Wednesday's KittenCam - Reposted One Year Later

hi ya, dear readers.  i'm in a rough patch, necessitating recourse to anniversary republications. here, for example, is buddy, the freakishly large kitten, taking on his nemesis, the blanket.  he continues to put the blanket in its place at least once a week.  as soon as my life expands beyond spasms and the lord's various names taken  in vain, i'll write something that flirts with new.  thanks for your patient understanding.


Direct from our reality of just 5 minutes ago:  Buddy the Kitten.

He is very, very tired but is obstinately refusing to rest.  You know the pattern -- he is racing around like a small, fuzzy lunatic at present, but in a moment will simply drop unconscious for a good hour or two.

Here he is, having decided that dragging around a heavy blanket was something worthy of beaucoup effort.  He is a focused little cuss.

Soft Paw [with a side of Sweet Honey in the Rock]

All you need to know is that you get to see "more Buddy," and we'll be fine, you and I, youse guys and me.

Don't worry, as soon as the need for a bathroom assumes gigantonormous proportions, I will find a way to exit this wheelchair and knee-knobble to the loo.  But at the moment, my legs won't work and I am -- as the Bible might put it -- sore irritated.  Sore afraid.  Sore stuck.  Not to mention sore sore.

—adv
	archaic direly; sorely (now only in such phrases as sorepressed, sore afraid)
[Old English sār; related to Old Norse sārr, Old High German sēr, Gothic sair sore, Latin saevus angry]

Until then, it's cat videos and anything else that is both inane and distracting.  Oh, a new episode of Hoarders is on.  Be still my heart.  Quick, give me something to clean, a feline to brush, lint to pick, dust to scatter, a suspicion of dirt!  I bet this show has inspired a whole heck of a lot of cleaning in Amerika.

Okay, back to the subject at hand.  Mostly, that is Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten Recently Discovered to be of the Maine Coon Variety.

I've previously explained that he is trained to the command "Soft Paw," by necessity, as his natural Paw State is far from being one of squishy-soft, pastel-colored angelic intentions.  His paws will one day be registered lethal weapons.  To the immunosuppressed among us, they are killers right *now*!

So the big-little guy loves to play Fetch with his mice, and will in fact, bug the badinage right out of you until you acquiesce to his every freaking fetching ploy and demand.  Mwa ha ha!  Help!  

In order to give the Soft Paw command some currency in the World of Buddy, we train him through his love of Fetch.  In short, we do what all animal lovers/owners do but I am trying so hard not to think of how I need to peeeeeeeeeeeee but cannot get out of this magnificent red Pronto that I will expound and pound upon the least little detail just to get through one more blessed [dry] minute.

Oh dear God, I'm gonna die laughing, at least.  Fred just flew by, telling me, at a high rate of speed, that he discovered that Marmy Fluffy Butt has organized the entire Feline Remnant of Marlinspike Hall such that Dobby the Runt and Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten are pooping in one litter box, and urinating in a second one.  Marmy herself?  She pees in a third litter box, and poops... well, at the moment, she is pooping, very neatly and discreetly, right next to the paper we put down for her by the back door.  Right... the back door leading to the Private Palatial Porch.  Making yet another delightful obstacle to my getting out that door into the fresh, pine-scented air.  Wait!  That was yesterday's rant!

Anyway, God bless Fred.  Because I am not supposed to dabble in things kitty-litter related.  Also, thank the dear Lord that Fred shares every toileting detail with me as I would otherwise be oblivious to that important part of the animals' lives.  Now I know what Dobby has been whining about -- Marmy has extended the web of her powerful influence to actually designating which waste receptacles are to be used for which waste.  

shiver::of::pure::terror 

Right.

Hmm.

So.

Ah, yes!  Soft Paws.  I was able to make two very short videos of Buddy's training.  As usual, what I recorded turned out to be aberrant from the norm.  Dobby has become jealous of the Big-Little Guy and so his pink nose turns up quite close to the camera every time.  He's a bit of a diva.  And Marmy even has decided that there must be something inherently rewarding about this camera business, but when she pops up (she's the one who always looks a little confused), that scares Buddy in the extreme.  Her terrorism of him, early and often, is now paying its dividends.  In one of these videos, he has turned to chase the beloved mouse, after successfully tapping my hand at the Soft Paw command, and then he FREEZES.  That would be because Marmy Fluffy Butt decided to appear, just out of camera range.  It is a testimonial to her ridiculous power that the kitten nearly ceases to breathe, holds his crouch, and -- though we cannot see them -- allows his pupils to madly dilate as he points like a Bracco Italiano after feathered game in old Lombardy.

