Running insights

   A few good quotes about running… And life in general:

Gypsy: 4/1/97 - 4/30/12

   I always thought I was a dog person—I never intended to get a cat. But Gypsy found me fifteen years ago and changed my mind in an instant—and changed my life for the better.

I said goodbye to her this evening. Words can't describe how much she will be missed. 

Good-bye, dear friend… Until we meet again.

   Gypsy has only been gone a few hours, but I'm already struck by how quiet the house seems (despite the noisy Shibas). My life hasn't been without a kitty since Gyp entered the picture... I've become so accustomed to having her purring next to me, to her stealing my dinner, to seeing cat hair blowing around. It hardly seems possible that she's gone, and yet at the same time, it's so painfully obvious. 

   I've shared my life with so many animals over the years, and all are very special to me, but Gypsy has always been the most special. From the second I laid eyes on her, I knew she belonged with me.

  The last 24 hours have been difficult and surreal; she has been very affectionate, sitting near me and purring. She has eaten a few treats from my hand. There were signs of hope. But she was also wobblier in her walk, she had begun to resist her fluid treatments, and last night I realized she was going blind. I would have given absolutely anything to make her better, but we had already exhausted every option. I couldn't bear to let her go too soon, before her time; nor could I bear to see her suffer. I had asked her to me know when she was ready, and she did. I had to honor that.

   In one sense it's a relief because I've been grieving for Atom, then her, these last seven months. I'm exhausted and sad. But I'd gladly keep fighting for her if it had been an option. I believe she knew that.

   I'm grateful that Gypsy had a pretty good weekend. We spent lots of time together, and she spent some time outside on the deck, soaking up the sunshine today, listening to the birds, and feeling the wind on her whiskers.

   I'm grateful that everyone at my vet's office, from my vet to the techs, to the receptionists, has been so kind and caring through Atom & Gypsy's passing. When I took her in this afternoon, they were waiting with open arms and hugs and words of comfort.

   I'm grateful that Gypsy passed away so quietly and peacefully.

   I'm grateful that Kelly was kind enough to drive me to the vet, and Madeline brought dinner for me; Mary Ann, Allyson, Michele, Joni, and Sawako offered kind words and help too—I had more offers of support than I could accept. It feels so good to be around those who have been there, and who understand this pain I'm feeling, and who care about me, and Gypsy. The emails and texts from everyone mean so much.

   It will take me forever and a day to get over losing her, but as she was leaving me, I asked her to come find me again when she's ready. I've already been immeasurably blessed for being with her once, and I believe we will meet again.

Gyppy Time

    Gypsy had several good days last week, and ate a little food Tuesday through Friday. On Saturday and Sunday, though, she started vomiting, and went off food again. She's not in pain, and still loves getting fluids, but I can tell she is having trouble getting comfortable. These days she usually doesn't want to sit on me, but still snuggles up next to me. It's comforting to feel her warm body up against me, and the low, steady rumble of her purring. She is still bright and alert and happy.
   I'm giving her hospice care; neither hastening nor prolonging her life, just providing support and giving her the best quality of life possible. She's clearly not ready to give up, but is becoming a shadow of her former self; quieter, and thin. It's so difficult to see her go through this.
   I'm realizing that in some ways, though I treasure the time I have with her, I'm in the most difficult phase of her life—for myself, emotionally. While Atom's death was heart-wrenchingly fast—only 4 days from diagnosis to his end—in some ways it was easier to take. I didn't see it coming. Gypsy was diagnosed with kidney disease the same day that Atom died, so I've basically been grieving for her ever since. I'm torn between the hope that she can overcome this for a time, and the pain of watching her decline. It is awful to be grieving for someone while they are still here, and I remind myself that she will sense this and take cues from me.

