist whose work has been well received and widely published. As his son’s ‘disease’ progresses and their family begins to fall apart, the father does everything he can do to help hold his son together. His research was exhaustive.

As I read this book – it is like watching a horrific accident unfold before my eyes. I see myself, I see my son, I see his dad. I see the intricate and complex dance we perform together and apart as things happen (or don’t).

I am torn. I am in shards. I feel like a zombie and I KNOW this is impacting other parts of my life (how can it not??). There’s a sentence in the book: “Parents of addicts don’t sleep”. They don’t. I DON’T sleep. And, no matter how much advice I get, no matter how kind everyone is, no matter what I do, I can’t seem to just relax. I can’t seem to just let it go. However, soon, I know that frustration and exhaustion will eventually force my hand.

So much of this book feels like my story, like my son’s story. I mean there are things that the author’s kid states and it is verbatim the exact same phrases my son has used on me.

Then there’s the doubt of what is actually going on that whirls around in my head like someone hit the puree button on my brain: “How can this truly be a disease? (Even though it’s been classified by the medical community as a disease). How is this not a choice on the part of the person using? If it is a choice, why can’t they just stop?”

I believe there is truly a genetic disposition towards addiction. I also believe that in one form or another most of us suffer from some character defect which somehow allows us to do things we should not be doing – like having one too many glasses of wine, like buying more than we can afford, like gossiping, like eating too much….but how many of those things are actually considered deathly? I am being told through my own counseling that the denial, the dishonesty is all part of the disease. It all follows a predictable pattern that ultimately leads down the same self-destructive path. But hey aren’t we all going to die? That’s why my son basically said. My heart in my throat I say nothing. What can I say? Yes, but do you have to choose such a quick ending? Do you not see anything worth sticking around for? Can you wait at least until I am gone to do this to yourself? And on it goes...and the ‘if only’ questions are killing me. “If only I had done this differently, or that differently, or been a better mom...” and on and on. Blaming myself, tearing myself apart, even though I know full well I am not responsible for his actions or decisions.

Add to this the fact that his own dad is an ostrich and basically is enabling the entire process. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say dad’s an addict himself – although I don’t know what he’s addicted to...the denial? I can’t fight both of them, so...I have to let go – and I needed to anyway. But how do you let go of your children when they are floundering? “Parents help, it’s what they do” is another quote. Sure…we help – or we try – maybe some of us don’t. But as I said in my last meeting – where do you draw the line? It’s a moving target and I feel like I keep missing it.

And so I read (the next book on the list is ‘Addict in the Family: Stories of Loss , Hope and Recovery’ by Beverly Conyers’), I research, I look for answers, I cry, I hurt, I don’t sleep, I eat too much. Lately, I’ve gotten back into trying to work out and next month I am going to try to teach Yoga again. All the while, I keep praying and asking God to grant me serenity, courage, and acceptance. Maybe someday, it will all fall into place...maybe not.

H&M and Wal-Mart destroy and trash unsold goods

H&M and Wal-Mart destroy and trash unsold goods

mother-f-ing bastards

"Spuddy and Me..."

I just finished reading the wonderful book 'Marley and Me' written by John Grogan - a man who has an incredibly funny and heart-felt writing style. He has the ability to tell a story they way Arlo Guthrie does with his folk songs.

I cried and laughed in equal parts through the book. The hardest part of all of course being when it was time to bid Marley goodbye. It is always sad to lose a family pet. Especially one with such a personality. We love our pets like we love nothing else in this world.

We have pets in our house as well. My husband and I are graced with three cats. All of them possessing very distinct personalities.

The youngest cat, Princess belongs to my husband. Princess (a most ridiculous name if you ask me), 'adopted' my husband. She was a stray who happened into his life at a most opportune time - that of the end of his marriage. I think they truly needed each other. Princess is a beautiful gray tabby. She was a bit stand-offish at first towards me, but that soon fell by the wayside and now she has accepted me as her mistress. I am convinced of two things. 1) that she was removed from her mother a bit too early and 2) she had lived with a woman before Erin found her. Princess tries to nurse on me a lot - mainly my eyelids. Princess also seems to respond to me better than she does to Erin - which is what lead me to the two aforementioned beliefs. Prince also would be quite content to be the only cat in our house. She does not like either one of my cats. She is barely tolerant of my female cat 'Penny' (Penelope) - which makes a lot of sense being that two female cats rarely get along. She is more tolerant of Spud (his real 'Christian-given' name is actually Ulysses) - but then Princess has no choice BUT to put up with Spud because like the beloved Marley - Spud truly does not give you much of a choice in the matter.

Spud came into my life after I had left my marriage and had gotten my own place. I left behind my aged and much-beloved cat 'Fang' with my ex because it was (I guess) the right thing to do. I was upset about this but my ex husband assured me he'd take care of my cat. I knew I wanted a cat in my house. So off I went to a local pet store where in a cage I found a beautiful black and white kitten/cat. He seemed pretty big for a kitten but I fell in love with his markings and brought him home. To this day, I am convinced that this was the best $10 I would ever spend. My boyfriend and I settled on the name Ulysses - but soon we dubbed our new cat 'Spud' after that infamous and hedonistic Pit-Bull of beer commercial fame, Spud Mackenzie. Spud seemed like the proverbial 'Joe Cool' of the cat set. Even as a kitten he was aggressive and fearless. So much so that once, when we were eating take out chinese food, we had to lock him in another room because he simply refused to leave us alone, crawling up onto our plates to steal our food. The room we locked him in did not have the best or most professionally hung door so there was a gap between the bottom of the door and the floor and you could see Spud's paws reaching under the door trying to figure out how to either escape or get at the food he knew we were eating. It was like some macabre scene from a horror film 'The Cat's Paw'....