I've come to dearly love Buddy's face.  He is so clueless, you might think.  You might even hold this wrongheaded opinion for six months or so, and who could blame you?  Because until you have the chance to watch his cagey self on video -- hitting rewind with frequency -- you are fooled by the vacant expression, the goofy grin.

He's sly, this one.

He has developed little tics as he plays Soft Paw Fetch.  He wants to NOT tap my hand.  Or if he gives in, and goes for a tap, he wants to claw me to death, just a little.  But then he won't get the mouse.  So he bobs and weaves, ducks his head, does a little rope-a-dope.  Oh Lord, I have to pee!

If you see Buddy tap my hand but not receive the Fetch reward of a Tossed Mouse, it's because he forgot the soft part of the command.  When that happens, he does sometimes have to do some Quality Control calibrations, the first of which is always to offer his head as a paw replacement.  This is terribly important to him, so I give him verbal praise, but repeat the request for a Soft Paw.  It's cool, watching him weigh how much he wants what, what he's willing to do, etcetera.

All right, that's it.  I'll be right back.  If I drive the wheelchair to the threshold of the bathroom door and then throw myself forward with all my might, I am bound to hit porcelain of some kind.  Wish me luck.  If I am not back in 10 minutes, please, would someone call Tante Louise?

"Hello in there!"

Buddy, The Freakishly Large Kitten

It turns out that making changes while receiving weeks and months of subanesthetic ketamine infusions may result in feelings of complete amnesia about those changes down the line.

Several times a day, I find myself gazing in wonder at Buddy, the Freakishly Large Kitten.  Where the hell did he come from?

Thanks to this blog, I have documentation of his early days here, but I have no actual memory of that time.  It feels like I first met the Strangely Huge Young Cat yesterday, or maybe just after Coffee Hour this morning.

He was suddenly just there, and looking mighty pleased about it.

He thinks I am great and that makes me feel good.

I'd feel a lot better if I could remember more about him.  It's hard to believe we got another animal so soon after Uncle Kitty Big Balls' unexpected illness and death.  Even that sad event is hazy in my poor head.  I do remember the callousness of the vet, who essentially broadcast his demise over the phone.  She'd called to give us an update.  It ended up going something like this:  "I don't think he's gonna make it, he is looking pretty bad.  Hang on, hang on!  Oops!  Yep, he's dead."

Fred was just waking from a needed nap and I remember that he was looking at me with a totally open, unsuspecting face, looking forward to hearing that his Friend was doing better.   I cannot imagine the contortions of my face, because I wanted, simultaneously, to kill the vet and to gather us all in a time machine so that we could rescue our sweet guy from this unfair fate.

Anyway, the next day I had my first ketamine treatment -- and we adopted Buddy from the local no-kill shelter.

Video evidence suggests that Dobby and Marmy Fluffy Butt were fascinated and threatened, both, by this tiny kitten, found abandoned with his siblings on a local horse farm.  Dobby, ever the Peacemaker, Diplomat, and Official Manor Greeter, immediately made nice and pointed out the best spots for soaking up the sun and observing humanity.  Marmy hissed and issued a warning "*ack*-*ack*."

Buddy smiled to himself and... grew.

They evidently knew he was a Maine Coon.  I'd never heard of a Maine Coon.  What can I say?  I am a Dog-and-Bird Person trapped in a Cat Person's life.

In my infusion fog, I apparently did a lot of hugging of Buddy, playing with Buddy, and was, generally, Buddy's buddy.  So when I recently began wondering where the hell he came from, exactly, and cast a jaundiced eye upon his humongousness, he took offense.

This morning, for instance, he stared me in the eye and dared me to object to the dipping of his amazing prehensile tail into my coffee cup.

He has even vocalized his displeasure with my cool assessments, standing on my chest, nose-to-nose,  issuing amazing yowls.

The cat is smart.

Fred says I patiently taught him about "soft paws." That is a command used solely with Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten and His Alarmingly Long and Sharp Claws.  *Seriously*, his claws are razor-sharp talons and his sweet nature cannot compensate for the gaping wounds and deep punctures exacted by their  accidental application.  Add CRPS to the equation, and I am sometimes panicked by his paws, by his teeth.

