Two weeks ago Tobyjoe and I visited the Inn at Little Washington in Washington, Virginia. Our vacation was to last through the week (we were going to stay in Washington, DC for the rest of the week and visit friends) but we had to cut it short and take care of our very sick cat.

Here are some pictures from our trip (with blurbs above each shot).

We drove up, they opened our car doors, carried in our luggage, and held an umbrella above my head. The umbrella thing was a little weird because I am so not a gal used to that sort of thing. I kept telling them, “You really don’t have to hold it above my head. I could use a little rain.” But they persisted. Who am I to stop a man from doing his job?

This is the front porch.

Below is a picture of our room. We stopped in and prepared for a walk, which pretty much meant grabbing our cameras.

The window seat.

Tobyjoe goofs off. I goof off with him.

Main Street. Super quaint. The rain was perfect. The lighting was perfect. Washington, Virginia reminded me of a tiny, Irish town. So plush and green and eerily quiet for this city gal.

I thought this house only existed in my dreams. And so close to DC! If only. Seriously, someday I want to live in a place like this with my several kids (don’t tell Toby) and my uncountable number of rescued cats.

A barn. The storm came over this mountain. Keep in mind, we were there the night the Nor’easter came through.

A resident had about 8 Volvos (that I could see. I am certain there were more down the hill). It was like a Volvo graveyard. I, of course, had to take a picture of this baby. Maybe my house filled with kids and rescued cats will also include rescued Volvos.

A picture of the Inn from across the street. The window closest the tree was our window. That tree swooned us to sleep when the wind set in and then something not so great happened, which I talk about later on in this post.

Tobyjoe, the dapper fella, waits to be escorted to our table. (I love this man.)

The menu featured both our names. We kept it. A nice touch, I might add.

The pre-appetizer. (Not ordered by us.) The only one we didn’t consume was the foie gras (second in from the right.) I just can’t eat something knowing it was force fed. I avoid that stuff. Our leaving it on the plate was a silent protest of sorts. ;]

The first glass of wine. I did not partake, but I watched Tobyjoe get pampered. He told the sommelier, “Just pick whatever you think pairs well with my food.” He made a great decision in doing so; the sommelier’s choices were spot on. The one thing that I like the best about the Inn at Little Washington is that the service is impeccable. They have truly wonderful people working for them. At no point does a person feel out of place or (for lack of a better word) stupid. They are not at all snobby, just a big group of down-to-earth people. The sommelier we had was specifically kind and helpful.

My first appetizer. Mussels with bread crumbs. I loved it. But I’m easy being pregnant and all. :] Tobyjoe said there were a little too many crumbs for his liking. But I’ll leave his review to him.

Second pairing of wine. I know nothing about wines, so I shot the bottles. (You will noticed that I stopped shooting wines eventually because I found out that our sommelier was writing them down for us and was planning to leave the list with our menus at the front desk. Awesome.)

Below is a shot of my second course and my most favorite. This one was outstanding. I had the squab. You were to take the filling and place it in the leaves on the left. Oh dear, was it ever awesome. It came in a dark sauce with peanuts and other awesome stuff. It was awesome. Did I mention that? Awesome. I am so going to get a job at Food and Wine after this post.

This was Toby’s second course. He had the Inn’s signature dish, the morel crusted scallop. It sat on a bed of pureed cauliflower. So good.

My main course: Maine lobster. Yeah, this was killer, too. I could have eaten several of these.

Toby’s main course. He had the beef. (First time in 15 years he ate beef.) I’ll let him write about this if/when he gets time. I tried the piece on the far left (the middle bit was too raw for my pregnant self) and the scalloped potatoes. Both were incredible. In fact, his dish was better than mine and mine was amazing.

The dessert course. Tobyjoe had the cheese. I, of course, ordered the most caloric and largest dish they offered. This is Faira the cow. She is the Inn’s cheese tray.

And this is my dish of dessert. I figured it this way: no booze for me? Then I’d stuff myself silly on dessert. And that I did.

The both of us ready to dig in.

The carnage.

A picture of the dining room.

Tobyjoe took this of me. This was before the incredibly painful bout of heartburn set in. Hey, I asked for it.

The two of us.

Faira again in the parlor. We are waiting to take a tour of the kitchen.

The amazing kitchen. Who knows, maybe next time we visit them we’ll ask for the kitchen table. I have always wanted to do that. (There are two tables in the kitchen.)

The Viking stove, custom made for the Inn. A wonderful piece of art. We’re planning on buying one when we own a house. Yep. With our extra 100 thousand some odd dollars.

When we got back to our room the owner’s dog left us a treat and a note. (Like we could eat another bite.) It was a bottle of port and two edible dog biscuits.

Our turned down bed.

My big fat belly. Tobyjoe took this without my knowing. I’m putting it out there, dammit.

My breakfast the next morning. Lobster omelet (yes, again!), homemade sausage, bacon, and some potatoes. Holy moly, so good.

The garden.

A penny for your thoughts? Comment card.

Which we filled out.

Here’s the deal, on Sundays, they apparently shut off the water from 2 AM until 4 AM to add softener. During that time, the pipes began clanking something awful. We don’t believe anyone else could hear it; that it was just taking place in our room, but we were unable to sleep because of it. I was up for over two hours as was Tobyjoe. I called downstairs twice and the woman was super apologetic. But still…. for 500 bucks a night, we expected to sleep in silence.

The noise settled down after 4 and we were able to sleep soundly until 9 AM. The next day we talked to the front desk and he gave us a pretty hefty discount, which was nice of him.

I don’t want to come off as angry or disgruntled, but I think they would have wanted us to say something given their desire to please their clientèle. Overall, we had an incredible time and I would go again in a heartbeat (after saving up for it, of course). I would recommend the place to friends and family in a second. Even though we didn’t get the sleep we wanted, it was an amazing evening. Plus, I’m sure the knocking was an isolated incident. I don’t want to deter anyone from visiting. If you take one thing away from this post, take that. (Oh, and the bit about how awesome my squab was.)

If you have a thousand bucks or a credit card, you simply must go. You will have a wonderful night. I highly suggest going with a loved one; it’s entirely romantic. And make sure you are hungry. Also, if you’re pregnant or prone to heartburn, bring the Mylanta. Oh, sweet Jesus, I was on fire.

Perhaps we’ll go back for our 50th wedding anniversary. And I have to go again soon because I don’t want our last visit there to be tainted by the death of Schmitty.

My head

I had a rough day yesterday. I half expected it since I had been feeling better. But yesterday hit me hard. I posted a few things here and then decided that I hated what I had written. So during one of my fits, I turned the posts off. They will return when I figure out what I was actually trying to say. I have to admit, I’m having a little trouble focusing lately and I should say something just in case anyone out there wondered what was going on. It’s Friday morning and I’m feeling better again. We’ll see how things go.

Web stuff

We were forced to shut comments down this weekend on all old posts. Why? Because on Sunday evening I got blasted by spam. I was easily receiving a hundred per hour, maybe more. And this attack began Sunday night at 2 AM and continued well into Monday morning. Some of them – no, most of them – made it past Akismet. I had to delete them by hand, which took me entirely too long. And deleting comment spam was the last thing I wanted to deal with on Monday morning. Each time I thought I had caught up, more showed up. Eventually Tobyjoe used his mad programming skills and turned comments off on all older posts. However, in doing so, something else changed as well. “0 Comments” is now showing up on all new posts that I have marked as “Comments not allowed”. We’re working on it. We’re working on a few other things as well.

My Flickr Pro account expired yesterday and -I can’t seem to spend enough time over there in order to renew it. I either need to take the pictures of Schmitty down, or add a bunch more and move him to the next page. I wonder what happens when you lose your pro status? Do you have to sit at another table in the cafeteria? Will I get wedgies?- (Had some PayPal funds I had forgotten about. Pro for another year.)

