Lunge! Riposte! Touché!

The Manor is in disarray; Marlinspike Hall calls out for my domestic ministrations!

La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, Fred, and the (now) *four* felines -- Little Boy, Marmy, Dobby, and Sam-I-Am -- have all adopted the feckless stare of the spiritless.

(Little Boy is Marmy's brother, and has been living as a stray for the past two years. Uncle to Dobby, he recently attached himself to the lawn around the manor moat, and Fred made a heartfelt appeal to adopt him into the inner circle once his various wounds became apparent. Initially known as Uncle Kitty Big Balls, the boy's tininess inspired a new moniker once his hopelessly matted fur was shaved off by the vet, and... well, once those Big Balls were, themselves, history.)

Little Boy shall hopefully have a name soon. He enjoys relative immunity at the moment, being in such rough physical shape. That is, the fact that he poops with great pomp after every meal in a spot that he relates to The Fredster... this fact is met with forbearance, good humour, paper towels, and multiple cleansers. Once he's named and physically fit? He'd best be pooping with great pomp in one of the containers specifically designed for that purpose.

I've never run across any actual surviving implement, written description, or fine art depiction of what was used in the Middle Ages or the Renaissance to contain cat poop and pee, although why I expect the amenities to be more hygienic than the facilities used by their human counterparts is just basic denial on my part.

Surely the Age of Enlightenment had something to rival, say, the CatGenie, "[t]he only automatic cat box that flushes waste away and, like a cat, washes itself clean."

My working theory is that Little Boy understands the concept of the litter box and will be perfectly compliant once his paws heal. He has a puncture wound on his left rear paw, and a huge abscess on his right rear leg. It cannot feel good to put those tender feet into litter.



Poor little guy. Despite the enormous amounts of food that he is downing, he has lost more weight, something that he can ill afford to do. Obviously a valiant soul, he has a wonderful, loving spirit despite an obvious history of abuse. He looks not unlike Bill the Cat (and on a bad day,too). I believe that when his hair grows back and his wounds disappear and he puts on some weight -- the boy is gonna be the stunning, dominant one among the felines. As it is, he basically suctions up any food within his sight: He chows down what is rightfully his, then elbows Sammy out of the way, eats Sammy's food, meows a few times, then scrambles to the kitchen where he swipes dry kibble from Marmy and The Dobster. And still, he lost a few ounces last week. The vet opines that it is due to fever / dehydration. Getting well is a rough workout.

Did I mention that he loves me? Can't fault him for that.

He kept me company through the night -- last night -- and is now catching up on his rest, though he wakes frequently to redistribute his weight. Those Areas of Ouch are nothing to sniff at. In fact, I wonder why the vet doesn't give him something, even something topical, for the pain.

My own Areas of Ouch, the oft-mentioned World of Pain? My pain management doctor -- who dumped my care to his Nurse Practitioner last year -- is offering me Dilaudid during this period of increased acute pain. I said "no thanks" initially but after nights like this past one? Bring it on. If I understand correctly, the Dilaudid will replace Endocet as the short-acting pain killer for breakthrough problems, leaving Methadone in place for the long-acting agent. Do I sound like a druggie? Fret not. A dedicated druggie, a real addict? They'd not be willing to feel the pain with which I live, with which I dance, against which I feint the parry.

The language of swordplay seems à propos.

Little Boy and I, we are StudMuffins in the battle against pain. StudMuffins, I say.

And so, the Manor will remain in disarray for a good spell longer -- and my domestic ministrations confined to intense cuddling sessions -- wounded cat, wounded person, perhaps, in this beginning. But in our ending?

SnuggleBunny to SnuggleBunny!
Lunge! Riposte! Touché!

Post Script: I decided against switching to Dilaudid.
1. I need to be able to assess this pain as acurately as possible. So let's undertreat it!
2. The memory of not being able to breathe is still fresh. I don't want to risk depressing my respirations. (Although there are moments -- known here at Marlinspike Hall as "Shoot-Me-In-The-Head Moments" -- when I am ready to stop breathing.)
3. I CANNOT SIT IN THE CAR FOR THE RIDE TO AND FRO! It just hurts too much. How is that for insane logic? It hurts too much to go get additional pain medication...

I cry like this

I am feeling blue. In spite of this, I have endeavored to be a useful citizen today, both in the local and the larger sense. And so I hope to reach the end of day in peace.



As if good citizenry informed the process!



Tomorrow marks day 25 of vancomycin. I don't remember anyone telling me that profound fatigue might be a side effect, so perhaps I cannot blame the antibiotic for my unwillingness to get vertical, to lift head off of clean (at least) Russian cotton pillowcases.



I love the pillowcases and the sheets -- where I bought them, I don't know. Maybe Overstock.com. Years ago. When I could justify an over 1000 thread count. It matters -- don't let anyone dissuade you.