He loves to play fetch, retrieving little felt mice with an enthusiasm that seems to last forever.  The only problem I had was that when he retrieved the mice, he was so excited by the prospect of chasing after it again that he would lunge at my hands and leave my skin hanging in slightly exaggerated shreds...

Or maybe I just found it hard to manage, being as hypersensitive as I am to touch.

So I taught him that he must tap our hands, GENTLY, if he wishes to play fetch.  If he fails to do that, we issue the command "soft paw." He then stares at you with pure disdain, thinks about things for a bit, and makes his choice.  Usually he opts to retract his claws and ever so softly tap the extended hand.  Occasionally, he gets confused and offers his head for us to pat.  In maybe one instance out of ten, he swings for the fences, with a crazed Slasher Cat face and a throaty meeeoowwww.

We are clearly in charge.

Listen, I am trying, okay?  I have wholesome food percolating in a slow cooker.  I got a hair cut (and have almost forgiven Fred for reacting with "What have you done?").  I have refilled all my prescriptions, started the ball rolling on getting a new wheelchair, and both made and cancelled appointments.  I cooked for Fred and his gaggle of Militant Existentialist Lesbian Feminists.  In the predawn hours, I listened to an assortment of musical styles and resisted the urge to eat chocolate while watching infomercials.  You know, I am getting stuff done, my oars are in the water, I'm engaged.

But there is this disconnect that is undeniable.  The Ketamine Experiment was a massive FAIL and I'm now clueless.  Almost bereft.  Not quite bereaved, quasi-daunted.  Not sleeping, in nothing but pain, trying to fake my way through the next second, the next minute.  Never a hero, I'm wimpified by headaches and nausea, even if it is the easiest way, ever, to lose weight, despite all the cooking binges it seems to inspire.  I mean, what else is there to do in the middle of the night that will have some kind of compensatory result?

It hardly matters that we are smack dab in the middle of Marlinspike Hall with its attendant opulence and ease;  I get little relief from the solicitous Domestic Staff or the constant operatic cheer of La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore.  I am an ungrateful you-know-what.

And then there is this Behemoth Feline who likes to sit on me, who gets under my wheels -- he trusts me! -- and who just won't leave me the hell alone.

Soft paw!  Soft paw!


Today's completely random raw cat video captures the chilling effect of one Ms. Marmy Fluffy Butt.  The Feline Trio had all run to a window, hearing something that I couldn't even detect.  That's her in the middle, Dobby, her son, on the right, with Buddy, the Freakishly Large Kitten safely hovering on her left.  Please note that Dobby -- poor, put-upon Dobster -- simply makes an affectionate gesture toward his beloved Mum and that is what prompts her to cuff him, to the tune of one of her patented fishy hisses, for good measure.

What cracks me up is Buddy... no fool, he.  No sudden moves and he never takes his eyes off her after that.  Just after I stopped the video, he s-l-o-w-l-y tip-toed across the bed behind her, taking up a position wayyyy off to the right.  I feel for Dobby, and Marmy's schizoid nature is a daily wonder.

But where the hell did he come from, again?  And how long before he realizes that he outweighs the others and that Marmy is all fish breath and no bite?  You say he's been here since *March*?!

wednesday morning catcam

You can never have too much cat.

Right?

Buddy the Kitten is huge now, and increasingly brave.  Not quite brave enough to confront Marmy Fluffy-Butt, yet, but getting there.  In fact, about the only piece of cat documentary that we lack is a feature length film following their evolving relationship.  Buddy recognizes Marmy's superior position within Marlinspike Hall, but still covets the fluffiness and innate playfulness of her magnificent, waving tail.

He always seems so shocked when reminded that this friendly piece o' hairiness is connected to Marmy the BeAtch -- as you'll see in this little video, when he finds himself perilously close to Her Highness after jumping on the couch.  (Oh my God, she's attached to her tail... Oops!)

Prof is Pissed and Buddy the Kitten Finally Goes UP!

I am, as they say in the Southern Realms of the United States of America, fit to be tied.

First, I'm febrile, oh so febrile, as febrile as febrile can be....    ♪ ♫

Second, there is a person on YouTube who keeps leaving me kind messages.  The person claims to be a Mom whose son was cured of CRPS by a contraption and bless her, she thinks I should get cured by a contraption, too.