   I feel so deeply sad, but am trying to allow myself some grace. I remind myself that I've been fortunate to have been spared the loss of someone so close to me for many years. Atom was gone so quickly that I didn't have time to stop and think about it. I've lost both my grandmothers in the last few years, but never in my life did I live close to them, so although I loved them, we didn't have a tight bond. Mom has lost Bailey and Madison, her Golden Retrievers, with whom I used to live. But I was already living in Kansas City when they passed, so I was sheltered from the pain. They didn't feel like "mine" anymore—I was sad for her, not myself.

   The last time I felt such deep pain was when I had to say good-bye to Justin, another Golden, when I was in college. He was the family dog, but really he was mine—like a big, furry little brother. I grew up with him at my side. He was ten when he was diagnosed with cancer. I'll never forget that call from the vet. Justin had been dropped off for exploratory surgery, in an attempt to determine why he had been so sick for a few months. "His body is full of cancer," the vet said quietly. "What do you want us to do?"

   I knew that he was so uncomfortable that it didn't feel right to let him come home and continue to suffer. I met the vet at the office—Charlotte drove me there. Justin's tail thumped against the inside of the metal cage when he saw me. He thought he was going home. I knelt and held his big, heavy head in my lap while she gave him the injection. It was the hardest thing I'd even done. I was twenty-one.

   These intense feelings were matched when I said good-bye to Atom. He declined so rapidly, and when I went to the emergency vet to visit him (he was on an IV for the weekend, to see if he'd respond), I knew immediately that the right thing to do was to let him go. He looked miserable. Yet, almost imperceptibly, he lifted his head and purred when he felt my hand stroking his face. His nose twitched. He knew it was me, coming to say good-bye, and he was glad I was with him.

   Gypsy will be the hardest yet; she has been with me longer than any animal, and we've had the tightest bond. It's hard to even describe how close I feel to her. I can't imagine life without her.

   No matter how long our pets are with us, whether it's one year or twenty-five, it's never long enough. And there's really no way to prepare for the big hole that they leave in your heart when you lose them. No matter how difficult this is, I'm reminding myself that they all have had amazing, happy lives that I have helped provide for them. They are the family that you get to choose. And my life is immeasurably better because of them.

Happy Birthday, Gorgeous!

   We can't know for sure what day she was born since she was a stray kitty, but my vet made his best guess, and April 1st is the birthday I chose for her 15 years ago.
   Gypsy was 6-8 months old when I snatched her up from the freezing rain on an early, cold October morning. I had been watching her all summer, as she and a dozen other strays collected outside my first apartment, taking advantage of all the paper plates full of food that my downstairs neighbor left out for them. Despite being scrawny, dirty, and completely feral, she was the most beautiful cat I had ever seen. And somehow, from the first time I laid eyes on her, I knew she belonged with me. I had never taken in a wild cat, but I never had an ounce of doubt that I could tame her. Today it hardly seems possible that she came from such a tough start.
   I ignored her at first as she darted around my apartment, and sat on the floor to watch TV and eat my dinner. If I stood, she fled and hid. I had to move slowly, being completely silent so I wouldn't startle her. In those first couple of weeks I scarcely saw her, as she cowered in the corner under my bed, or opened the kitchen cabinet and hid behind the dishwasher. But the bowl of food was emptied every night, and the litter box was used, so I knew she was adapting.
   She used to hide at the food of my bed, under the covers, every day while I was at work. She wouldn't venture out until I came home. Slowly she began to trust me, and would slink around the perimeter of the apartment as I sat on the floor to eat, sniffing the air and becoming interested. I'll never forget the night that I had made stir fry, with steak, chicken, shrimp, and tons of fresh veggies. She quietly approached and sat next to me. She meowed. I gently placed a small piece of steak on the carpet. She sniffed it, looked at me, and meowed again. I tried again with the shrimp, then the chicken. She acted interested, but didn't eat. Then she put her front paws on my leg and stood up to reach my plate. It wasn't meat she wanted—it was the asparagus! I gave her a whole spear and she LOVED it. Wouldn't have guessed that... but Gypsy has always been full of surprises.
   From that moment on she began to get more confident. I started seeing her more. As long as I didn't force the relationship, it began to blossom. When my Mom came to visit, Gypsy warmed up to her, and literally from that day on she has been the life of the party. I think her transformation has been just incredible!
   You're not supposed to pick favorites, but I think it's pretty obvious that she's the most special to me. It's hard to explain why, but she and I have always had a very special connection, unlike any animal I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. Part of the bond was forged through the work I put into taming her, and she has repaid me with affection every day of her life. She makes me smile, has made me laugh a million times.
   Today she's making me cry a whole lot because I can't even fathom what life will be like without her. She has taught me a lot. The lesson I appreciate most is that sometimes there is something you just know, even if it can't be explained. And you have to hold fast to it, and nurture it. And if you continue to believe, it can turn into something more wonderful than you could ever imagine.