The madness

Tucker has been breaking my heart lately. He’s basically the reason I had a bit of a setback yesterday. You see, Pookum (our other cat) is a pain in the butt. She won’t go near him and when he tries to go near her, she punches him in the head. So he aimlessly walks about the house talking to no one at all (something he never, ever did before Schmitty died). He smells and sleeps on the bath mat Schmitty once took great comfort in. He won’t eat unless I walk to the kitchen with him and he won’t continue to eat unless I stay there. He’s completely confused and, dare I say, lost? I had no idea cats could feel loss. Solution? Get another cat! That’s completely stupid. I know. So, I need someone tell us that we’re completely insane to even consider adopting another cat right now.

We have a baby on the way, after all. Let’s just hope that one fuzzy creature doesn’t find its way to our doorstep. I won’t go out looking for another cat, but if one finds me, I’d have a hard time saying no right now. It’s a good thing we live in a 3rd floor walk up.

The great debate!

Tobyjoe and I have this debate in our household: kill shelter or no-kill shelter? Last night we discussed the idea of adopting another creature. (Don’t worry, mom, we were just talking.) We never know what to do. Do we support the good guys and adopt from a no-kill shelter or save the creatures from the bad guys? It’s a tough one. I’m curious to hear what others think.

A couple of weeks ago I was at the gym watching one of those seen-one-seen-’em-all morning shows. They were talking about a new prime time television show that’s apparently taking off. They were interviewing its participants. I was only half paying attention because I hadn’t ever seen the show before, but as soon as they got to one of the its contestants, I stopped what I was doing; our 10-year old son was being interviewed on television.

I made a mental note of the kid’s first name. Later that evening I told Tobyjoe about it. I told him I knew what our future son was going to look like. “And he’s going to be brilliant!” I said. I found the kid’s picture online and we both cracked up.

About a week ago I received an email from my sister-in-law, Melissa. She had been consoling me on our vet visits at the time. We were writing back and forth about Schmitty. (She’s a cat lover as well, one who had to put her cat down a year ago. She was 8 months pregnant at the time.) In the middle of our rather serious correspondence, she sent me the following:

So, Rob and I were flipping around the TV tonight and caught part of ‘Are you smarter than a 5th grader?’ Have you seen this show? There is a little boy named Spencer that is what we imagine baby Boudreaux will look like when he is 10. He could be Toby’s illegitimate love child! Stop and watch if you haven’t. Here is a link to Spencer’s bio.

I wasn’t going to say anything about it to anyone because I thought I was just wearing my mommy goggles, (which are supposed to be thicker and more forgiving than beer goggles). But Spencer really does look like The Bean. Surely it’s not just me. Surely you see it, too. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if he got some hussy pregnant 10 years ago.

P.S. I want to thank each and every one of you again for all the email and comments you have sent us over the last couple of days. They have meant the world to me. I have shared your stories with Tobyjoe as well. We’re having a rough time with this, it’s true. But I feel a little better every day and I’m trying to focus on being pregnant as much as possible. This is supposed to be one of the happiest times of our lives. We know this. However, losing Schmitty has been a derailment. In all seriousness, your words have meant the world to us. And the stories about your pets are downright heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time. Thank you.

I have been mentally writing this letter since we left you on Saturday. I’m not sure why I need (or want) to write you a letter. You are a cat, after all; you can’t read. You were smart and almost human but you had better things to do with your time other than read. You liked to eat, that’s for sure. And you lived for attention. That’s why your final few weeks were so difficult for us. And I’m so sorry for that. I’m so sorry this thing called cancer took you away from us and so quickly as well. I’m so sorry that during the last couple of weeks we weren’t able to give you the two things you loved the most: food and love strong enough to comfort you. We kept thinking you might get better, we listened to the doctors tell us that there might be a chance but those chances were always followed by “ifs”. And those ifs were always followed by words like “feeding tube” and “chemotherapy” as well as “terminal” and “starvation”. Tobyjoe told the doctors that not once had you brought us pain. We simply could not knowingly commit an hour worth of it on you.

But on Friday, the day after your operation, you ate! After a week of growing increasingly more disgusted by food, you ate off Tobyjoe’s finger. And Tobyjoe came upstairs from the ICU beaming. The look on his face made my rigid body go limp with relief. He said you were out of it and that they had you on all sorts of pain medication, but that you remembered him and you moved your ears around when he said your name. This brought me great comfort. Apparently all the doctors in the ICU were filled with joy and amazement over your having eaten. The news spread across the floor like it was the greatest news anyone had ever heard. And for us, it was. Seeing you eat meant no feeding tube and I had already made up my mind that that was where the cut off had to be. You loved eating far too much to have me force-feed you through a hole in your neck.

Remember the time Gina made mini poppy seed muffins? We lived in State College at the time. I was still in college. Her boyfriend was visiting from Connecticut and she was so excited that she baked him his favorite muffins. She left the muffins out to cool on the stove while she did a few other things around the house. When her shrieks came, I had no idea what had happened so I bolted downstairs to make sure she was OK. That’s when I saw the carnage. You always did have a thing for muffin products. I’m not sure what came over you, but you chewed on almost every muffin top like their lids were raw flesh. It’s a good thing Gina liked you so much. Much later, after she agreed to watch you while I spent a few months in England, she signed her postcards with a paw print and the both of your names; I knew she liked you. You picked the best part of the muffin anyway. How could we be mad? We now call that “The Great Mini Muffin Disaster”.

You loved chicken, fish, muffins, pancakes, potato chips, banana bread, and cat food – all kinds of cat food except for the healthy stuff. There were times we were told you had to go on a diet, but seeing you hungry broke my heart. So I never could really cut out everything.

You knew the words “Treat” and “Schmitty”. You knew the word treat so well I had to spell it out when we were discussing any future distributions. And I don’t think a day ever passed where you didn’t come when one of us called your name. Although, toward the end of your life, it took an awful lot of energy for you to walk over to me. Yet, you still did it. If I had known how sick you were, I would have come to you. I’m so sorry, Big Guy. All you ever did was practice kindness and not once did you cause a person (or another animal) pain. Even when Tucker would tackle you or pick on you, you just stood there and took it. And you never once, not in all your 14 and a half years, scratched me or bit me. You never bit anyone. A Buddhist would have called you an “Old Soul.”

The last time we saw you and you weren’t on the drugs was Wednesday night. You were still you. I kept telling you that I loved you and that we needed you and that we were doing what we were doing because we wanted to make you better. You put your head down against our really stinky bath mat and waited for Tobyjoe to lay his head against your belly. You two had the greatest relationship. If either of us had known how badly the cancer was eating away at your insides, we never, ever would have put you through that operation. I do hope you understand why we did what we did. And I will spend my lifetime hoping that you weren’t in any pain after you awoke from your surgery. I’m so sorry, my friend.

Do you remember the time I rushed you to the hospital because your own urine was poisoning you? You were four. I was out shopping. I will forever remember your voice when I walked in the door and it kills me to wonder how long you were in pain before you began to yell so loudly. You were on your side and you looked at me, eyes filled with hurt and told me you were sick, really sick and that I needed to do something immediately. We rushed you to the hospital – my mother and I – and the doctor gave me a choice, “you can have him put down, or we can heal him for a thousand dollars.” Of course I told the doctor to do whatever it took to save you. And thankfully you ended up OK. I am still haunted by the look you gave me. But I was given another ten years with you; ten years filled with a lot more looks, and happier ones. Ten years that my mother (a big fan of yours), called “Borrowed Time”. Ten years of borrowed time wasn’t so bad, was it?