And all those good wishes and sweet suggestions are about to piss me off in a royally major way.
That's what you get for ending all your messages to me with a cheerful "God bless" and for being all conciliatory and stuff.

This person is pushing the bleeping Calmare Magic Poof-the-Pain-Away Crap Technology... and you probably haven't heard of it, but then you probably don't hang out on message boards dealing with CRPS.  It's utter nonsense and is being put out there by the devious, the deviant, and the people that the devious and the deviant have hoodwinked.

By the way, no one should hang out on message boards dealing with CRPS. It's not a healthy habit.  I mean, you get a bunch of people who are not getting better (why else would they be there?), who are, by self-definition, People of Pain, and who are likely socially isolated due to disability, the aforementioned pain, and pain's stalwart companion, depression.  It just sounds like so much... FUN! 

So that's a rule, then.  No hanging out in such spots.  But a regular check on good threads, that's permitted.  I would be lost without the helpful suggestions I encounter on those boards -- where to find the softest clothes, what doctor is doing what treatment, news of clinical trials, morbid jokes. 

Mostly, though, I check in -- at least 3 times a week -- to take a look in a mirror, mentally as much as physically.  Has anyone else considered taking a chainsaw to their legs?  After we lop off one arm, who can we rely on to get rid of the other one?  Important things.

I also check in to see if what is happening to me should send me screaming into the frozen hinterlands or if it is just part of the normal abnormality of this weird, weird disease.  Like the fact that my leg is leaking... Or that I have 2 blue toes, 1 red, and 2 tartan plaids.  It is somewhat reassuring to see pictures of other people's fingernails -- Hey, their nails are falling off and cruddy looking, too!

I promise you, however, that it will be a cold day in Hell before I author any version of the phrase "Being here makes me feel less alone..."   I suppose I should explain myself, but I'm not going to.  Because I know what I mean.  And whose blog is it, anyway?  Harrumph, squared.

Back to this irritant of a Calmare thingy.

At the moment, the only physician in the entire United States who has suckled at the tit of the inventor of the Calmare Magic Poof-the-Pain-Away Crap Technology is one Dr. D'Amato, of Rhode Island (or so I hear, over here in Tête de Hergé, where there is no illness, of course, nor traffic accidents).

Yeah, there *is* a guy opening up 14 pain clinics using the Calmare Magic Poof-the-Pain-Away Crap Technology (Spero Pain Relief Therapy clinics).  Guess what?  He's an OB/Gyn.  Just who I want doing pain management for a central nervous system degenerative disorder.  More from him in a moment.

Cut me some slack today, would'ya?
Give me some latitude.
I don't feel well and I can't get a'holt o'that there magic poof machine (and it ain't covered by insurance, neither.)

Ahem.  Okay.  The ibuprofen is kicking in.  I love ibuprofen.  I should own stock...

Speaking of stock: CTT is the parent company in the USA...and it's now a penny stock.  Or almost -- it closed today at 1.70.  Because some rubber-stamping idiot approved Calmare Magic Poof-the-Pain-Away Crap Technology as a vendor to the VA, all the devious, deviants, and the hoodwinked are going on and on about how if it's good enough for our Wounded Warriors at the "flagship" Walter Reed (I'm thinking they don't read the Washington Post), then, by gum, it's good enough for you CRPSers!

The Italian inventor was less circumspect, if you can believe it.  He claimed that Calmare Magic Poof-the-Pain-Away Crap Technology could reverse aging.

Now you're talking!

Meet, my friends, Giuseppe Marineo, and his explanatory woo and gobbledy-gook from the Italian arm of operations, Delta R&D:

Delta R&D is a bioengineering research centre with a unique history. It was born out of individual research work begun in 1983 by Giuseppe Marineo, a researcher and bioengineer, who advanced theories to reformulate the concept of disease (and the corresponding treatment) from a biophysical rather than biochemical point of view. The idea was to restructure the known features of both according to the principles of thermodynamics by means of an analysis and the detailed specification of the relations between entropy, disease, repair processes and ageing.


This new approach to the interpretation of the traditional aspects of medical science makes it possible to go from a highly heuristic system to an extremely conceptual and rationalized system, which can create models of disease and treatment so sophisticated as to render the experimental results highly predictable. If the latter are in line with the predictions they automatically validate the development model.
Furthermore, the very name of the theoretical system developed entails a natural transition from reductionist methods to systems theory which, in the present research, takes the form of a powerful working tool capable of providing adequate support for the development of therapies of practical utility.