   I'm getting ready to take her back to the vet for more fluids. I'm hoping I can keep her happy and comfortable for as long as possible, and I will let her go when the time is right. A piece of me will be going with her. Happy birthday, Love.

Synchronicity

   I came home from work last night and took care of the animals, which is the first thing I always do. Gypsy hadn't eaten a bite... for the second day in a row. (The dogs love this, because I give them Gypsy's leftovers.) She seemed to rally after the low around Christmastime, and was back up to 11 lbs, from 9. But her appetite has been weak again since I returned from San Francisco on March 6.
   She always acts very interested in food—even follows me around shouting at me when she's hungry, pronouncing every letter in "MEOW!"—but when I put one of about 15 different foods down, she sniffs it and walks away. It's very frustrating. She's getting lighter and lighter.
   Later I went down to the laundry room to find that she had vomited clear liquid. Not good... definitely something to watch.
   This morning I saw that she hadn't eaten anything overnight, and she had vomited in the basement again. I called Joni to tell her I'd join them later for our hike if I could, and headed right for the vet, who graciously squeezed us in.
   We saw Dr. Miller, who hadn't checked Gypsy before. I could see the concern on his face when he read her charts. She was back down to 9.4 lbs. and he recommended bloodwork to check her kidney levels, subcutaneous fluids, and an anti-nausea injection. He palpated her and noted that her kidneys were huge... which has never been the case before. It's definitely cancer. And when you add that to the renal disease, it equates to, "we can't do anything but keep her comfortable and try to give her a good quality of life a little longer".
   None of this was a surprise, of course, given the last few months of history. But it did break my heart. I only lost Atom five months ago, Gypsy has been up and down since, and Taylor is seriously ill as well. They say things come in threes. I've found my unlucky number...
   I brought Gypsy home and comforted her, then took the dogs up to the dog park to meet Joni & friends. I shared the bad news, but we didn't dwell on it—I needed to get my mind off it for a couple of hours.

   When I got home, I opened up today's paper to see this:

   Synchronicity. Unfortunately, the article didn't offer any answers or much comfort. The author just confirmed that the lost of a beloved pet, a being who is devoted to you and depends on you, is very difficult—often moreso than losing a friend or close human family member. Again, not a surprise. Despite my other three pets, the house feels empty without Atom's presence.
   At dinner last night (Joni and I piled up the kaiten-zushi plates at Sakura), we talked about this subject. She noted that you always think your pets will live until tomorrow; but eventually tomorrow becomes today, and today becomes now. We agreed that the one good side to pets' lives being so short is that if you could keep them forever, you'd lose the opportunity to rescue more of them.
   I agree with that, but somehow I know I won't adopt another kitty. I've already had the two best kitties anyone could have... I can't imagine another that would live up to the standard mine have set. Most likely I will begin to foster dogs again, someday when time has helped heal my heart.
   Until that day, I have to be thankful for every moment I have with Gypsy. It's tough because it is plain to see that she is slipping through my hands, and though she is still here, my heart is raw, anticipating the inevitable. I have to keep reminding myself that I thought I was going to lose her on my birthday, so the last three months have been bonus time, and I'm thankful for it.
   Joni just emailed and reminded me: "Beginnings and endings are what life is all about.  It's what makes life so hard.  And it's what makes life so magical." She's a wise friend.