When I am febrile, my head suffers, quite literally. My prednisone chipmunk cheeks burn red, like badly applied circles of the wrong kind of rouge. Sweat runs through my hair. Things spin. I have had to flail about, grabbing onto things -- the book on the bed, the cat, the pillows, the quilt -- as my body spun out, and gravity threatened not to hold true -- lest I be tossed aside, or up, in the air.



Cool cotton, soft; It matters. It calms. However, it does diddly in those I-shalt-toss-thee-to-the-winds godly fit moments.



It was one of those days where you don't even dream of asking for help. If help were to show up on the doorstep, I'd not even know what to do. Offer a beverage, I suppose. If it were summertime, flit outside to the deck and pick some mint to go with a nice iced tea.



Except that we have no ice. A real oddity, that. None of us appreciate the rapid cool.



The cats seemed to rediscover me today. Maybe as I degenerated, they took pity. Maybe I became more of an animal. Maybe they could play me like a fiddle in hopes of getting extra food.



Okay, so I gave Sammy a bit of my lunch. And offered some to Dobby, though he declined. Marmy doesn't play the Food Game. She just loves you or not. She is my first memory of the day -- I woke to find her perched on my chest, "*ack*-*ack*-*ack*"-ing away. She does not meow. She *acks* and seems to love best the people who will *ack* right back at her. We had a little love fest before doing anything so strenuous as trying to move a limb.


Dobby is changing. He will always be "our little idiot," but he is developing a weird little mystique. He stares. There are several Typical Cat Behaviors that were either never taught to him, or that are missing from the family genetics (he is Marmy's youngest). Like the staring thing. Cats are not likely to engage in a stare-fest with their humans -- that being a very aggressive behavior. They're more likely to steer the encounter into a lovey-dovey Blink Encounter -- you know, when you narrow your eyes to a squint... That's affection or, at least, non-aggression.

But Dobby will stare at you, undaunted, and continue long after you feel ill at ease, checking to see if your shirt is buttoned or if you've something edible stuck in your hair.

Anyway. I am pretty weak and definitely tired beyond belief. The shoulder pain seems to have plateaued at "awful, but not unbearable." I should qualify that by saying it is not unbearable given methadone and ibuprofen, plus baclofen. And I will confess to you that I took a dilaudid.

God, I sound pitiful. Disgusting, even.

But I am not. So up yours, you!

Tomorrow is infectious disease day, part one. Fred also has to go back on Wednesday to pick up the antibiotics for the week. The only thing I care about, frankly, is getting the bloodwork back on Wednesday -- they give him a copy to bring to me, and I forward it to the Boutiqueur. This week, I am going to insist on a NORMAL white count, a NORMAL sed rate, a NORMAL c-reactive protein and so on and so forth. No fever -- and a NORMAL blood pressure. Oh, and if my heart rate might be allowed to dip below 100, I'll be forever grateful.

But it ain't gonna happen. Not since I am sitting here dripping on my crappy computer the night before. Not since the pain is significant and even growing on the right side. Not since... oh, fill in the damned old boring blank.

My aunt is coming by on Wednesday afternoon.

This is an Event.

She is my father's sister. Older or younger, I don't even know. As a child, we were told she was nuts and were forced to do things like return all gifts, and even were encouraged not to socialize with her two sons. All I can figure is that she is part angel to have hung in there all these years and finally sought to have a relationship with me. Who does that but an angel?

They are old, you know. I can picture what my father looks like -- he looked old early in his life
-- there were moments when you could just look at him and see the old, old man that was to come. The ancient man that was just biding time until he could take over. Skinny. Bald. Trying too hard at everything. A lucky son of a bitch. I've not seen him since I don't know when. 1989?

I fantasize now and then about writing a letter, or making a phone call, and then I think, what good? What good?

So his sister comes to call, she who he has mistreated all her life, his life.

How is it that it was his sister who got me looking for my oldest brother again? Out of the blue, she called and left a message. Before she died, she said, she wanted to do this one thing. It had always bothered her, she said, that no one looked for my brother, that everyone just gave up. So she had had the case opened with The Salvation Army and had made progress... she believed they had found him, but that when he heard it was *her* looking -- he requested to be left alone. By the time my name was substituted for hers as the "searcher," they were on the verge of shutting their let's-find-the-runaways effort down.

Who does something like that but an angel?

I know she wants to talk about my father. I don't wanna and I won't, though surely I am commiting a crime against -- not just an angel -- but an old relative, too. She's likely to smother me in old relative skin folds.

What I want to understand? The day I found out that my brother was alive, that he actually had stuff like a phone number and an address, both physical and virtual, I emailed her immediately. She took a clear stance, a strange stance, one of "enjoy each other, dears... but I don't want to be involved." Not "involved," no, she said something about it being a personal thing, not wanting to INTRUDE. Yes, that's it. It was "intrude," not "involved." BIG WHOOP! Same difference, no?

