Premonitions?

After six hours attempting to complete my essay I am flat out. At this hour the only sounds are from my keyboard, Connex trains on the Sydenham/Werribee lines, trucks on Footscray Rd and the hum of my trusty portable fan.

I quite like having the room to myself; on my table I've built up a collection of things that make me happy. Ear rings/studs from a while ago. Little cutouts of pusscat hidden between pieces of wrapping paper. A bottle of Jungle Juice, half used. I love them all.

Nightmares. It's unusual to have these dreams so early in the day. I've had exactly thirty seven minutes on my pillow but that's enough time to make me reconsider sleeping. It was a dream about mom, she was making me eat soap because I didn't do my homework. Tiny fragments of memory are all that's left of her.

Pampering myself in front of the heater is indulgence; I'm sure pusscat would agree. Greville St. One year ago we were happy, pusscat was healthy and the world was predictable. I miss how he climbed limb onto my lap to say "hug me, bitch". He's gone now.

How do you deal with self-righteousness? Yesterday I thought I was the best person in the world; for the first time I looked at my body in the mirror and considered touching myself, now I didn't mean it that way but I felt I would do me.

Daniel is still coping with a few issues/insecurities of his own, mainly sleep issues I think. I've let myself breathe a little; these days I am beyond obsessing. Maybe I'm still grieving?

Two apartments. I'd like to have one for myself and one for him. Then I can make a little space for myself without intrusions, lavish myself on furniture and fittings he will grudgingly admire, cook horrible smelling things to his disgust and plant a forest in the corner of my brown/beige lounge. Everything will be brown/beige. Straight lines. Clean surfaces. Because minimalist decor seeks feelings, not provides it. Clutter reduces my ability to think.

I admit I'm scared but happy. I have twelve whole weeks to feel good about this place.

88th

Sometimes I wish ostriches would teach me the fine art of head-burial.

Daniel has decided I should go along to grandma's 88th to meet 'the rest of the family'. Very talkative and intuitive family. All of a sudden I was the ignoramus who stumbled over simple topics like politics, climate change, IP rights and botany - my own specialty.

The younger ones looked at me like I was onekind. Daniel only introduced me to a select few adults leaving the young ones presumably wondering how this Chinaboy fits into the grand scheme of things. I even considered the interesting dynamic: "technically-I'm-your-cousin-in-law"

Daniel's father took me to his shed and showed me his tools (a very gay sentence already!). A complete workshop; he makes wooden bowls and the house is cluttered with them. He quickly went into a rant about swamp paperbark; Melaleuca ericifolia - it takes 2 years of air drying with no guarantee of results. A mouldy half-finished bowl lay in the corner.

"Don't you have a kiln?" I heard myself say hastily, before realising what an ass I am.

~

Been recovering from a major sore throat. I don't usually get sick so it's unusual to spend on pharmaceuticals - especially OD'ing on Strepsils. I've lost all interest in men; the past 7 days has seen me turn down 5 gorgeous looking men of varying ages/built, all without reason. What's happening?

Shifty's ashes finally returned on the 8th (Monday) and it lives on the storage unit for now. I've made progress - I no longer bawl like I used to though I'm still haunted by flashbacks of Shifty in the cat box at Lort Smith. It seems I harp on mostly the bad things. I've been looking at his photos to fill the void and in the meantime Daniel helps by supplying hugs where Shifty left off. I still doubt the current dose will suffice.

Going to the shrink tomorrow to unload another round of crap. Do shrinks like being hugged?

Missing?

The house is quiet except for the blare of the TV; I feel something is missing.

Two empty bowls on the floor, an empty cat house in the corner, cold and unused. These things are ghostly and I'm starting to feel quite fragile... Hopefully next week his ashes will arrive back from the crematorium; it's the perfect excuse for a weekend in Wilson's Prom where we could could have sex on Mt Oberon scatter his ashes. But cats hate water, a friend pointed out. Daniel jokingly said there's no way he'd put the ashes over our doona (his favourite afternoon-nap surface).