In practice Marineo introduced into medical science the research and development criteria typical of engineering, in which the thoroughness of the preliminary theoretical work fully determines the expectations of the experimental verification of the method used. In 1987 the basic research was already sufficiently well structured to be supported by a technology capable of translating the theoretical system into a truly useful therapy.


The first experimental verifications fully confirmed the validity of the theoretical models developed and opened up concrete future prospects for the safe and non-invasive treatment of pathologies for which conventional methods had proved ineffective.
In 1998 the Italian scientific community, which had been constantly informed of all research developments, deemed the product of 15 years research to be scientifically valid, the theoretical principles and experimental data to have been clearly demonstrated and the bioethical principles regarding the respect and protection of the patient to have been respected.


In other words, the research carried out by a private individual was accepted and supported by the public authorities. It was consequently possible to begin official university and hospital studies, at the conclusion of which the first international publications were produced.


In order to support these changes, in May 1998 Delta R&D was set up, thus marking the beginning of the mature stage of this individual research endeavour. Although the original philosophy was retained, a logistical structure was now available to satisfy the new phases of development and to maintain and expand relations with the international scientific community.


In Italy the Delta R&D company became a research centre incorporated into a public structure thanks to the prestigious acknowledgement of the Tor Vergata University of Rome in the form of an agreement in which Delta R&D is recognized as part of the scientific structure of the university while retaining its autonomy and individuality.


Outside Italy, Delta R&D, the theoretical and research work on the Delta-S Entropy Variation Systems and “Scrambler Therapy” pain therapy resulted in Giuseppe Marineo receiving scientific awards for the originality of the basic research, in addition to numerous other acknowledgements by the international scientific community inherent in the acceptance of the proposed published works.

I dunno, maybe that's not your favorite type of woo and gobbledy-gook.  How about this?  From the lips of Dr. Robert Chalmers, former OB/Gyn:

Q-How do you do Calmare , Exactly?


The treatment is actually quite simple. It involved the machine, wires and surface electrodes that deliver the electrical waveforms. The surface electrodes are the same used in heart monitoring such as an EKG. The patients sits or lies comfortable during each 45 minute treatment session. The electrodes are placed OUTSIDE the area of pain so they will not increase the pain in patients with allodynia from CRPS




Q-How does it work?


The mechanism is completely unique. The primary issue with CPRS is the so called physiologic "wind-up" in the brain. This is a complicated change in the nervous system and can be traced at least in part to changes in NMDA receptors in the brain. We need to get to the brain to help with this disease. The use of electricity for the management of pain is not unique to the Calmare system and I am sure many RSD sufferers have tried traditional TENS therapy. However, the Calmare system is not anything like a TENS unit. Injury or other noxious stimulus in the body creates pain chemicals. These chemicals in turn get converted into electrical impulses by your nerves which get transmitted to the brain and get INTERPRETED by the brain. When we use the Calmare system we "control" the electrical impulses that the brain is recieving. By manipulating the input into the brain we "convince" the brain that the area of the body where pain was present is now normal. We know that the brain can be taught, in medicine we refer to thoses changes as Neuroplasticity and there is quite a bit of interesting reading on that topic on the internet if you have the time. I was the worlds biggest cynic prior to actually treating patients with the machine. I thought it was TENS or Placebo but nearly every patient I have treated has already tried TENS therapy and they can tell you this is nothing like TENS.It works!

Mystery solved.  "It works!" He hits all the right buzz words:  allodynia, neuroplasticity, NMDA receptors, physiologic wind-up...  Oh, gag me with a spoon.  Does any of it make sense?  Not a bit.

You want real breaking news?  Hmm?  Do you think you can handle some real news?  Well, do ya?

Jessep: You want answers?

Kaffee (Tom Cruise): I think I'm entitled to them.

Jessep: You want answers?

Kaffee: I want the truth!

Jessep: You can't handle the truth! Son, we live in a world that has walls. And those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Weinberg? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago and you curse the Marines. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that Santiago's death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives...You don't want the truth. Because deep down, in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that wall. You need me on that wall.

We use words like honor, code, loyalty...we use these words as the backbone to a life spent defending something. You use 'em as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it! I'd rather you just said thank you and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you're entitled to!

