So I have to face facts here. I have a very truculent, constantly defiant, verging on intolerably rude 5 year old on my hands these days.
I think, to be honest, he has been living with me for approximately 2 years but I have steadfastly stuck my head in the sand and refused to acknowledge it. Have gladly made all manner of excuses for his disobedience, general lack of respect and violent outbursts.
'He's acting up because his parents are separating'.
'He's testing the boundaries because he is 3...4...5'.
'He's not really a destructive little shit at heart, he just doesn't have the emotional capacity to express his innermost turmoil over the move home...'
Maybe there is a nugget of truth in all of these statements - but it is getting to the point where I now feel that I have to apologise and attempt to explain his behaviour to family and friends. His roguish demeanor is seen as being obnoxious and disdainful to others when he is not getting his own way (and even sometimes when he is). And I just feel overwhelmed by the task ahead of me in trying to straighten him out.
Part of me struggles because I know, deep down, that Johnny Drama - as well as being an incredibly loving and affectionate child - is also quite trepidatious. On the surface he is brash and confident. A scene stealer. Seeks the spotlight and adores being the centre of attention. Highly competitive (particularly against his older brother, who doesn't seem to give two hoots as to whether he wins, loses or draws).
But actually he is much more fearful of new situations, openly doubts his abilities and gets his knickers in a right old twist about not being as competent as his peers. Stick him in the garden with a football and a couple of mates and he is in his element. Sign him up for a sports class of any description, even one he particularly excels at, and he will sit cautiously on the sidelines and refuse to participate out of sheer nerves.
He is also the boy who, on one hand, will stick his tongue out when being told off and hit me if a request for sweets or more TV is turned down. But on the other hand will smother me in cuddles and kisses, pronouncing regularly and in the softest and most ardent of voices "I love you so much Mama. My heart squeezes so much love for you that it just wants to explode all out of my body, everywhere."
It's obvious that I haven't dealt with this Jekyll and Hyde behaviour well. I know I should have nipped it in the bud a long time ago, rather than making excuses. Initially, it seemed that I bore the brunt of his anger and defiance - and I'm ashamed to admit that I think I let a lot of it ride because I felt, deep down, that I deserved it.
Now his behaviour is extending to family, friends and at school. He even whacked my dad on their last visit, which earned him a significant time out, but it shocked me out of my complacency a little - how on earth does he have the confidence and gall to hit one of his grandparents? On what planet has he been led to believe that is acceptable behaviour? And who is responsible for guiding his actions and teaching him right from wrong? Well, that would be me then. Look what a stellar job I must be doing. It's mortifying. But I know the crux of it is that I am not doing my beloved son any favours by letting him behave this way. And a simple time out or a telling off doesn't seem to have much effect. I know the time has come to be more hard core and, more importantly, ruthlessly consistent.
Oh, how fucking exhausting that sounds just writing it down. And therein lies the problem - I just feel too weary to tackle it alone.
Which I guess has been my excuse for a very long time now.
Has anyone else dealt with this before? You know, the whole Second Child Syndrome on steroids?
I know I need to step up and stop making excuses, because I would hate him to become the insensitive, self-absorbed bully that we have all seen or experienced as he gets older. I've read enough books to know what I ought to be doing and, although I think I am applying the techniques religiously, I think my sister would agree that in real life I typically exhibit a Warts And All style of parenting.
Oh God, it's so depressing to think that I have moulded this little monster. My very own engaging, hilarious, gregarious, energetic, passionate miniature schizophrenic.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Where the Heart Is
Oh God, I am so happy. Incandescently happy. To be home.The first few days were a bit bewildering, as though my mind couldn't quite take in the transition. Couldn't let itself truly believe that the move was, in fact, complete. Permanent. Real. I began to meticulously record the weather on the calendar hanging in my new kitchen. Overcast but very warm. Slight rain today, but, strangely enough, even though the roads were slick and the skies heavy, we didn't get wet. Sun and blue sky. A cheeky reassurance from that most cheerful of orbs...see, I do visit England from time to time, don't believe everything the Brits will readily tell you...
I love my new little house. Every time I come downstairs in the morning, the bright kitchen grins at me and the living room welcomes me with open arms. Hello again, they say. Yes, you are still here. It's not a dream. Get your coffee and have a sit down, put on the radio and drink it all in. Savour your home.