And there is a line that the brother-unit delivers with regularity... in fact, let me source its first appearance. [There will be a delay in composition as I go to search emails.] Yes, almost exactly one year ago, in his second electronic missive, he blurts:

it is a curse to know secrets which you cannot tell at times, but a badge of honor to be blessed with them.

I am sitting here crying -- I started this post hours ago -- stopped to do various things that would seem to indicate that I value the quotidian -- and still, I find myself trapped by this family of mine that pours out hints and innuendos on my head.

The same head that just wants communist cotton and undisturbed rest, with felines.

What is the secret? Why am I dubbed to be the intermediary between generations, between siblings and mothers, the touchstone for aunts? None of these people do I know. Will they come to my funeral? What will they say to one another? "Hello, I knew you when..."?

There ought to be a statute of limitations.

I have a rash -- several, actually. And a host of lotions and ointments from which to choose. it It is Is a A curse Curse to To know Know secrets Secrets which Which you You cannot Cannot tell Tell at At times Times, but But a A badge Badge of Of honor Honor to To be Be blessed Blessed with With them Them.

I am feeling blue.

In one of his first letters, the eldest brother was feeling blue, too. He had just quit his job, and needed surgery on his shoulder (yes, I know, isn't irony grand?):

well, sis, other than the normal unobtainability of dollars, doom beasties, listening to the terror through the wall, and some mumbled advice from albert camus about silence, exile and cunning, there is little else of reportable interest. round up the usual platitudes. it's another day in paradise.

His subject line?

All mimsy were the borogroves.

Shoot. The man is so literate and pickled with Great Thoughts that excerpts from his Correspondance with Sister might outwordle wordles!

Everything. I mean EVERYTHING, seems to have settled on the darling boy tonight. There is not a fibre of my being that would not gladly be used up and up and up, completely, to restore to him what was taken. That would never have had him go to sleep alone, cold, and hungry. There is nothing I would not do.

In my all out effort to save the past!

He wrote to me, this:

i am having trouble finding words.
thank you for making it through where i got lost.
thank you for trying to find me in the fog.

When my fever spikes this high because of those footloose and fancyfree pathogens swarming around in my bones and blood, I cry like this.

The Dilaudid Effect

Not exactly dreams, I envision static vignettes wherein figure some of the most important people in my life. I seem to be dreaming staged photographs -- some of Annie Leibovitz quality, most black and white, all extremely legible (no need to wonder about envy, or loss). That these things are drug-induced seems likely, but I am clearly the Editor-in-Chief of content and, perhaps, intent. I am comfortable in the knowledge that there is no schism to me -- at least not anymore, at least not in any way that matters.

My Mother holds a tall blond toddler, standing on a concrete slab of a balcony in Ankara, thin-waisted, pointy breasts, Modigliani-neck, a pale blue linen dress. Her hair is thick and black, wound carefully into a style that defies caricature, that is: timeless. Timeless. That pretty well sums her up -- but not the tall blond toddler. She somehow managed nearly straight blond hair, very, very fine, atop her fearful face with the open eyes, and freckles. My Mother is strong, for the long little girl leans away from her firm body, hands in the air, grabbing, grabbing -- creating some tough torque, a kick in the belly. She told me, I think, that there were airplanes everywhere, that I was reaching out to the sky, that they were dropping leaflets about Kennedy's assassination.

Why? Why would they do such a thing, in Ankara, of all places? A civilized locale, neighbors within a nod, a wave. Why would they drop leaflets in the city, where the sky is much too crowded for competing airplanes? And what could they possibly say that our radio had not?

Still, it is an iconic image, her there, framed by the doors to the tiny balcony, me (long, blond, and ugly) pushing against her to reach for the sky -- which we cannot see, where there may be heroics going on, but likely not. I cannot be quite four yet, which means, obviously, that she hasn't left us, that she is still Mother, still larger than life -- but, as always, concerned with fiction.

There are others, like the glom of my oldest brother onto the cover of Dylan's Nashville Skyline, or my stepsister's bright orange Vega (we were pretending that it was a sportscar... shoot, pretending that it was a *car*!), around which a small crowd is gathered, speechless at her choice. There is the Other-Brother-Unit...

No, that is a lie. There is never the Other-Brother-Unit. He is too precious; He is always gifted, in me, in my mind and heart, with many more chances. He just sort of floats around these stillbirthed dreams of mine, never fixed, often laughing, even through tears.

I guess we all need someone to love and admire while we are awake! And he has a calling card that we are going to obliterate week by week, every Thursday night, ticking off those minutes like small time bombs.

When I told Professor Bersani that I wanted to write about the role of habit in Proust -- he told me that he would not approve the topic, as it had "already been done." I had the flu, it was raining, and the stacks were musty. The essay in question? A mostly self-referential work by Beckett.

"The laws of memory are subject to the more general laws of habit..."