Kaffee: Did you order the code red?

Jessep: (quietly) I did the job you sent me to do.

Kaffee: Did you order the code red?

Jessep: You're goddamn right I did!!

Oops.  Sorry...  It just feels like A Few Good Men kind of an afternoon.  Did I mention that I am febrile?
That I'm febrile, oh so febrile, as febrile as febrile can be?   ♪ ♫
Oh, I did.  Okay.  Well, I bet you don't know that I sprang a leak!  Yep, drip, drip, drip goes my leg, leg, leg...  Oh, I mentioned that. 

How about this?  I feel cranky.  That's gotta be news, because I am NEVER cranky!

WHAT IS THE CURE FOR CRANKY?

BUDDY THE KITTEN, of course.

It turns out that the kitten was not being a contemplative, not waxing philosophical.   He wasn't meditating on the idea of UP after all.  The Kitten wants the cord to the ceiling fan!  That's what he's been gazing at in adoration for the last few weeks.  What cracks me up is that he had the other two cats doing it, as well as a human or two.

From the Cutting Room Floor

When I grow up I want to be an old woman
When I grow up I want to be an old woman
Oh, an o-o-o-o-old, an old, old woman

Then I think I'm gonna find myself an old man
Then I think I'm gonna marry myself that old man
An old, an old, an old, an old, a really old man

We're gonna have a hundred and twenty babies
A hundred and five, ten, fifteen, twenty babies
Uh huh, that's what I said a hundred and twenty babies

We'll raise 'em on tiger's milk and green bananas
Mangoes and coconuts and watermelon
We're gonna give 'em that watermelon when they starts yellin'

Here's what they'll yell...

In the summer we'll sit in a field and watch the sun melt
In the winter we'll sit by a fire and watch the moon freeze
Me my old man and a hundred and twenty babies
Me my old man and a hundred and twenty babies
I said, me my old man and a hundred and twenty babies
Oh, when I grow up I want to be an old woman
When I grow up I want to be an oooooold...


--Michelle Shocked, When I Grow Up

Michelle Shocked is among those artists I like to listen to during ketamine treatments.  It's kind of an odd mix, I suppose, though maybe not:  Sam Cooke on gospel (he was there when they crucified my lord, y'know) The Stones prancing around on my cerebellum, Jacques Brel to satisfy that inevitable nostalgia for accordion-driven café music, Keith Jarrett's Koln concert, anything from After the Gold Rush Neil
Young --
(Hey, hey Cripple Creek ferry



Butting through the overhanging trees


Make way for the Cripple Creek ferry

The waters going down it's a mighty tight squeeze...)

-- early Bonnie Raitt, like before I understood how old she was, Jennifer Warnes, the bits of Laurie Anderson that crack me up, Marvin Gaye -- all the Marvin Gaye in the world, wanting to undo what was done -- but no more Motown because I shake the gurney in some kooky ketamine spastic dance craze, apparently -- though I bet I could tolerate some Temptations -- I don't so much want to dance to their music as pretend to be them, slick with moves... some Jackson Browne but always Your Bright Baby Blues --

(I'm sitting down by the highway
Down by that highway side

Everybody's going somewhere

Riding just as fast as they can ride

I guess they've got a lot to do

Before they can rest assured

Their lives are justified

Pray to God for me baby

He can let me slide

'Cause I've been up and down this highway

Far as my eyes can see

No matter how fast I run

I can never seem to get away from me

No matter where I am

I can't help feeling I'm just a day away

From where I want to be

Now I'm running home baby

Like a river to the sea

Baby if you can see me

Out across this wilderness

There's just one thing

I was hoping you might guess

Baby you can free me

All in the power of your sweet tenderness

I can see it in your eyes

You've got those bright baby blues

You don't see what you've got to gain

But you don't like to lose

You watch yourself from the sidelines

Like your life is a game you don't mind playing

To keep yourself amused

I don't mean to be cruel baby

But you're looking confused

Baby if you can hear me

Turn down your radio

There's just one thing

I want you to know

When you've been near me

I've felt the love stirring in my soul

It's so hard to come by

That feeling of peace

This friend of mine said

"Close your eyes, and try a few of these"

I thought I flying like a bird

So far above my sorrow

But when I looked down

I was standing on my knees

Now I need someone to help me

Someone to help me please

Baby if you need me

Like I know I need you

There's just one thing

I'll ask you to do

Take my hand and lead me

To the hole in your garden wall

And pull me through... )