And it really does feel like a home, now that my belongings have finally arrived and are in situ. In fact, it feels so homely (to me, at least) that I almost resent leaving it at all. I scurry back to it daily, after walking the boys to school, and breathe in its cheeriness and relish the quiet.
At the back of the house (beyond the tepid, tip of a garden which is, quite frankly, a total embarrassment compared to my neighbours) lies the woods. We traipse through the woods every day on our way to and from school. I haven't had this much fresh air for years. My boys have never been outside and walked this much in their lives. We are all physically tired but also exhilarated by our daily ramblings up and down slopes, through (almost leafy) glens, treks through damp ditches and adventures through thickets. The boys are in their element.
I knew they were true Brits at heart.
After initially fearing the mud and getting dirty (heaven forbid), they now plod through muck with the best of them and wear their filthy clothes and wellies with pride. I love it. There is nothing they like better than scampering down the parkland walk to a huge tree swing and spending hours twisting, turning, flying over ground with whoops and cheers and pride at their speed and fearlessness.
They both got into my first choice of school, which is even better than my first impressions, and I feel insanely lucky to have achieved this miraculous feat. The kids are friendly and caring, the teachers are switched on and energetic, the parents are smart, interesting and welcoming. It's all very pollyanna right now. I keep resolving to Never take these rose tinted glasses off - goddamit I will super glue the buggers onto the side of my face if necessary.
PLUS, I am living with an adult again! I know! It's just such a thrill to have another physical presence mooching around the house after dark, who is taller than 4ft and (marginally) maturer than your average 7 year old. The icing on the cake is that this (so called) adult is none other than my sister and, after the first week (where I am sure we were both thinking yea Gods, this is never going to bloody work) we have now settled into a groove and it's lovely. Beyond lovely. Luxurious. What's more, she even makes me a cup of tea at approximately 9pm, when my bones are so firmly attached to the sofa I am incapable on movement. For this, and much more, I love her and am relishing the sheer novelty of adult company every day. I had forgotten - I had completely forgotten - how nice it was to share your life with an adult and not to feel so isolated and alone. It's a very unexpected bonus of moving home and I am really treasuring the time with her.
The other realisation which has me grinning wryling on a regular basis, is how very titchy things are over here, compared to the land of Supersize USA. My goodness, this country really is quaint in comparison. The cars for example. It's as though many of them have been borrowed from the land of Lilliput. The roads, lanes and pavements...so very narrow. You can't help but get intimately acquainted with strangers coming in the opposite direction when you are on foot, which is hilarious when you consider how uncomfortable physical proximity seems to make the average Brit. I am so tempted to goose people on these occasions. If I'm not careful, I'm going to get myself arrested.
The things that don't leave me grinning? Oh yes, there are a couple. Tubs of hummus is one. Why on earth would you create a flavour of hummus as delicious and moreish as Caramalised Onion...and then retail it in a tub so small that you are scrapping the bottom of it when you are only half way through a packet of sugar snap peas??? Why, people, why? I simply don't understand the mentality of not being able to buy a bucket of my favourite food and being able to eat wads of it on a daily basis, without the fear of it running out by your third mouthful.
The other is my washing machine, which is miniscule by even standard British proportions. Throw in a hand towel and three pairs of knickers and the thing is pretty much full. We've owned toy drums with a bigger capacity. I guess on the plus side, I don't have to worry about either the boys (or the cat, when it finally arrives out of quarantine) crawling and locking themselves inside it. It is barely bigger than the circumference of Captain Underpants head (which is suitably oversized compared to your average 7 year old, but still).
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Ho. Ho. Bloody Ho.
So that's another Christmas over and done with. Well, nearly. And thank God (or Jesus, perhaps?) for that. There WILL come a time when it is a day I look forward to and truly celebrate again...and not just dread for weeks and then limp through wanly with a drag queen smile plastered on my face.
At least I got to spend most of the day with my boys, for which I guess I should be very grateful.
They went to their dads the night before Christmas Eve. The arrangement Ex and I have had for the past 2 years (this is our 3rd Christmas since we separated) is that we would always spend Christmas and their birthdays together. This was a principle that I insisted upon, because I had always hated the fact that as a child, ever since my parents divorced, we were never able to celebrate a single event together as a family. And I have always wished that was different. Christmas and birthdays were never the same again with one parent always absent.