All of your life I made decisions for you based on your eyes and how you meowed. You had several different meows. There was one for joy, pain, confusion, attention, and “Hello”. There was a meow for “I am talking to late night Ghosts”. And one for “Help me, Tucker has me in a headlock.” To which I always intervened. There were so many. You had a voice for everything and I grew to understand and interpret each of them. We were a team, you and I. But our team wasn’t complete until Tobyjoe came along. That’s when you fully relaxed. That’s when you entered old age and stopped having to look out for me all the time. Before I introduced you to Tobyjoe I have some regrets about how I treated you, or didn’t.

I made some not so great decisions based on your voices. For starters, I shouldn’t have moved you around so much but I couldn’t part with you. I just couldn’t. And I hate that you had to live in a basement for a few months while I got settled in Washington, DC only to find out that I hated it there. And so you must have thought I was crazy when we moved back there a year later. I am sorry I was so irrational before I met Tobyjoe, so flighty and confused. I did hold onto you, however, which is why it has been so hard for me to face the fact that you’re no longer with me. You were my one constant, Schmitty. You were the one being in life who never held anything against me even when you should have. It pains me to know that in the time that you spent with me, you lived in 13 different places. That’s almost one place per every year of your life. I always pictured you spending the evening of your days in a sun porch, away from pain and suffering, watching the birds pass you by. I’m so sorry you never got to see that.

On Saturday, when we went to the hospital to feed you again, Tobyjoe came up from the ICU and I knew by the look on his face that things weren’t good. You hadn’t eaten. He sat with you for over an hour singing all the songs we wrote for you over the years, saying all of your nicknames. He even told you that we were going to tell our son about you one day. He asked you what you wanted him to do, if you wanted a feeding tube and to come home with us, or if you wanted us to let you go. You wanted nothing to do with the food and you were too weak to say much. And when your surgeon came back to the room and told Tobyjoe that it was time for the feeding tube, that you were starving, Tobyjoe told him that I wouldn’t agree to that. A feeding tube would have been too devastating for you. You were too proud.

We sat upstairs and talked for another hour, trying to figure out if we should take you home and see if you’d eat there or let you go. Toby didn’t want to put you through the 30-minute car ride home. And I knew you wouldn’t eat once we got there and we’d have to bring you back again especially since your cancer had spread so much. I kept saying, “I think it’s time. It’s time. It’s time.” That’s all I could get out of my mouth before breaking down again. And we sat there in the waiting room waiting for someone, anyone, to help us decide; what should we do?

I watched other people in the waiting room reunite with their cats and dogs, and if they hadn’t been animals, I would have been filled with jealousy and anger. But all animals are good. You taught me that. Sitting among all that joy made me realize that you probably wouldn’t be coming home again. You were too sick. Tobyjoe reminded me of the fact that, at one time, I had been those people. I had been reunited with a healthy you while someone else was receiving terrible news about his or her pet. He was right, of course. I got to spend a lot of time with you. In fact, up until Sunday morning, I had spent almost every single morning waking up next to you for the last 15 years. And my stomach is eating my heart as I write this. Sunday morning bored a hole through my chest.

Tobyjoe and I sat in the waiting room for a minute in silence. He had been asking me to go down and talk to the doctor, ask any questions I might still have, and then decide. He said he didn’t want there to be anything left unsaid or unanswered. It must have been hard for him to suddenly become your sole decision maker, but I am an emotional and hormonal wreck right now and I was concerned I might not make the best decision for you. That’s when your surgeon came upstairs and walked over to me. He was a kind man. You were in good hands, that’s one very solid piece of ground I have to stand on now that you’re gone. I’m regretful about a lot of the decisions I made for you during the last couple of weeks, but putting you in his hands is not one of them. Your doctor sat down next to me and waited for me to speak.

“Doctor,” I said. “What is the best case scenario here? Does he have a chance?”

The doctor shook his head no. And then I fell apart.

He told me what he told Tobyjoe, that it’s entirely different per patient, but that the cancer inside of you was growing so rapidly and so viscously, you probably didn’t have much time left and the time you did have left would be time filled with pain. I hate your cancer. In no time at all it had moved across your entire abdomen and was looking for an organ or a set of organs to latch onto all the while destroying your drive for food. I couldn’t take it away from you. I hate that. I feel like this inability to accept a lack of control is going to turn me into a terrible mother. I wish you could have enjoyed one more giant meal before you went to sleep for the last time: chicken (cooked to perfection by Toby) and a slice of banana bread (baked by me).

Do you remember the time you stole Tobyjoe’s banana bread from the bedside table? I think that was your way of telling us we shouldn’t have been eating in bed especially in a place like the Dorchester where the roaches outnumbered humans. He had just gotten into bed, set the banana bread down on the table next to him, went to grab a book from the foot of the bed, and in that time you snuck over and took the entire slice. Just like that. Gone. We laughed really hard as you nibbled away at its spongy crust. He got another slice and eventually I took the stolen one from you. I liked you fat and happy but I wanted to keep you around forever and cats aren’t meant to eat large quantities of banana bread. Or pancakes.

The doctor gave us another option, although he prefaced it with, “I am not trying to convince you to do this but…” and then he told us that if we wanted to we could take you home for a few hours, to the place where you once felt most comfortable, and try and feed you there. And I have to admit, the thought of having you at home again brought me joy, but we knew you had no interest in food. And the needless trips back and forth in the car seemed cruel.

I was able to say a few words to him like “prolong the inevitable?” and “without the pain killers?” and “you don’t know Tucker.” The doctor answered all of my questions. At one point I said, “I wish I weren’t pregnant.” And then I realized that came out wrong. I corrected myself and said, “No, I wish he weren’t dying. Not now.” And the doctor and Tobyjoe nodded their heads. I told him I didn’t want a feeding tube and that taking you home would just mean that every passing second was another second you would spend starving.

I looked at Toby and said, “It’s time to let him go.” And then I couldn’t speak anymore. And neither could he.

That’s when the doctor said something to me that I will never, ever forget. He put his hand on my hand and said, “You’re making a very rational decision. I want you to know that. You’re decision is not wrong.” Schmitty, that’s all I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear it from you, but you couldn’t say it because you were too sick. Tobyjoe didn’t know what to do either; we were both so emotional. But hearing your surgeon – the man who had been face-to-face with your cancer two days earlier – say that we were making a rational decision made me realize that I wasn’t giving up on you. I will never forget what he said to me nor how he said it. All I wanted was for someone to say that it was OK to let you go. That we were making the right decision.

Somehow I managed to make it downstairs again to say goodbye to you one last time. The surgeon brought us into a room where we waited for him to bring you to us. The room had a smorgasbord of open cans on its table, cans of cat food, each accompanied by a wooden stick. I imagined Tobyjoe holding each one an hour earlier begging you to eat from his fingertip. The wooden sticks lined up like soldiers, untouched gobs of food still stuck to each one. And I couldn’t help but think that there were so many varieties of food on that table, had you entered this room as healthy Schmitty, you would have thought you were in heaven.

I used to tell Tobyjoe that I needed to have a baby before you died. That living in a world without you meant I needed to become a mother. We would chuckle about this, but you were my firstborn. You were like a baby to me, one that never grew up or learned how to talk or walk on two legs. People say that I won’t know a real love until our baby is born. And I believe there’s probably some truth to that. But why compare love? What good does it do a person to put a quantitative value on love? I’m not going to assign meaningless, human levels to something so wonderful. The love I have for you is not something that will go away. No matter how amazing our son is, you will never be replaced or compared to him. I need you to know that. I didn’t belittle your existence when you were alive. I won’t do it with the memory of you either.