What is a Good Life?

   Today at work I had the opportunity to hear Laura King, Ph.D. from the University of Missouri Dept. of Psychology. Dr. King has spent over 20 years exploring topics within "positive psychology" such as happiness and meaning in life, relationships, intuition, religion, death, and self-identity. Wow.

   She was a dynamic speaker, funny and approachable, and very engaging from the start. And she posed some very interesting ideas about the correlation between happiness and a life full of meaning. She posed that we should learn through observation rather than through inventing something new; that we won't find the meaning in our lives through abstract/pure concepts (altruism, heroism, truth), but rather through specific, achievable goals. She spoke about intuitive knowledge ("just knowing, without knowing why" and facilitated by a positive emotional experience)  vs. analytical knowledge ("knowing something, and knowing why it's that way" and facilitated by a negative emotional experience), and posed that intuitive knowledge is the path to happiness. Random events can be imbued with meaning—synchronicity gives meaning to random connections.

    She said that through her work she has learned that meaning creates happiness, and happiness creates meaning. Said another way, being in a good mood makes people feel as if their life has meaning—and happy, intuitive people report more meaning in various experiences. The perception of meaning in life is most often a subconscious perception, rather than through an intentional search. Thinking turns off meaning.

   If you feel better, you'll be happier; events will just seem to make sense and your life will have meaning. She listed several benefits of happiness: experiencing meaning in life; seeing the big picture; having efficient, creative, flexible cognitions; having the fortitude to face difficult news; faster recovery from stress; getting and staying married; and even a longer life!

   Rather than looking for happiness or trying to be happy, we should enhance our happiness by setting achievable goals, which accentuate the positive—but without eliminating the negative. There is a time for disappointment and grief—they are normal and necessary.

   She said happy people rate this statement highly on a scale of 0-10: "If I could live my life over, I'd change almost nothing." The wisdom, insight, and maturity of those that agree with this statement means that they have achieved true happiness: they can evaluate their lives, "warts and all", and still feel good about them. They'd say that life can be difficult, but it is rooted in a world that makes sense. And there are signs of meaning everywhere.

   It was an insightful presentation, and one that hit close to home. I feel like I've been trying to hard to create meaning without letting it unfold—though I often recognize it when it does. This was the #1 reason I created this blog in the first place, to think through, in writing, my experiences and try to make some connections. I'm going to be thinking about Dr. King a lot and how I can use this information in my life.

More Than Mountains

Intersections conduct.

Right angles obstruct.

And we survive by following the lines.

Rulers make lines,

High rise and street signs,

And we survive by maintaining order.

Defined by steel skeletons,

Mirrored windows for skin,

The sky-hiders bear their clenched teeth

With a grin.

Outside the window, traffic beats the drum,

As the gravity of a city presses its thumb.

And we survive by pressing back.

From beneath, a bellowing rage,

From within, I emerge from a cage,

Those right angles. Can. Blur.

These are more than mountains...

Glowing golden horizon escape,

Sunrise and set define the shape,

And we survive by simply being.

Atmosphere delicate; savage,

Hospital to the mentally ravaged,

A bed for bird, bear and brother.

Solitary as synagogue,

Serene as silent sanctuary,

Divinely orchestrated symphony.

More than meditation,

Or medication,

These are more than mountains.