How ironic then, that I seem to be the one struggling the most following through with our agreement. This year I just wanted to run screaming for the hills rather than face a day with Ex, painfully aware of my every move, gesture and word in his presence. Unable to relax for a single moment and conscious of every forced conversation - trying, oh so hard, to be polite and cheerful and natural. There felt nothing natural about my performance today. By the time I left, feeling guilty about leaving the boys before their bedtime, I was emotionally wrought and physically exhausted.
Of course, it didn't help that plans had, unbeknownst to me, changed from those we had agreed upon over the 'phone a week ago. Ex confirmed he was going to be alone with the boys - and I was to join them. I enquired about AG's plans, to a non-commital response, so I took a deep breath and suggested she should join us in the afternoon - and then late afternoon I would leave them to it.
I wake up in my friend's beautiful home and spend an hour with her family, the children tearing their way through the piles of presents while the adults sip coffee and take pains to avoid the dreaded video camera. My friend has bought me luxurious gifts and written a card that almost has me in tears. Part of me just wants to hole up in their house all day and another part of me is itching to see the boys.
Before 9am I drive to Ex's home and, of course, who is the first voice I hear before the door is open? It's her. She's there. She's woken up with my children on Christmas morning and is seemingly going to be there all day. As I stand on the threshold to the house (where I can hear my boys leaping over each other to be the first to the door, to let mummy in) I can feel my blood pressure sky rocket and there is practically steam coming out of my ears. I am instantly livid to the point of turning puce and feel totally ambushed. What a disrespectful fucker. Why couldn't he have warned me? My little two year old self wanted to have an almighty tantrum. The teenager in me was in a monumental huff. Luckily my adult self managed to seize control before the door opened and I was able to stuff my bitch face grimace into the waistband of my control top tights (really, there is nothing that can escape those buggers) and plaster a Happy Christmas smile on my face.
Watch out for the Oscar nomination, folks, in January. I'm telling you, it's definitely on the cards this year.
There were hugs all round, but I couldn't look Ex in the eye. Far be it from me to confront the issue and effectively 'spoil the day'. Ex and AG cooked breakfast, while the boys showed me the gifts they had already unwrapped in their stockings. AG was as pleasant as ever (I really can't find one single person to say a bad word about her - even those that have made it their life's ambition to nitpick the hell out of anybody and everybody - which is just so damned irritating, isn't it?). I didn't have much of an appetite (actually not true - I pretended not to be hungry purely to be petulant and because this whole sitting around the table, 'breaking bread together' still makes me feel like a bit of a prune...as though I am somehow being made a fool of by being so compliant with AG in our lives).
After breakfasts, we opened gifts. And I guess that is when I started to relax and accept the new version of Christmas v.2010. Of course, the focus was completely on the boys and they were so overjoyed with everything that they opened, it was easy to be distracted. AG and I sat near each other, but I still can't bring myself to initiate a conversation directly with her. There is not a single molecule in my body that can feign any interest whatsoever in her life and adventures with my (soon to be ex) husband. It's all just a little too close to home. But her presence does make things a little easier between Ex and I. A buffer. I try hard not to scrutinise her too closely and formulate questions in my head, like "WHY does he prefer you, exactly?" and "are you a bit of an animal in bed, because I just can't picture that myself?" I wonder if she thinks the same about me? Probably not. Hence the preference, possibly.
The boys bounce all over me, like over grown puppies, lavishing me with affection and insisting that I help out with their new lego projects. AG has bought me a book that I wanted and written a thoughtful card, thanking me for letting her be a part of the boys birthdays and Christmas. I have bought her a bag full of Lush goodies from the boys, which seems to go down well. It's all very civil, verging on pleasant.
Then, unexpectedly, AG leaves to see her family. I am relieved - yet it is far more awkward without her around. The next few hours are strange. As though we are playing happy families. I keep laughing and joking with the boys, but inside I feel lost at sea and lonely - in their house, surrounded by pictures of their happy coupledom. I spot a picture of AG and the boys in their bedroom and it instantly fans the flames of jealousy and resentment. Am I wrong to feel it's a liberty? How would he feel if the situation was reversed? Even after 2 years of separation, it still feels way too soon to accept this other woman's place in the boys lives. I can't stand seeing the physical evidence of all the things that they do together. It smarts like a fresh wound all over again. I just ache to leave - not the boys, but definitely this home where I do not belong. Where I have no place at all.