You died six months into my pregnancy. And we’ve guessed that you started to get sick when I reached my second trimester, the trimester that ensured me that everything was probably going to be ok with our son. How did you know that? Did you know that? Tobyjoe and I have discussed this over the past couple of days. The both of us cry every time we discuss your timing.

When the doctor brought you into the room you immediately ran to my chest and pushed your head into my breasts. I began sobbing. Tears fell onto your coat and I couldn’t breath so I opened my mouth and my saliva fell onto you as well. I said I was sorry, so sorry. I told you it would all be over soon, that we were letting you go, that we would miss you and love you forever. I said I was sorry again. And I kissed you all over your head and I kissed your face and your eyes and your pink nose. Oh Schmitty, I am so sorry. I’m sorry that cancer took you away from us. I’m sorry for being pregnant and not paying as much attention to you as I used to. I’m sorry for moving you around so much. I’m sorry for the operation, San Francisco, not feeding you more banana bread. I’m sorry for not being strong enough to watch your doctor put you to sleep. I’m so, so very sorry.

Tobyjoe misses your snugs each and every night, and the way you demanded rides from him when he got home from work. I miss the way you used to scare the shit out of me when I sat at the computer by standing up on your hind legs and tapping me on the shoulder. And since you were so big, you were able to reach all the way up to my shoulder. Time and time again, I thought someone had snuck up behind me and then I would look at you, startled at first, and you would speak and I would pat your head and that was enough for you for a little while. I would give anything to have you do that again.

I know I never much believed in God or an afterlife but I’m starting to realize why people do; it makes losing someone so much easier to face. I want to believe that you’re with Katrina (who loved cats), or my grandmother, (who had the same skin as me and might bring you comfort). I want to believe that you’re making another couple happy, bringing them together with fits of laugher, doing “The Horse” for them, accepting rides, and pooping anywhere you want whenever you want. Try and stay away from orange cats, though. They like to put you in headlocks even when you don’t feel like playing.

Oh, Schmitt, I want to feel OK again. This is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. I want to stop crying so much and I want to start laughing about all the wonderful things you did for us. But it hurts so badly right now, my heart, my head; even my face is chapped from all the crying. We love you. We miss you, you great big old soul, you wonderful little creature.

Goodbye, my Big Guy.

Michele

(Comments closed for this article.)

October, 1993 – Saturday, April 21st, 2007.

We got a call yesterday saying that Schmitty did pull through the surgery. That’s good news. The bad news is – the really bad news – is that Schmitty’s cancer has spread, which means he doesn’t have much time left and the time he does have left, as well as its quality, is probably going to be up to us. Of course, in the wake of the news, I am now unbelievably regretful for having put him through this surgery in the first place. I only hope that he’s not too scared right now and not too lonely and not in any pain. Tobyjoe and I spent many tearful hours yesterday discussing what we need (and want) to do now. We have decided that no matter how badly we feel, we need to start thinking for him and putting him through anymore unnecessary pain just to prolong his life 3 to 6 months is out of the question.

I have to be honest with you, I haven’t felt this sad in… well, ever. That’s pretty shameful to admit considering I have had to say goodbye to family members and friends. If only I could ask him what he wants and explain to him why we did what we did, then maybe it wouldn’t feel so horrible. And I knew this day would be hard. I pictured the tears and the puffy face, the hard time sleeping; I was ready for all of that. But what I didn’t think about was the actual experience of reliving the memories as well as letting go of our routine together. I’m going to miss him so much. And I can’t stop crying. I can’t even see the computer screen as I type this.

How do people get through this? Do we go in and say goodbye when they finally put him down? What should we do with him when that’s over with? We have no yard in Brooklyn. Last night, I started to read more stories about people who lost pets and it made me feel a little less awful knowing I wasn’t alone. Misery loves company. That old cliché is true. I didn’t have any pets growing up so I never had to say goodbye to one. Schmitty is my first. What happens now? How do you do this? How long do you cry? When does it get easier? Have you done this before? When will I stop wondering if he’s going to follow me to the bathroom? Or run to the food bowl in the morning? Or greet me at the door?

My heart is shattered.

Update 2:

I feel that I need to do this for the sake of history and writing it down makes me feel better in the time that it takes for me to type.

The doctor called earlier today. I answered. I should not be answering the phone right now, which is why Tobyjoe has taken it away from me. In the past couple of days, every time someone calls and even hints about Schmitty, I begin to cry and literally can’t utter a word. It’s terrible for the person on the other end. Anyway, a doctor called and he said to me that the cancer in Schmitty’s abdomen covers the size of two human hands put side by side. He’s also running a fever. I was trying to find out if he was in pain or if there was any hope at all. Unfortunately, the oncologist doesn’t return until Monday and the results of his biopsy don’t come back until then either. Which means we might have three more days of wondering ahead of us. And I’m not sure I want to go through that.

When the doctor told me about the size of the troubled area, I began to cry. It took every bit of composure to say the words, “I have to call you back.” That’s when I broke down and began sobbing again. Tobyjoe came out and I told him it was time for us to let him go, that the cancerous areas seems to be way too large. We both agreed that that was what we’d do today; say goodbye. And then the phone rang.

Tobyjoe answered this time. The same doctor called apologizing for how he had acted. He said he spoke with the oncologist and she said that Schmitty is going through what every animal goes through after this type of surgery and that we should wait until we get the biopsy results back to make any decisions, that the infected area could be fatty deposits, not necessarily cancerous and inflamed tissue. (Earlier, when I brought up chemotherapy again with the doctor he told me that if the infected area came back as cancerous, it would be extremely painful for the cat, hence the catalyst for my breakdown.)

Tobyjoe is going to head in to see him tonight and make the decision at that time. As much as I want to go, I don’t think I can handle this right now. It doesn’t help that I’m pregnant. And today I had a small contraction, which I read is fairly normal. But still. Tobyjoe reminded me that the most important thing in our lives right now is our unborn son. It’s probably best I avoid visiting Schmitty, especially if he’s cut up, shaved, and not well. I am sad enough as it is. I could spend 13 lifetimes with Tobyjoe and never, ever make what he’s about to do for me up to him.

I’m leaving this horrible decision up to Tobyjoe. We’re having an ethical dilemma at the moment. But if it’s time to let Schmitty go, then Tobyjoe will know tonight when he looks into his big green eyes.

Update 3:

Because I am a total worrywart with the imagination of a person on hallucinatory drugs, I insisted we go in earlier today, before visitation hours, to check on Schmitty. Tobyjoe (bless his sweet, sweet heart) went in and asked to speak to a doctor and visit with the big fella. We wanted answers. We wanted to know that he wasn’t scared and suffering, lonely and in pain. I told Tobyjoe that the decision was up to him. If Schmitty looked uncomfortable, he could ask them to put him down. I stayed upstairs and sat in the waiting room, crying, watching yet another breaking news story about some gun fire at a NASA building. I sat and waited; the Nation seems to be in shambles right now – one nation under guns – and all I selfishly care about is my fuzzy, fuzzy man.

Eventually, Toby resurfaced from the ICU with a smile on his face; Schmitty looked OK. He was in good spirits and immediately perked up when he saw Toby. He’s on medication and feeling no pain. Plus, and this is the best news, he ate! I had made the decision earlier (Thanks to Pete) that I didn’t want to have to resort to a feeding tube, that if he didn’t eat, I didn’t want to force him to go through another operation to insert a feeding tube. Schmitty gobbled food off Toby’s finger, and happily.

Since he isn’t in pain and seems to be doing fine, with both eating and the post operative care, we have decided to wait until Monday’s test results come back from the lab. On Monday, we should know how much of his body is cancer-ridden. At that time, we’ll make our decision. I keep asking myself if we’re prolonging the inevitable, but I won’t know that until later. Hindsight can knock the wind out of a person. I’m already preparing for such a blow. As much joy that cat brought me, this mental pain is so tangible right now. I almost don’t want to fall in love with another animal as long as I live.