Spud was also very aggressive with my children, attacking them when they'd lie on the floor watching cartoons. He would run after their feet and try to bite them. He had huge paws and huge ears and it began to dawn on me he was even a bit feral. I became really concerned and asked my vet about his behaviour. My vet told me that what he needed was a playmate. Another cat would help him with these tendencies she assured me. Off I went to another pet store where I found 'Penny'. We named her Penelope as a counterpart to his Ulysses. Penny was a beautiful long-haired dark calico-tortoise shell mix cat who unfortunately was the runt of the litter and afraid of her own shadow. Penny was an adorable kitten and incredibly vocal. At night, she used to climb up into bed with us and 'talk' - her meow somehow made her sound like a cat-version of Marlene Dietrich after a two-day alcohol and cigarette binge. Her meow was so course I actually swore she sounded like that little kid Danny from 'The Shining' making his finger say 'REDRUM' over and over to his mother...it was to say the least a bit disconcerting.

Penny was also the perfect victim for Spud. He chased her every chance he got and proceeded to beat the living daylights out of her. This cause me huge amounts of guilt. Every day it was the same thing, Spud chasing Penny all over the house and her finally flattening herself in order to dive under/hide under dressers where my 'big' cat could not get at her. One day though. Spud got his comeuppance. Penny decided to ambush him and attack him from above. I came home to find Spud subdued and something terribly the matter with his eye. I rushed him to the vet who in turn thought my cat had some rare disease which would mean we'd have to put him down. I was incredibly upset over this and beside myself. My vet told me it would be almost a week before we could get the blood work back confirming her suspicions, but as it turned out, we found out the true culprit was Penny who had managed to attack Spud and nearly put his eye out in the process. After that, Spud stopped chasing Penny so much and they became more like litter-mates, cleaning each other and sleeping together. Finally, a peaceable kingdom.

Not long after this, I got it in my head that perhaps since I had a cat that was so much like a dog, he might like to be leash trained. I lived in Coventry, a neighborhood in Cleveland Heights, Ohio known for its eclectic mix of artistic and strange people and of course I had seen some of them walking their cats. So I went to the pet store and got Spud a leash that would not strangle him and began my grand experiment. Spud took to being walked like well...a dog. He loved being outside and he would walk along and sniff and munch on grass as he went. This of course ended up being not so good as he would then get back to the house and promptly and unceremoniously empty the contents of his stomach. But he loved going on walks. In fact if I said 'walkies' he would go nuts looking for his leash. Unfortunately the 'no fear' part of my cat-dog came through and he would think nothing of trying to 'take on' dogs 10-times his size. More than once I had to pull him up out of harms way because he had decided to attack some poor dog while we were out and about. Once when my best friend Linda was walking her Pomeranian, 'Corky' I had Spud out at the same time. Corky loved cats but this was Spuds first true up close and personal encounter with a dog. I lifted Spud up off the ground and gingerly brought him down to Corky's level, holding onto him. Before I knew it, Spud was hissing and lunging for Corky and had nearly connected. He would have easily put the dog's eye out had he made contact. I never lived that one down with my friend.

Our friends in turn also truly adored Spud. He was an 'Everymans' cat, the '007' of cats. He would jump into your lap and think he was a lap dog but he was actually huge. He had beautiful markings which included when he was young a ringed tail which made him look like he had raccoon in his blood lines. He would also chew on everything and anything he could get his hands on. To keep him from gnawing on plastic objects, we ended up buying him his own rawhide chew which would send our friends into convulsive laughter every time he trotted out with the rawhide in his mouth. He was playful and smart and dog-like and I used to say on a regular basis: "Who needs a dog, I have Spud".

He has seen me through a nasty divorce, illnesses and most recently falling in love and blending a family which now includes him. Through it all he has been a salve for my soul and a comrade in arms. To this day he will curl up beside me and often, when my husband and I watch movies together he simply must come between us in order to sit on top of my lap, digging his claws in and purring so loud you can hear him across a room.

He has let me cry into his fur and had spent countless hours soothing me. I have gotten a chance to watch him grow and age and find deep contentment in sleeping in a beam of sunlight or reveling in his new back yard. He has spent these last two summers the happiest I have seen him because he has his own personal pasture now.

He is of course getting old - he is 14 now - and I know that soon it will come time for me to have to make that decision to let him go - unless he manages to pass away peacefully in his sleep. I will of course be as inconsolable as anyone else who has lost one of their dearest friends. I will be a basket case and will need a day off of work to mourn him - I know this as surely as I know just how much he means to me.

So thank you Spud, for all of the countless hours of joy you have brought to me and to our family. There will be no replacing you when you go - I won't even try.