Late afternoon, I decide to leave. The boys are sad and ask me to stay. They want me to sleep over. How much do they understand of this situation, I wonder? Do they see us making an effort to get along and think....maybe? Maybe if we just nudge the situation a little, our family will be reinstated. At Christmas.
I feel guilty as I kiss them goodbye. Their hugs are reluctant and I know I am letting them down by not staying longer. By not having the strength to see this day out to the bitter end. I leave, berating myself internally, and struggling not to cry as I drive away in the snow. It's just another day and I have done the best that I could. But, yet again, I don't think it's been good enough.
It's just not how Christmas should be - but it will be the last one of its kind. That's the intention.
At least I got to spend most of the day with my boys, for which I guess I should be very grateful.
They went to their dads the night before Christmas Eve. The arrangement Ex and I have had for the past 2 years (this is our 3rd Christmas since we separated) is that we would always spend Christmas and their birthdays together. This was a principle that I insisted upon, because I had always hated the fact that as a child, ever since my parents divorced, we were never able to celebrate a single event together as a family. And I have always wished that was different. Christmas and birthdays were never the same again with one parent always absent.
How ironic then, that I seem to be the one struggling the most following through with our agreement. This year I just wanted to run screaming for the hills rather than face a day with Ex, painfully aware of my every move, gesture and word in his presence. Unable to relax for a single moment and conscious of every forced conversation - trying, oh so hard, to be polite and cheerful and natural. There felt nothing natural about my performance today. By the time I left, feeling guilty about leaving the boys before their bedtime, I was emotionally wrought and physically exhausted.
Of course, it didn't help that plans had, unbeknownst to me, changed from those we had agreed upon over the 'phone a week ago. Ex confirmed he was going to be alone with the boys - and I was to join them. I enquired about AG's plans, to a non-commital response, so I took a deep breath and suggested she should join us in the afternoon - and then late afternoon I would leave them to it.
I wake up in my friend's beautiful home and spend an hour with her family, the children tearing their way through the piles of presents while the adults sip coffee and take pains to avoid the dreaded video camera. My friend has bought me luxurious gifts and written a card that almost has me in tears. Part of me just wants to hole up in their house all day and another part of me is itching to see the boys.
Before 9am I drive to Ex's home and, of course, who is the first voice I hear before the door is open? It's her. She's there. She's woken up with my children on Christmas morning and is seemingly going to be there all day. As I stand on the threshold to the house (where I can hear my boys leaping over each other to be the first to the door, to let mummy in) I can feel my blood pressure sky rocket and there is practically steam coming out of my ears. I am instantly livid to the point of turning puce and feel totally ambushed. What a disrespectful fucker. Why couldn't he have warned me? My little two year old self wanted to have an almighty tantrum. The teenager in me was in a monumental huff. Luckily my adult self managed to seize control before the door opened and I was able to stuff my bitch face grimace into the waistband of my control top tights (really, there is nothing that can escape those buggers) and plaster a Happy Christmas smile on my face.
Watch out for the Oscar nomination, folks, in January. I'm telling you, it's definitely on the cards this year.
There were hugs all round, but I couldn't look Ex in the eye. Far be it from me to confront the issue and effectively 'spoil the day'. Ex and AG cooked breakfast, while the boys showed me the gifts they had already unwrapped in their stockings. AG was as pleasant as ever (I really can't find one single person to say a bad word about her - even those that have made it their life's ambition to nitpick the hell out of anybody and everybody - which is just so damned irritating, isn't it?). I didn't have much of an appetite (actually not true - I pretended not to be hungry purely to be petulant and because this whole sitting around the table, 'breaking bread together' still makes me feel like a bit of a prune...as though I am somehow being made a fool of by being so compliant with AG in our lives).