But it just wasn’t time yet. Not today. Maybe next week, but today isn’t the day. Even though this hellish emotional roller coaster I’ve been on is so very tiring, we need to give him until Monday.

I have received countless emails from people. Each and every one of you has helped me more than you can possibly imagine, with both your comments here and via email. I have read stories, heard about heartache, and have been given hope that things do get better even though I can’t see that side of things right now. I can’t even begin to thank you all. Your stories and words and encouragement have literally gotten me through the day with even a laugh or two.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

This is Schmitty. He’s currently in the hospital with colon cancer. So we packed up his favorite bath mat and drove into the city to visit him. I took pictures.

I got Schmitty when I was 19-years-young. I am now 33. You do the math.

He’s probably the sweetest cat you’ll ever meet. For those of you who haven’t met him, you’ll simply have to take my word for it. For those of you who have, can I get an amen?

I met Tobyjoe when I was 27. I knew pretty much the moment I met him that I would end up marrying him. Sure, this had to do with how amazing he was, but it also had to do with how kind he was to my cat.

They’ve been the best of buddies ever since.

Schmitty has surgery tomorrow. The doctors are going to try and remove a mass that has collected in his colon. It is cancerous but they’re pretty sure it hasn’t metastasized. We’re crossing our fingers that he’ll be OK. I can’t imagine not having him around.

(Here’s to The Big Guy. We need you here. Be strong.)

Looks like the Supreme Court took advantage of the Virginia shootings and upheld a federal law that bans partial birth abortions. For those of you who might not understand how misleading that term is, the term “partial birth abortion” was made up in order to spin the image of all vaginal abortion that uses “dilation and extraction” (aka D&E), which can be used to describe any vaginal abortion. Late term abortions (where the term “partial birth” might actually mean something) are done so rarely and so infrequently, one must wonder what law they are really trying to pass while using a term such as “partial birth abortion”. The majority of the abortions given today are vaginal abortions. If this law passes, vaginal abortions could be all but outlawed based on the definition of said (made up) term.

What took place in Virginia is a terrible, terrible monstrosity. Don’t even get me started on our all too lenient gun laws. But having this news break in the wake of what took place in Virginia seems all too convenient. Perhaps tomorrow we’ll attack Iran.

Tobyjoe and I cut our romantic getaway short because Schmitty took a turn for the worse. We left DC on Monday night at about 10 PM. We arrived back to New York City just after 2 AM. We dropped him off at the vet on Tuesday morning. He’s going to be hospitalized for a while to find out why he won’t eat. It’s depressing. And I’m really, really tired. I finally need a decent night’s rest. (More about not sleeping later.)

There is a lot to report, including the bit about how I fell getting out of bed, landed on my knees, and smashed my cheek against the wall. When I don’t feel so horrible, I’ll write more. There is a much-needed shower and nap in my immediate future.

UPDATE: I don’t even know where to begin. For starters, the vet we were going to missed some pretty huge signs back in February and I am so super upset about this I can’t even begin to explain. After spending another 600 dollars at that same vet today, she called to say that we had to come back into the city and take him to emergency care. At that time she said she thought he had a bladder infection. We drove back into the city and took him to the specialist. After doing a few quick tests and a quick ultrasound, the specialist told us there is an abscess and that she thinks he has cancer. We will know more when they do a more thorough ultrasound. If he has cancer we’re looking at either chemotherapy or an operation. I’m not even sure what to say. I’m so exhausted I’m numb.

I’m also very frustrated with our vet and we have vowed not to return. We spent 1500 dollars on dental work in February, another 600 today and we’re looking at thousands more at the specialist. I’ll pay whatever I need to in order to make Schmitty comfortable. And until he’s in pain and I am told there is no more hope, I can’t very well put him down. I know that might seem absurd to some people, spending so much money on an animal, but he’s a part of our family. I’ve known him longer than I have most people.

I’m going to turn off comments for this post because I can’t sit around and manage the site right now. When I feel better emotionally, I’ll return and write more and coherently. Until then, please keep good thoughts for our most beloved cat.

UPDATE 2: We got a call from the ER doctor this morning stating that Schmitty’s blood work came back A-OK. He does, however, have some type of mass in his colon, which probably means cancer but they can’t be certain until they do a biopsy. They are going to attempt to do that this afternoon. If it works we should see results by Friday.

The doctor said he’s in good spirits, his vitals are totally normal, and he can probably go home today if he eats and it stays down. We’re crossing our fingers.

I feel that I was a little hard on our vet yesterday. I was very upset for obvious reasons and unfortunately I took it out on her. That was entirely unfair and I am regretful for my words today. There may have been no way of seeing the mass in the past. The only remaining frustration I do have, however, is that we brought him in for his bowel problems and lack of appetite in February and his teeth were all that they addressed, which were indeed a problem just not the problem that could become life-threatening. Next time we’ll be more persistent.

I’m sorry I keep droning on and on about this especially since our nation is in mourning right now after what took place in Virginia. I don’t quite know sorrow like that. I feel a little shameful; I can’t even handle the possibility of having to say goodbye to my pet.

Finally, I thank you all for your email. Again, the Internet has proven itself kind beyond words.

(Comments closed for this article.)

In January, The Barbarian Group gave me the opportunity to do some identity work. I would have agreed to work on anything related to logo design, but when I found out whom this particular mark was for I jumped at the chance.

Let me begin by saying that I love doing identity work. My portfolio is filled with it. And I’m really proud of the marks I have designed over the years. I can’t (and don’t) say that about much, especially where design is concerned. But give me logo and I’m completely obsessed.

Unfortunately, I don’t get the opportunity much anymore. I probably design 2 to 4 logos a year. When I worked for Supon Design Group, I was given a new logo project each and every month, sometimes more. As the other designers complained about having yet another logo to do, I was at my desk with a pencil and a stack of paper. I could spend every day for the rest of my life just designing logos. That’s why I jumped at a chance to design two marks for The Webby Awards.

Here’s the old mark:

This time, they wanted something refreshing and timeless, which meant no groovy (and therefore dated) fonts, no flashy colors, and nothing over-designed. They said they wanted the word “Webby” to be most prominent. They made it very clear that they wanted the mark to somehow include their trophy.

Here’s a picture of the trophy:

The first thing I do when designing a logo is research. My research almost always includes a dictionary. I know, that probably sounds pretty weird. Why would someone need a dictionary to design a logo? Well, a logo is meant to define a particular organization or person so why not go directly to the source? Plus, sometimes words open new ideas for imagery. What I usually do is write down words associated with a particular client and look each of those words up. This allows me to explore imagery I never would have thought of on my own. And even if I end up headed in an unrelated direction, I never look at it as time wasted. What better way to understand what I do want to say by defining what I don’t want to say?

Another reason I like to use a dictionary is that sometimes you go into a project with way too much information. Perhaps the client (which usually consists of a group of people) gave you conflicting ideas. Maybe, instead of being pushed into a corner (a frustration many designers lament over), you find that the exact opposite is taking place. You may find that you have so much information, and so little direction because of all that information, that you’re literally floating in space. Too much space can be dangerous when you’re dealing with a budget and a limited timeline. I have seen this bite people in the ass time and time again. That’s why I try and ask a lot of questions up front. I’ll ask the client to send me a list of logos they like as well as why they like them. Sometimes I’ll ask them if they’re opposed to certain color combinations or fonts. I almost always ask them what it is they want to say, who they want to say it to, and why they’re saying it.