Sometimes there's some Dylan, sometimes there's not, often he's replaced by Nina Simone -- it is necessary to assess my mood, to make those all-important last minute decisions, sitting in the fume-filled parking garage, getting my last swigs of diet root beer, feeling oh-so-glad I quit smoking all those years ago.  I'm not concluding anything from it, but I get the same feeling at this hospital for catastrophic brain and spinal cord injuries as I did the times I dragged a long ago roommate to AA meetings.  We started going the evening of the day she crashed her orange Vega through the garden wall and smack-dab into my bedroom.  Anyway, I am referring to the coffee and cigarettes.  The smell of them is everywhere, and because they're molecularly linked somehow, not even the coffee smell smells good.  I mean, like, you'd never slip up and use the word "aroma" for it.

My second ketamine treatment, I had not yet made a playlist for the occasion, and managed to land on Jethro Tull's Aqualung.  We're talking major depression.  I mean, there I am, losing myself, falling into the K-hole, serenaded by...

Sitting on a park bench

eyeing little girls with bad intent.

Snot running down his nose

greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.

Drying in the cold sun

Watching as the frilly panties run.

Feeling like a dead duck

spitting out pieces of his broken luck.

My mp3 player selections for the ketamine experience are hardly remarkable... but they are mine, you know?  A little something of me to have, in case I get lost and can't find my way back -- to Fred, down at the end of the bed, to Nurse Monique, so sweet and learning not to promise me anything, to my brothers, to my friends, to Dobby and the Rest of the Remnant.

We had our first early morning session this week, on Thursday.  You will note that it is now Saturday and that the only blog piece I've published in the interim was something already pieced together.  And I am not sure I should be writing this post, even. 

I've been in a world of pain.  Past caring, really.

Ah, but Friends, I ask you:  Might the fact that I somehow managed to delete all of my music during the ride to the hospital -- Might that devastating loss be at the heart of how awful that treatment turned out to be? Might being stuck with just the radio have set me up for days of suffering, for nights of... well, for plain old long-assed nights?

I did give the experience a try -- honestly.  I lay there and tried to focus on something besides listening.  But I cannot focus on seeing and looking because I cannot... focus.  My vision BENDS with these higher doses -- bends as in I-can-see-around-corners-but-not-right-down-the-middle-of-the-visual-field.  Also, there is the issue of foreshortening.  When I tried to zero in on Fred's legs, which I knew to be stretched out from his nasty plastic chair and propped on my wheelchair seat, they were as badly elongated tooth picks. 

And I know you'll understand that I could only see around the corner (the far left corner, of course) when I trained my eyes straight ahead.  It was, in fact, Nurse Monique who occupied that just-around-the-far-left-corner spot.  Sometimes she popped up at bedside, asking me probing questions like "What's wrong?" and sometimes she was striding -- she has an officious walk -- toward the supply room behind the nurses' station.  I never saw her actually enter the supply room because the supply room extends past the line ending the square of permissible vision.  You know it is there, kind of a humongous maw of emptiness, its door a blind rectangle to my visible square.

It would be ideal to just sleep.  I can't, though, not even with the pre-infusion 10 mg of valium.  I can't because of pain.  Funny, huh?! 

The dose was a hefty 155 mg and we noticed that they gave me considerably longer than the others to try and regain some equilibrium after it had run in.  Normally, everyone gets about 20 minutes, then it's on with the shoes and outer clothing, flush the portacath with saline and heparin, transfer to the wheelchair and weave one's shaky way out.  My shaky way out.  Part of the wait was also due to the doctor failing to show up to sign my discharge paperwork... Even so, I couldn't have left any sooner than I did, and even then, wanted to spew, weep, and be unconscious, all at the same time.

It only got worse as time went on.  We stopped at Home Depot, since we were right there near Tête de Hergé's Lone Alp -- and lone Home Depot store.  Fred ran in "just for a minute" and I pretended to read Dorothy Allison's Cavedweller.  It was hot, people were streaming by, the sun hurt my eyes.  I had to pee and got to, an hour later, when we pulled into The Manor service road and zipped right up to the Emergency Secret Loo nestled in the Orchard Wall.  (There was no toilet paper!  Arg!)