After breakfasts, we opened gifts. And I guess that is when I started to relax and accept the new version of Christmas v.2010. Of course, the focus was completely on the boys and they were so overjoyed with everything that they opened, it was easy to be distracted. AG and I sat near each other, but I still can't bring myself to initiate a conversation directly with her. There is not a single molecule in my body that can feign any interest whatsoever in her life and adventures with my (soon to be ex) husband. It's all just a little too close to home. But her presence does make things a little easier between Ex and I. A buffer. I try hard not to scrutinise her too closely and formulate questions in my head, like "WHY does he prefer you, exactly?" and "are you a bit of an animal in bed, because I just can't picture that myself?" I wonder if she thinks the same about me? Probably not. Hence the preference, possibly.
The boys bounce all over me, like over grown puppies, lavishing me with affection and insisting that I help out with their new lego projects. AG has bought me a book that I wanted and written a thoughtful card, thanking me for letting her be a part of the boys birthdays and Christmas. I have bought her a bag full of Lush goodies from the boys, which seems to go down well. It's all very civil, verging on pleasant.
Then, unexpectedly, AG leaves to see her family. I am relieved - yet it is far more awkward without her around. The next few hours are strange. As though we are playing happy families. I keep laughing and joking with the boys, but inside I feel lost at sea and lonely - in their house, surrounded by pictures of their happy coupledom. I spot a picture of AG and the boys in their bedroom and it instantly fans the flames of jealousy and resentment. Am I wrong to feel it's a liberty? How would he feel if the situation was reversed? Even after 2 years of separation, it still feels way too soon to accept this other woman's place in the boys lives. I can't stand seeing the physical evidence of all the things that they do together. It smarts like a fresh wound all over again. I just ache to leave - not the boys, but definitely this home where I do not belong. Where I have no place at all.
Late afternoon, I decide to leave. The boys are sad and ask me to stay. They want me to sleep over. How much do they understand of this situation, I wonder? Do they see us making an effort to get along and think....maybe? Maybe if we just nudge the situation a little, our family will be reinstated. At Christmas.
I feel guilty as I kiss them goodbye. Their hugs are reluctant and I know I am letting them down by not staying longer. By not having the strength to see this day out to the bitter end. I leave, berating myself internally, and struggling not to cry as I drive away in the snow. It's just another day and I have done the best that I could. But, yet again, I don't think it's been good enough.
It's just not how Christmas should be - but it will be the last one of its kind. That's the intention.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Six Sleeps and Counting
Okay - probably ought to preface this post by saying I am a little teensy, weensy bit drunk (and intending to get slaughtered...but only after I have hit "publish post". God this chardonnay is like drinking liquid butter).
So it was the boys' last day at school. I am dealing with all these goodbyes on autopilot. I know the tears are being stored up to be shed later (hopefully they are being stored in my increasingly ample thighs, which will shrink to microscopic proportions when the tears are finally set free...fingers crossed).
I have been dreading this day, but it ended up being very civilised, verging on anti-climatic. There were no street banners, streamers let loose from the roof or marching bands. It was just like any other end of term day, with the exception that both boys received beautiful hand made scrap books from their classes as a memento. We have been pouring over them since we arrived home. No doubt, I will be able to commit each page to memory within the next 24 hours. But the boys have taken it all in their stride and don't seem to truly appreciate that this was their last ever day at this school. Or maybe they do and I have just raised a couple of heartless little buggers? Time will tell.
This school has been such a huge part of my life for the past four years. A lifeline, much of the time. I know their class mates so well and have meaningful relationships with many of the parents. Strange to think this life will continue without us. I am going to miss it.
The boys are so focused on Christmas right now, that nothing seems to be particularly phasing them. Which is a good thing. We went to a Christmas party at the weekend and, of course, Santa was there. Even at the ages of 5 and 7, they are still a little intimidated by Santa. Almost reverent. Mind you, that's a darn sight better than a few years ago, when they regarded Santa as a combination of the Abominable Snow Man and Jack the Ripper, judging by the screams and tears whenever we attempted to sit them on his knee for the obligatory photo. Now, they are quiet and serious and in total awe. Is this the last Christmas that they will believe? I hope not. Even though this year's Santa was wearing a coat and hat trimmed with pink fur (me thinks someone unintentionally boil washed his suit, making the colours run...such a novice mistake, don't you think?) and fake 'pleather' booties, they were totally convinced he was The Real Deal. At the end of their little sojourn with Santa they both received a little bell on red ribbon, which both delighted and convinced them even more than ever. Just the previous night we had read The Polar Express for the first time, so the bell had particular poignancy. I couldn't have planned it better myself.