But let’s say you’re not given a clear path in the beginning. When I’m given too much information – too many buzz words, too many ideas – I try and put everything into a pot and boil it down so I’m left with a more condensed version of the problem. And that’s where something as simple as a dictionary can come in handy. This technique has helped me immensely. (I use it as much as I use my Graphis or Communication Arts reference materials.) And usually I don’t touch pen to paper or mouse to monitor until I ponder the problem for a while. Some of my best breakthroughs have taken place on the subway or walking to work.

In this particular case, the client was pretty clear as to what they wanted from the get-go. They were sure that they wanted to bring the trophy into their mark and they gave me a list of sites and logos they liked as well. That doesn’t mean that the process was smooth sailing from beginning to end. For example (and this happens a lot in design) my favorite mark did not make it into the final round. Kristen tried, as did I, but in the end they felt that it was too confusing, that people might not get it. Even after we brought up what I like to refer to as the “Aha! Factor”, they still weren’t sold.

What’s the “Aha! Factor?” I made up the term! But it will make more sense once I explain it.

The “Aha! Factor” is something that takes place in the viewer’s mind when they look at a logo. This realization can take place the thousandth time the person looks at a mark; it may be pointed out by a friend; sometimes it doesn’t take place at all and that’s OK too. Basically, it’s the phenomenon that occurs when someone realizes something/sees something in a mark that they hadn’t ever seen before.

Take the FedEx logo, for example:

When did you first see the arrow?

The Northwest Airlines logo is another good example of the “Aha! Factor”. Before Northwest redesigned their logo, this was the mark they used:

I didn’t realize this at first, but if you look at the top left-hand corner, the arrow that makes up the “W” points to the Northwest. It’s also slightly reminiscent of a compass. The mark had two other levels beyond the simple (and clean) N and W.

Unfortunately, Northwest redesigned their logo. I’m not too keen on the new one. I think they went in reverse:

The Amazon.com logo is another great example of the “Aha! Factor”:

The mark obviously reads “Amazon.com”. It’s friendly, and easy on the eyes. But the designer (or design team) added an arrow, which turns into a smile. Pretty cool, eh? But that’s not all! That arrow (or smile) also points from A to Z.

When I design a logo for a client, I try and include the “Aha! Factor” in at least one of my sketches.

This was one of the initial sketches Kristen showed the client:

I really liked the direction that the mark above was headed and we tried to convince them to go for it, but in the end they felt that people wouldn’t get it and opted for something a little bit safer and a lot more straightforward.

After several rounds of iterations and a whole lot of discussion, this is what they went with:

When it comes down to it, graphic design is a form of communication. We, as designers, are here to make the client’s vision come true keeping the audience in mind. Sure, it’s important to drive the process, after all, that’s why they hired you. But our job is to first address the client’s audience, then please the client. Lastly, we must create something we are happy with. If all three of those goals are met, it’s a job well done (in my opinion).

The site launched yesterday and they seem very pleased. Kristen designed one hell of Web site. It’s so well designed and unbelievably easy on the eyes; I’m envious of her work. She’s an outstanding designer. The site is worlds better than the earlier version. Check it out.

And me? I am really happy with the final logos. I gave them the one shown above as well as the People’s Voice mark shown below. (The People’s Voice mark was to be a sister of the Webby Award logo. It was to work alongside the other logo.)

I want to end this by saying that I am so unbelievably grateful for having given the chance to work with such a reputable and amazing firm such as The Barbarian Group.

The UPS man came to our house yesterday. I did a double take to make sure he wasn’t wearing a Santa suit. I am still a little speechless about the whole ordeal, muted by generosity.

My sister-in-law, Melissa, sent us a huge box filled to the brim with baby clothing. I waited until Tobyjoe got home to finally sift through it all because I wanted to share the initial excitement with him. It’s a good thing that I did. We were both giggling like idiots by the time we were finished.

“I can’t believe we’re going to have something living here soon that will fit into this!”

“He’s going to look so handsome!”

“You’re going to have to buy another Vespa.”

She sent us something like 50 different pieces of baby clothing and we spazzed out for fifteen minutes straight. When we finally reached the bottom of the box Tobyjoe looked at me and with more seriousness than I’ve ever heard before he said, “I can’t wait.”

(I can’t wait to meet our preppy, yummy, Gap-wearing baby either.)

Missy got us these little shirts that made me laugh out loud.

And Michele sent us the DVD on the left; Missy gave us the one on the right.

Last, but not least: we opened the other big box. And I’m still not even sure whom to thank for this one. Some silent, generous person sent us this from our registry:

The cat did not come with it. He lives here. And we have since removed the car seat from the kitchen table so Tucker doesn’t assume it’s his (like he does with every other item we own). We’re going to have quite a situation on our hands once the baby is born and Tucker is no longer the brat of the household.

I don’t really know what to say about the generosity I have seen lately. I’m speechless. (And to the kind, modest friend who sent us the car seat: please send me an email so I can properly thank you. We were given your snail mail address and plan on using it, but I want to know you are on here as well.)

What can we do to make it up to you fine people? Framed photos? Mixed CDs? Cookies and cupcakes? Our first-born dressed extraordinarily well? An orange cat?

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Underneath the thick, white layer of blubber that was once my belly is a new hardness, a hardness made up of baby, placenta, amniotic fluid and maybe a little bit of muscle. After 20 weeks, the amniotic fluid consists mainly of urine, which means my belly is full of baby, placenta and urine; urine that the baby breaths in and out. Not to worry, however, because drinking urine is totally safe for the baby and is replenished with fresh urine every day.

Since it’s perfectly natural for babies to drink their own urine, and they have been doing so for a gazillion years, I’ve decided that I’m OK with it. But sometimes when the kid punches me in the bladder or kicks me in the rib, I’ll taunt him. I’ll say, “URINE DRINKER! PEE EATER!” And then sometimes Tobyjoe will lean in really close to my belly and say things like, “What are you doing in there? Enjoying a little pee? Yummmmm, peeeee.” And then sometimes Tobyjoe gets kicked in the face. And that makes me laugh.

I read somewhere that some toddlers have been known to speak certain words or phrases their mothers said during the last four months of their pregnancy. The example given in the article was a story about a toddler who said, “Breath in. Breath out.” very early on. (Future yoga instructor?) And this news made me wonder. It made me wonder about how much babies hear. It made me wonder why babies say certain things. For example, it makes me wonder why my first word was “Shit.” (Future anally fixated blogger?)

I had a really vivid dream 8 months ago. I never wrote about it because dreams can be really boring to read about. But it kind of goes with this particular story so I figured it’s due time. In my dream I was pregnant. (I was not yet pregnant in real life.) I gave birth to a little boy. He had a thick head of black hair. He was as cute as a button. He was born wearing glasses. (He looked like Robert Downey Jr.) It was the same day of my delivery and the two of us were sitting together in a room by ourselves. He was on my lap. I looked down at him and he looked up at me through his Buddy Holly glasses and said, “Hello, Michele. I have heard a lot about you.”

I put him down for a nap and then I walked out of the room to talk to my mother. I said, “Mom, I think we’ve got a really smart baby on our hands.” And she said, “Everyone says that about their own children” And I said, “But this one’s wearing glasses.”

(I bet you thought I thought he was smart because words came out of his mouth on the very same day he was born. No way, man.)

Now that I’m actually pregnant in real life, Tobyjoe talks to him a lot. He’ll say things like, “Your mother keeps saying that she’s fat. But really she’s pregnant with you. She complains a lot but don’t let that get you down because I want you.” and “Your mother is crazy because she likes Tucker. Tucker is insane. Do not trust any of the redheads in this house.”

All that being said, if our son comes out with a thick head of hair and he’s wearing glasses, I don’t think his first words are going to be “URINE DRINKER!” or “PEE EATER!” after all. This helps me to breath easier. And I’ll finally prove to the world that my dreams aren’t dreams after all.