I've tried taking my pain meds. 
I've tried not taking my pain meds.
I've tried opiates, no opiates, biofeedback, crying.
I've slept.
I've made myself get up and work.
I baked a batch of awesome scones, not too sweet.
I promised and failed to deliver on a soup.
I put a kitten under my chin.
I paid bills.
I shooed the kitten away, and felt the urge to hit him.
I ate.
I abstained from eating.
I overate.
I ran fevers, had sweats.
I cut my hair.
I stopped saying "I" -- as a verbal and moral exercise.

The only thing that helped, and then only for twenty minutes or so, was darkness. And silence.  As if my entire body had a migraine.

Some years back, I remember feeling this way -- physical horror wrapped up in depression and regret.  I tossed the remains of my dissertation, and erased the evidence from my hard drives.  I burned photographs. I ran the air conditioner at obscene temperatures, applying ice air to my burning dystrophic body.

The ketamine isn't working.  It's failed.  I came out of this one worse than I went in.  Fred says it's too early to say, that I did get some benefit from the fourth infusion but it showed up way late -- as in the day before receiving the fifth one.  I cannot say if he is right.  (That means that I think he is wrong.)

I'll do the next one as the last one and then keep my appointment with this doctor... who promised me a miracle.  No, I am not angry.  It's what I wanted to hear and longed to believe.

There is one song that will never make the Ketamine Playlist -- I'd never disrespect it so.  But it might be the one and only piece of the Post-Ketamine SongFest -- the only song worth remembering after bathing the brain in toxin, Dylan's I'll Keep It With Mine. This is not the cover I'd choose but it's certainly more than okay:



And so it was in this sorry state that I got up this morning, and then got up again two hours later. I had the urge to DELETE, beginning with videos... before I gave in to it, I made myself do a "Magic Movie" treatment of about 15 meaningless cat clips. This is what the FlipShare do-hickey program came up with, this is what has been preserved.

Buddy has been going through a "leaping" phase. He will suddenly leap in the air, sometimes from a dead standstill, sometimes adding a quarter turn or a twist, always exuding Extreme Joy. Marmy has begun to accept him and now he gives her this really scary, mean hiss-s-s-s when she frightens him, and she never fails to frighten him, just by showing up. He has mounted Dobby several times, and Dobby fairly sighs -- Sammy used to do the same thing. Poor Dobby. Poor Buddy. Sexual confusion is never fun.

I am *this* close to deleting the blog.  It is a tough call.

 

kittencam: buddy discovers UP

okay, so this is probably "buddy's review of the recently discovered concept of UP." earlier in the evening, he'd gone round and round in a tight circle, looking up at the light fixture, plaintively vocalizing -- until he got hit with a major case of dizziness.  i missed it, of course.  since then, he seems to be periodically reminded of UP and keeps a dedicated eye on it.

Sunday's KittenCam

So I thought I'd do a very little mopping.  Buddy thought he'd help.

Clearly, the following things are true in BuddyLand:

1.  Nothing bad can happen on Buddy's Blanket.  Buddy, himself, has positioned (and repositioned, ad infinitum) said Blanket with an eye toward strategic advantage.  It lies next to the refrigerator, a tremendous source of wonder for him, and, paradoxically, warmth.  The little square of cloth is always carefully situated between the trash can, from which goodies may fall, and the Food and Water Bowls, the center of Buddy's Universe.
2.  Only an attack on the Food and Water Bowls is sufficient cause to go to war.
3.  While #2 is true, it is also true that he who fights and runs away, may live to fight another day.  These conflicting truths make the decision to go to war much too much of a decision for a very small animal and leaves only #1 as uncompromisingly reliable -- Nothing bad can happen on Buddy's Blanket.

KittenCam for Tuesday

The first brushing.  Oh, we named him... Buddy.  I know, there are so many good other options for names.  But we listened to what we were already calling him, and Buddy was it.  Unofficially, he is also NumbNut and Sport.

Pisser and Stinky Boy.

StudMuffin and Stinker.

There has been a lot of laundry going on thanks to his various contributions.

The last KittyCam offering of the day -- because I am feeling distinctly ketamine-y, a term that I could not explain for the life of me -- features Buddy as he gets when he is very tired and sleepy but damned and determined not to fall asleep.

(He had his first vet visit this morning and we fear that he is going to be HUGE, as he tops the height and weight charts for his tender age.  He has gained almost a pound in less than a week.  Heh.  Marmy best enjoy her advantage while she has one...)