Of course, all this awe and reverence quickly faded once a carton of apple juice hit their stomachs and they ended the party by being accomplices in the smashing of a small, cracked window. Nice. A couple of hoodlums, I'm telling you. I, quite frankly, didn't make much of a better impression by yelling "FUCK!" in a foyer full of joyful parents and children, when the heavy outer door handle swung with some force and hit me on the hip. Really. You can't take us anywhere.
So it was the boys' last day at school. I am dealing with all these goodbyes on autopilot. I know the tears are being stored up to be shed later (hopefully they are being stored in my increasingly ample thighs, which will shrink to microscopic proportions when the tears are finally set free...fingers crossed).
I have been dreading this day, but it ended up being very civilised, verging on anti-climatic. There were no street banners, streamers let loose from the roof or marching bands. It was just like any other end of term day, with the exception that both boys received beautiful hand made scrap books from their classes as a memento. We have been pouring over them since we arrived home. No doubt, I will be able to commit each page to memory within the next 24 hours. But the boys have taken it all in their stride and don't seem to truly appreciate that this was their last ever day at this school. Or maybe they do and I have just raised a couple of heartless little buggers? Time will tell.
This school has been such a huge part of my life for the past four years. A lifeline, much of the time. I know their class mates so well and have meaningful relationships with many of the parents. Strange to think this life will continue without us. I am going to miss it.
The boys are so focused on Christmas right now, that nothing seems to be particularly phasing them. Which is a good thing. We went to a Christmas party at the weekend and, of course, Santa was there. Even at the ages of 5 and 7, they are still a little intimidated by Santa. Almost reverent. Mind you, that's a darn sight better than a few years ago, when they regarded Santa as a combination of the Abominable Snow Man and Jack the Ripper, judging by the screams and tears whenever we attempted to sit them on his knee for the obligatory photo. Now, they are quiet and serious and in total awe. Is this the last Christmas that they will believe? I hope not. Even though this year's Santa was wearing a coat and hat trimmed with pink fur (me thinks someone unintentionally boil washed his suit, making the colours run...such a novice mistake, don't you think?) and fake 'pleather' booties, they were totally convinced he was The Real Deal. At the end of their little sojourn with Santa they both received a little bell on red ribbon, which both delighted and convinced them even more than ever. Just the previous night we had read The Polar Express for the first time, so the bell had particular poignancy. I couldn't have planned it better myself.
Of course, all this awe and reverence quickly faded once a carton of apple juice hit their stomachs and they ended the party by being accomplices in the smashing of a small, cracked window. Nice. A couple of hoodlums, I'm telling you. I, quite frankly, didn't make much of a better impression by yelling "FUCK!" in a foyer full of joyful parents and children, when the heavy outer door handle swung with some force and hit me on the hip. Really. You can't take us anywhere.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
In a State of Denial
So the past few weeks have been manic.
The final two weeks of November I was simply packing like a woman possessed. And, although I say so myself, really - I should turn professional. I think I might have found my true calling. There was no sentiment attached to the appraisal of every inanimate object before making a split second decision on pack/donate/bin. I am the Queen of sorting out tat. And boy, even after the cull I did in the summer, we still seemed to have accrued mountains of it.
Well, not any more. With any luck I will be unpacking a shipment of 113 items (don't ask me how it is that many...but the last minute purchase of essential sleds and skateboards didn't help) safe in the knowledge that every item swathed in acres of paper is essential to my London existence. I wonder how long it will take me to accumulate fresh hordes of unnecessary tat to fill every cupboard and drawer? Despite my best intentions I am hedging my bets and guessing April, at the very latest.
Packing my clothes, for what could be up to 2 months, presented the biggest dilemma. I resolved the issue of what single pair of boots to wedge in the case by the age old technique of "ippa-dippa-dation-my-operation-how-many-people-at-the-station?" It's not the most scientific technique available. Or the most effective, because there isn't a single day that has gone by that I don't rue the pair I should have selected instead. How on earth did I think this pair of boots was The One? Oh well. I guess if this is the extent of my packing regrets, I haven't done too badly.
In fact, everything went accordingly to plan except for one thing. The most important thing. The cat. Yes, after all the cat drama and trauma of the past few weeks you would think I had had my fill for the year and that, by rights, everything regarding my surviving cat, Bert, should have been tickety-boo. This was not the case.