And then watch out, Alison Dubois.

We named our fetus Ndugu. I woke up one morning very early on in my pregnancy and Tobyjoe said he had come up with the perfect name if we were to have a boy. “Ndugu.” He said. And we both laughed. That’s how our fetal nickname was coined.

About a month and a half ago, Ndugu started beating the hell out of me. Ndugu would kick me, headbutt me, or just sucker punch the inside of my belly. Our fetus is one active little creature. Ndugu is. Back then you couldn’t feel the punches from the outside, but there was no mistaking that I had something growing inside of me. Women told me about the sensation, warned me about it, told me how awesome it would be. But I never really understood until it became personal. It’s impossible to imagine and even harder to explain. I would try and explain it to Tobyjoe and he would listen. But it was like trying to explain a shiver, a sneeze, or a goosebump to someone who lacks all sensation.

One night I insisted that Tobyjoe sit quietly with his hand resting on my belly. “Just be patient!” I told him. “He’ll move and you will feel it.” Five minutes went by, the both of us all the while trying hard not to breath, and then something happened. Tobyjoe looked over at me from his pillow, eyes huge, as if he’d just seen something unreal out of the corner of his eye.

“Did you feel that?” I asked him. “Ndugu just punched you!”

“Yes!” He answered. “Holy shit!” He had read Ndugu Code via my tummy.

This became more and more noticeable as the days wore on. After we found out that Ndugu was a boy, the sensation became even more spectacular.

Now we watch him every night. We’ll be on the couch or in bed reading. My belly will dance. It looks as if super sized kernels of popcorn are exploding inside of me; I’m like a human Jiffy Pop. I’ll pull my shirt up above my belly and we’ll watch the firework display, the work of a performance artist. Tobyjoe will put his lips to my tummy and say things like, “What’re you doing in there? You’re beating up your mama!” And I’ll push him away after a few sentences because his stubble irritates my belly. “Talk through my shirt!” I’ll giggle.

Now the baby moves all day long, reminding me of his whereabouts, the fact that he exists. And every day I realize that I’m never alone even when there are no voices.

Ndugu doesn’t come around much anymore. Words like “Son” and “The Baby” have become regular mutterings throughout our household. Tobyjoe will ask me, “How’s my boy doing?” And I’ll tell him the last time his boy said hello to me and then complain about what his boy’s doing to my bladder.

I guess what I’m trying to say is – what I’m starting to realize – is that the fetus formally known as Ndugu is becoming Our Son.

As many of you already know, Schmitty had some problems recently that forced us to take him to the dreaded vet. I think the problems began in December when we noticed he was pooping outside of the litter box and that there were small amounts of blood in each of his stools, red blood. After reading about the symptoms online, we guessed that it was from too much pushing.

We brought him to the vet on February 18th. (I’m trying to get all my facts straight for this post. There is a good chance I’ll be wrong on something. I’ll update as necessary.) The vet said that she didn’t see anything wrong with him (although I don’t think she took more blood as he had just been there six months earlier). She took a urine sample and ran some other tests and she noticed that several of his teeth were rotting and were infected because of it. We knew this. His breath smelled so badly you could barely stand to be near him. Plus, he had had some removed in the past. But since we’re bad parents – parents who don’t like torturing him by taking him to the doctor – we postponed it until we realized we were entering PETA death threat territory. (I swear to the animal God, people, I would do just about anything for this cat. We do not neglect him. He is just absolutely terrified of the car. It breaks my heart having to watch him go through a vet visit.)

We let the vet do her thing. We left him there overnight so he could get an ECHO because she said there was some irregularity in his heartbeat. (I guessed she would have taken blood then, but I can’t be sure. We’ll have to call her.) He checked out fine and we go the go ahead for dental surgery. He went under that Thursday.

I picked him up the very next day. He was toothless and confused. We were given antibiotics and pain medicine, both of which were downright impossible to get down. We were told he would probably be disoriented for a while and would probably drink a lot more water. We were told he could start eating right away.

Back up for a minute. We put Schmitty on a wet food diet about 9 months ago specifically due to his decaying, and lack of teeth. Usually we feed him Newman’s Own but sometimes that wet food included the stuff currently being recalled because he wasn’t always crazy about certain cans of Newman’s Own. This cat loves to eat. He lives to eat. We tried feeding him everything. We even gave him the pouched, gravy kind (currently being recalled) and I’m sure we gave him other tainted brands during that time as well. (Seriously, what wet foods are SAFE to feed cats. It seems to me this list gets longer every day.) So when I noticed he was losing weight and not eating quite as much as he once had, I got a little worried. We assumed his lack of appetite was due to his painful teeth, hence the extra push to visit the vet. Point is he visited the vet after he would have eaten the tainted food. One would assume they would have caught that, right?

Schmitty ate just fine for a few days right after we left the vet. His appetite seemed to be closer to normal. He scarfed down certain foods and left the rest. He still has an appetite. He begs for food. I feed him and then he nibbles on a few pieces, or licks the top of his wet food. and then he moves on. And he doesn’t poop much at all anymore. He stands outside the box as if convulsing from below and nothing ever comes out. He drinks water as usual and he seems perfectly happy but he’s just not eating as much as he should be and he’s still having bathroom problems.

And so I am worried. And I’m a little annoyed as well. We took him in because there was a little blood in his stool and he was going outside the box. We spent over 1500 bucks to have his teeth removed and cleaned and his heart checked. The vet said that while he was under for oral surgery she gave him a Colonoscopy and said that everything appeared to be fine. The annoying thing is the problem we originally took him in for was not at all fixed. Instead, we have a toothless cat that doesn’t really eat much anymore and can’t poop. 1500 dollars in credit card debt later and he hasn’t gotten any better. (Is there pet health insurance? Clearly, we need it.)

I know I need to take him back to the vet and that brings me heartburn for two reason: I don’t have the money right now to pay for another massive vet bill as I’m still paying off the first one. I’m also worried about what they’re going to tell me after charging me thousands of dollars. I’m a bad parent in a cheap state of denial.

Before I torture him all over again (and start hooking myself on the street corner) I’m looking to the Internet for answers. Would acute kidney failure have shown up in his urine? If he had eaten tainted cat food, wouldn’t they have caught that while he was there in February? What’s wrong with my Big Guy?

Related news: Lisa started a pool on Flickr featuring the little fuzzy people who have perished due to the Menu Foods disaster. Look at this little baby.

God dammit. I have to stop looking at this shit, it’s making me cry.

I am absolutely floored by the Discovery Channel’s new series called Planet Earth (link to episode guide and schedule). Unfortunately I missed the first two episodes: “Pole to Pole” and “Mountains”. But I was able to catch “Deep Ocean” and “Deserts” over the weekend. I’m hooked. I now have my DVR set up to record new episodes as well as repeats. I must see them all. The series is so awesome; it had me eying HD TVs, which we can’t afford so maybe I’ll just head over to my brother’s apartment every Sunday night at 8 PM.

I’m really looking forward to “Great Plains” and “Caves” although every damn episode excites me. The attention to detail given to this show is outstanding and the work that went into is admirable. Some camera crews lived under extremely difficult conditions for a year or more.

It’s an 11-part series and took five years to make. The series airs every Sunday until April 22. It’s absolutely worth it and even though some of the parts addressing what we’ve done (and continue to do) to our environment make me cry (I’m 6 months pregnant, give a gal a break) it’s one of the greatest things I’ve seen on television. It’s not to be missed.