— Jeremy Collins

Difficulty as Opportunity

   "In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity."  — Albert Einstein

    "I sure hope the difficulties I'm experiencing are an opportunity disguised as a bunch of crap... And not just crap."  — Jen Rarey

   I'm struggling a bit this week. Maybe I have been for a while, but it didn't occur to me until two days ago. Call it a third-life crisis if you like. In a nutshell, I'm wondering if my life is on the path it's supposed to be on, and worried that I'm not going to accomplish whatever on earth I was put on this earth to do. I've talked to just a handful of people about it, and the funny thing is, I've been compelled to talk about it (it's a bit unusual for me to want to put my feelings into words), but not necessarily to those that I would have predicted I'd turn to. I naturally went to those who don't know me as well, but whom have deep life experiences.

   Patty, Kathy, Pam and Ben have all given me some good advice. They've said to take a good, hard look at my priorities, minimize whatever is distracting me from them, and above all, to take some time for myself. Kathy thinks I'm having a spiritual awakening. That perhaps my soul has broken into pieces and I'm in search of whatever might make me feel whole again. Whatever you want to call it, I'm suddenly feeling very unsettled, and I've never felt this before. My whole life I've thought I've known exactly what I was "supposed" to be doing and I've gone after it full bore. And I think for the most part, I've achieved everything I've attempted.

   When I said this to Patty I myself was surprised as the words left my mouth, as if I didn't know where they originated, "I'm worried that if I died tomorrow, I wouldn't have made a real difference."  I don't mean to sound like I'm taking anything for granted; I've been blessed beyond my wildest dreams and am very grateful for the opportunities and experiences I've had. But there has to be more...

   Maybe this type of thing is easier for those that have strong religious affiliation to lean on. Organized religion has never felt natural to me—the ceremony of it always seems to overshadow the meaning. But I consider myself to be spiritual, and I'm feeling a strong need to reconnect with that side of myself.

   I believe that everyone is meant to achieve a certain purpose; there is a reason for every being on this earth. It may be one big act, or many small ones. We are here to influence each other; to make a marked difference somehow. And perhaps I need to figure out what that is for me, so that I will know what I need to do to get there. I guess I'm feeling fearful that if I don't determine that soon, I may not realize my potential. And not achieving my life's purpose is about the saddest thing that I can imagine.

   At my core, I want to create something that is larger than my self, that will help others, that will meaningfully impact the world in some way. Consciously or subconsciously I've always worked toward that goal. But taking stock of where I am right now, I don't feel that I've been successful yet. (Maybe that's a great thing; otherwise, what reason would I have to go on living?)

   A lot has happened in my life, and the past few years have felt especially meaningful and challenging, sometimes very difficult, but equally rewarding. I've learned so much; but that seems only to increase my awareness of how much I have yet to learn.

   Change is difficult, but it is the only path to something significantly better. (That Einstein guy is pretty smart.) I've seen others go through some difficult times and emerge in a much better place. And whatever that may mean for me, I'm ready for it.

    By design or by chance, I've seen a couple of quotes this week that align well with my thoughts:

   "Passion will make you crazy, but is there any other way to live?"  — Howard Hughes

   As a creative person, I strongly identify with this. Following your passion and challenging yourself defines the creative mind; it may be easier to turn it off, but that is an alternative I can't imagine; nor would I want to.

    And my horoscope in yesterday's paper said, "Be aware of what you have to offer. Sometimes you look at yourself as less than you are." Too true. I know I'm harder on myself than anyone else could ever be. That can be a good thing, as long as I maintain perspective.

   Aside from being a vehicle to share my life with my family and friends whom I don't see as often as I'd like, I started this blog as an outlet for myself; to keep me writing, to keep me thinking, and hopefully to keep me moving forward. I don't have answers to the questions I'm mulling over, but writing about them has at least helped me quiet my mind temporarily... a tough thing for me to do these days!

To be continued...

Lincoln Philosophy

Heard a great quote today:

   "And in the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years.”  — Abraham Lincoln

   Although let's be clear, I'd like to live a really really long time. And I need to—there's still tons that I want to see and do!  :)