He was successfully collected by the specialist pet shipper, I handed over all the relevant paperwork and waved a tearful goodbye. How am I going to get through the next 48 hours, I thought to myself, until I know he is safely at my dad's? Oh famous last thoughts. If only it had turned out to be just 48 hours of concern. Turns out there is a minor discrepancy in his rabies certifications, which means he needs to endure 6 months of quarantine. I still can't think about it without feeling sick and distraught way beyond the point of tears. I have investigated every avenue and potential solution (of course) but there is no alternative aside from shipping him back to Chicago. So as I type he is currently imprisoned in a farm in Essex, being looking after by a very caring woman called Kim and her team. My dad visited last week and said he was purring up a storm and seemed in good health. But still. It is the last thing I wanted for him and I am mad as hell at the vet and the customs bureaucrats...but, most of all, myself.
It's sod's law that something had to go awry at the last minute. But I really wish it had been something other than the cat being effectively punished by my desire to move.
I am now safely encamped at a close friend's beautiful house in one of the nicest neighbourhoods in Chicago. This was not the wisest idea, on reflection, because I am enjoying myself so much that leaving is the last thing on my mind. In fact, I am in a total state of denial about the fact that I will be boarding a plan in just 10 days time, possibly never to return. I just can't think about it. I don't have the emotional capacity to face the enormity of this move in any shape or form. So for the most part I am simply ignoring it, pretending nothing remotely out of the ordinary is on the horizon and specifically avoiding friends incase we get caught up in a frenzy of sentimental goodbyes that crack my "I am handling this okay" veneer.
The boys are doing remarkably well. Christmas is a big distraction - which is both a blessing and a curse. So much more to pack. So much more to coordinate, on top of everything else. We have additional 'mini-xmas' celebrations planned with family and friends when we get home, so with any luck they will be distracted until at least mid-January. They are a combination of excited and anxious about the move. It breaks my heart a little to witness the extraordinary bonds they have with their close friends and know that those friendships - which mean everything to them on a daily basis - are going to be lost. We will keep in touch with many of these boys and girls, and even see many of them as they visit the UK on a regular basis (oh, the beauty of attending an International school). But it won't be the same. And that makes me sad.
In fact there are many things I will miss about being in Chicago, now I think about it. Juicy steak that is always cooked to perfection (who cares about the steriods, it just adds to the flavour). Huge parallel parking spaces in every garage you encounter. A clean glass of iced water presented immediately upon arrival at any cafe, restaurant or bar. Click and Clack The Tappit Brothers radio show on NPR. Closely followed by Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me. The most incredible city skyline I have ever seen in the world. Intense blue summer skies refecting into a cobalt blue lake, which is so immense it resembles an ocean. The sale room in Anthropology. The sale rail at Club Monaco. Half and half for my morning coffee. Dunkin Donuts vanilla coffee (you can get it in a styrefoam bucket, exactly how you like it - extra cream and one sugar for me - for under $2). Drinking cocktails on the 95th floor of the John Hancock building. The noise of the el clattering about my head, as the trains wind their way above the city streets. The efficiency of the snow ploughs and gritting trucks when a blizzard hits. The ability to buy a beautiful DKNY cozy sweater (retailing at $195 plus tax) on clearance for just $29 at Marshalls. And don't get me started on the delights of my local supermarket Trader Joe's. The fact that I couldn't ship home a huge box of edible goodies is one of my biggest disappointments.
Anyway, I don't have the luxury of thinking about all the things I am going to miss just yet.
I am far too preoccupied with the thought of how many layers of clothes I am going to have to wear on the plane, because my case simply won't accommodate the bags of must-have bargains I have been insane enough to purchase the past 2 weeks. Goddam you Banana Republic and your ridiculous sale. It is your fault and your fault alone that I am going to look like the bloody Michelin Man at check in.
So if you happen to be at Heathrow on the 28th December and you spot a rather hot and bothered person resembling a bag lady and wearing what appears to be her entire wardrobe...well, that will be me.
The final two weeks of November I was simply packing like a woman possessed. And, although I say so myself, really - I should turn professional. I think I might have found my true calling. There was no sentiment attached to the appraisal of every inanimate object before making a split second decision on pack/donate/bin. I am the Queen of sorting out tat. And boy, even after the cull I did in the summer, we still seemed to have accrued mountains of it.