In two weeks I am schedule to have a Glucose Tolerance Test (GTT). (I’m going to explain what it is and why It’s done because I didn’t know what it was up until recently. If you already know about it, don’t care, or are bored, skip to the 3rd paragraph.) During pregnancy, hormones suppress insulin release in order to provide more nourishment for the baby. The baby depends on a regular and steady supply of glucose, (which could explain why I’m constantly craving pasta, potatoes, and vanilla milkshakes.) During that time, about 2 to 10 percent of all pregnant women develop a temporary condition referred to “gestational glucose intolerance” (once referred to as gestational diabetes). Basically, women who have this condition have blood-sugar higher than average.

Babies born to mothers with gestational glucose intolerance can be excessively large. This can lead to prematurity, respiratory problems, and difficult deliveries. (I’m worried about a 7.5 pound baby passing through my vagina, anything larger than that scares the crap out of me, and literally, quite possibly.) The GTT is now offered to pregnant women between 24 and 28 weeks during which time a woman is asked to drink a glass of sweet liquid called “glucola” on an empty stomach. (They say it tastes like extra sweet Coke or Pepsi. Of course, that sounds much more appealing than what some women have told me. I have been told it tastes awful.) An hour later, the woman’s blood-sugar is tested. If the test results come back with elevated blood-sugar, it is suggested that the woman go in for a more advanced, 3-hour test. Only about 15% of women who show an abnormal 1-hour glucose test come back with an abnormal 3-hour glucose test. If that test comes back high as well, the doctor will recommend that a woman go on a diabetic diet for the remainder of her pregnancy.

I wrote about genetic testing a few months back. I am so absolutely grateful for having a baby in a day and age where science has advanced so much. Now more women are able to sit back and enjoy their pregnancies, this is especially important as more and more women are having children at an older age. But I have to admit, over the past several months I have had myself an eye roll or two. It’s when one starts to combine all these tests and rules – pillows one must buy, tests one must have, exercises one must follow, and ways in which one must lie down – that it all starts to look a little silly. How did women have babies before now? How am I even here at all?

About a year ago, I was in a meeting. There were several of us present; we were discussing an upcoming conference. (I worked in the creative department of a massive corporate meeting planning firm.) There was a woman present who was 3 months pregnant. She happened to be one of the account executives on the massive job we were discussing. Her team wanted reassurance that she was able to see it through, attend the meetings to plan the event, and finally attend the conference. That’s when she pulled out her calendar and did the most peculiar thing. She flipped 6 months ahead and said, “I’m going to schedule my birth for that Friday. I’ll be out for two weeks. I will return to work 17 days later.”

“Are you sure?” Someone asked.

“That’s what I did with Jacob. I could schedule the cesarean for earlier.”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

And that was that. A pregnant woman had just scheduled her birth, her recovery time, and her return to the office 6 months ahead of time. It was one of the strangest conversations I had ever heard. Does this sort of thing actually happen? Do people schedule their births? They do in New York City apparently, especially the working girl. Nevertheless, it was one strange concept for me to accept.

When our mothers were pregnant with us they probably didn’t buy 70-dollar body pillows to help them sleep at night. They probably didn’t get all hopped up on prenatal vitamins, drink a glass of ground flax seeds every morning, have blood tests done 6 months prior conception in order to determine whether or not they were susceptible to certain genetic disorders. They probably didn’t receive an ultrasound every four weeks. I’m guessing they weren’t given a glucose test at 26-weeks. And I know for a fact they weren’t scheduling their births 6 months in advance. Granted, more women and babies probably died back then; I’m not saying that scientific advancement isn’t a good thing. I can’t imagine knowing what I know now and going back to how it was then. But is it all really necessary?

When you bring up things like 70-dollar body pillows to some women over 50, they roll their eyes. When you mention paying a doula for help during delivery, some of the older women may laugh at you. When you mention things like blood tests and genetic counseling, they may shake their heads in disbelief, muttering the words, “They do that now?” And when you ask some of them if they made sure that they slept on their left side, they may call you silly. Over the past several months I have even laughed at myself. There have been times I feel as though I have turned this natural event – one of the most natural things I’ll ever do here on planet earth – into something entirely more difficult than it should be. It’s as if I’m planning a trip to outer space rather than childbirth.

Are we turning the natural into some more unnatural? What will happen when I am my mother’s age and my son is the age I am now? Will a mother be able to choose between a boy or girl, blond or brunette? Will they have sticks you can pee on to check your baby’s sex? Not too long ago they were injecting rabbits with urine to test for pregnancy. Had you said to those folks their technique was absurd and that one day they’d be able to spare the rabbit and pee on a piece of plastic instead, they probably would have laughed at you. (Now we laugh at them for killing so many helpless rabbits.)

I keep wondering how childbirth will change down the road and because of that weird conversation I witnessed with a woman at work, I have taken my wonderment to the extreme. Will working women schedule their cesareans at 7 months instead of 9 because they don’t want to get too, too fat or deal with stretch marks? Is it not entirely inconceivable that some mothers will cut the gestation period short in order to spend more time at the office? Will babies one day naturally live the first few months of their lives in an incubator? Will vaginal births become a thing of the past, done by hippie mothers, religious fanatics, and teenage girls who don’t even know they’re pregnant to begin with?

I know. This all probably sounds pretty absurd. But if you had told a woman a 100 years ago that one day we’d be able to tell her the sex of her child using only sound waves, and count her baby’s fingers and toes before her child was even born, she probably would have laughed in your face.

About God and Parking.

When you’re pregnant and upset because your body won’t allow you to do the things you were once able to do, other seemingly ordinary events and situations arise that prove to be the most spectacular events ever. For example, today I found out that because of the Jews and the Christians and the fact that the car is parked on the Tuesday/Friday side of our street, I don’t have to move it again until Friday, April 12th. Thank You, Jesus. Thank You, Angel of Death.

About Books and Movies.

In other news, last night was rough. I stupidly talked Tobyjoe into watching The Descent and it gave me nightmares. The British and the Australians have a way of creating movies that haunt me for weeks and, in some cases, years. I still haven’t been able to shake 28 Days Later. And the one called Wolf Creek will haunt me until the day that I die. (Seriously, I watched Wolf Creek holding paper towels in the palms of my hands all the while covering my face with my knees. I finally just gave up and told Tobyjoe to tell me what was happening as I paced in the other room.)

I am easily spooked these days. I just finished a book called The Alienist by Caleb Carr and it haunted me as well. I need to stop with all the blood, guts, and murder.

About Food.

After reading Jen’s comment left on a recent post about nutrition, pregnancy and Omega-3s, I tried sardines for the very first time yesterday evening. They weren’t bad! They reminded me of really fresh (and potent) tuna, which was kinda nice because before getting pregnant I ate tuna at least twice a week. The only trouble I had with the little fishes was they stuck with me throughout the night, which is probably because the fact that my digestive system has slowed down immensely over the last several months. Every time I burped (which happens constantly these days) I was reminded of fish. I kept thinking that they would go superbly with a nice glass of white or a crisp champagne. The can did not come with a key, much to my disappointment. And when I accidentally dropped one on the floor the cats tried to bury it.

About the Registry.

We started a registry. I added a link to the right side of the page. Obviously, there are a few items on the list that are meant only for the two of us and possibly some insanely rich family members, but we added them anyway because we want to keep track of what we need/want. For example, there is a pricey, designer bouncy chair on the list that Tobyjoe really likes and it certainly is very pretty and it goes with our furniture. (Ha!) But I am partial to this one because it seems lighter and therefore easier to carry. Unfortunately, it’s not available through Amazon (and it’s kind of pricey anyway).

I really don’t like to do this sort of thing online. It makes me feel dirty. But some folks have emailed me about it and this seems like the most passive way to get the word out there.

Edited to add: Thank you so much for all the emailed suggestions! I am making changes as they come in (if the items are sold through Amazon. Y’all are the best.)