I'm not taking this grieving process seriously. I'm joking about it then quickly changing the topic to distract myself, or finding other things to obsess about. In short I haven't identified my feelings - that's what the shrink is for. He (the shrink) seems content I can keep talking and doesn't bother interjecting me. How is that helpful? And that CCB charges for every session (damn the government doesn't pay for it). Suddenly I'm wondering why this healing process should fucking cost me more money after the vet bill fiasco; maybe the real lesson is learning how to not panic when I need to spend.

In Memory of Shifty

Many thanks to Daniel for picture no. 3

Shifty

We did the best we could. I have to keep telling myself that.

After two weeks of drama pusscat didn't get better. The meds made him throw up even more; by 9pm he was very weak, dehydrated and unable move around the house. This is what cats do when they're terribly ill - they go into the darkest corner of the house and sit there waiting to die. It was difficult pulling him out of his little house to give him a hug; his muscles would tense up as I lifted him onto my shoulders. He was suffering and it was time to let him go

~

"It's not fair", I hear myself selfishly saying in between tears. Death has always been a huge issue for me. Daniel has been very strong in this; he had to hold me in bed and continually reassure me that everything was going to be okay.

Puss was a fighter who lived life the best he could. We talked about how he used to sit on my bed in the sun, lie on my lap when I had dinner, sit on the windowsill to watch the birds, scratch our sofa to sharpen his claws, rest in front of the fireplace to warm his tummy...

But also how we used to hug in bed and he'd appear out of nowhere, meowing loudly as if to say "where's MY hug???" He was such a ratbag. A princess. But we had good times together; he trusted us, we loved him and he loved us back. He will always be our boy-o.

We were by his side till the very end, holding him close to us. I am going to miss you so much, Shifty. I have always, always loved you.



Shifty, aged 4 years
26.08.08, 2300hrs.

Back

The pusscat is back. The incompetent vet only suggested a liver biopsy after day 5; she already knew it was a liver problem from day 2 but chose to play the hit-and-miss game, trying out a range of treatments that didn't work costing us our life savings.

We couldn't go through with the biopsy - no cash! We stopped short of putting him to rest and luckily we did because he perked up, allowing us to bring him home. He looks much better now but we still don't know what's wrong with him. That motherfucking cunt vet put him on a cocktail of medications and he is starting to regain appetite which is comforting.

But how long before he becomes too ill to be saved again? This is a form of mental torture; I feel we are delaying his eventual euthanasia at a time when I'm already fragile from uni amongst other things. As long as the cat continues to eat and purr I console myself he's alright, but at the back of my head I'm already preparing myself for a return visit; hopefully that will happen in many years, not weeks.

Puss

He's fallen sick over the weekend and we've sent him to the vet. While I'm freaking out about the vet bills, Daniel is freaking out about puss. I'm letting money get in the way of my emotions because I know I will miss this cat when he leaves us

But after 6 days he's been there I'm starting to see that money isn't the most important thing to have

This is not the first time he's been critically ill but it is the worst. His liver enzymes are critically high; bags of saline, antibiotics, ultrasounds and a shot of Cortisone later and puss is not getting any better. We've made the tough decision to put him to sleep.

I hate the fact I get ritualistic about everything. I want puss to get to play around in our home for a little while longer. I want him to eat his favourite food. Sleep in his favourite house. Spend the night curled next to me while I'm in bed, nudging me all night. I want him to catch his spiders, claw the carpet, do his little meow to say 'hi', and climb up onto my chest when I'm having dinner just to rub his cheek against my chin. I want him to do all that before he goes

But time is running out; he's rapidly deteriorating and I sincerely hope not in too much pain. I don't want the last person he sees to be the vet; I want it to be me and Daniel. I want to have a chance to say goodbye. I want him to know we love him very much. I want it to be perfect.

And in the middle of these idealistic and selfishly thought-out scenarios I see myself unable to accept him leaving. Death has always been a big issue for me, but tonight I need to be strong, to hold Daniel's hand in mine and go in with a strong heart because Pusscat must never know that I'm weak, emotional and afraid; all the qualities that even he as a cat has never had.

Puss

This is our resident cat, Shifty. Also known as puss.
He just wants a hug, bitch. Give it to him.