Well, not any more. With any luck I will be unpacking a shipment of 113 items (don't ask me how it is that many...but the last minute purchase of essential sleds and skateboards didn't help) safe in the knowledge that every item swathed in acres of paper is essential to my London existence. I wonder how long it will take me to accumulate fresh hordes of unnecessary tat to fill every cupboard and drawer? Despite my best intentions I am hedging my bets and guessing April, at the very latest.
Packing my clothes, for what could be up to 2 months, presented the biggest dilemma. I resolved the issue of what single pair of boots to wedge in the case by the age old technique of "ippa-dippa-dation-my-operation-how-many-people-at-the-station?" It's not the most scientific technique available. Or the most effective, because there isn't a single day that has gone by that I don't rue the pair I should have selected instead. How on earth did I think this pair of boots was The One? Oh well. I guess if this is the extent of my packing regrets, I haven't done too badly.
In fact, everything went accordingly to plan except for one thing. The most important thing. The cat. Yes, after all the cat drama and trauma of the past few weeks you would think I had had my fill for the year and that, by rights, everything regarding my surviving cat, Bert, should have been tickety-boo. This was not the case.
He was successfully collected by the specialist pet shipper, I handed over all the relevant paperwork and waved a tearful goodbye. How am I going to get through the next 48 hours, I thought to myself, until I know he is safely at my dad's? Oh famous last thoughts. If only it had turned out to be just 48 hours of concern. Turns out there is a minor discrepancy in his rabies certifications, which means he needs to endure 6 months of quarantine. I still can't think about it without feeling sick and distraught way beyond the point of tears. I have investigated every avenue and potential solution (of course) but there is no alternative aside from shipping him back to Chicago. So as I type he is currently imprisoned in a farm in Essex, being looking after by a very caring woman called Kim and her team. My dad visited last week and said he was purring up a storm and seemed in good health. But still. It is the last thing I wanted for him and I am mad as hell at the vet and the customs bureaucrats...but, most of all, myself.
It's sod's law that something had to go awry at the last minute. But I really wish it had been something other than the cat being effectively punished by my desire to move.
I am now safely encamped at a close friend's beautiful house in one of the nicest neighbourhoods in Chicago. This was not the wisest idea, on reflection, because I am enjoying myself so much that leaving is the last thing on my mind. In fact, I am in a total state of denial about the fact that I will be boarding a plan in just 10 days time, possibly never to return. I just can't think about it. I don't have the emotional capacity to face the enormity of this move in any shape or form. So for the most part I am simply ignoring it, pretending nothing remotely out of the ordinary is on the horizon and specifically avoiding friends incase we get caught up in a frenzy of sentimental goodbyes that crack my "I am handling this okay" veneer.
The boys are doing remarkably well. Christmas is a big distraction - which is both a blessing and a curse. So much more to pack. So much more to coordinate, on top of everything else. We have additional 'mini-xmas' celebrations planned with family and friends when we get home, so with any luck they will be distracted until at least mid-January. They are a combination of excited and anxious about the move. It breaks my heart a little to witness the extraordinary bonds they have with their close friends and know that those friendships - which mean everything to them on a daily basis - are going to be lost. We will keep in touch with many of these boys and girls, and even see many of them as they visit the UK on a regular basis (oh, the beauty of attending an International school). But it won't be the same. And that makes me sad.
In fact there are many things I will miss about being in Chicago, now I think about it. Juicy steak that is always cooked to perfection (who cares about the steriods, it just adds to the flavour). Huge parallel parking spaces in every garage you encounter. A clean glass of iced water presented immediately upon arrival at any cafe, restaurant or bar. Click and Clack The Tappit Brothers radio show on NPR. Closely followed by Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me. The most incredible city skyline I have ever seen in the world. Intense blue summer skies refecting into a cobalt blue lake, which is so immense it resembles an ocean. The sale room in Anthropology. The sale rail at Club Monaco. Half and half for my morning coffee. Dunkin Donuts vanilla coffee (you can get it in a styrefoam bucket, exactly how you like it - extra cream and one sugar for me - for under $2). Drinking cocktails on the 95th floor of the John Hancock building. The noise of the el clattering about my head, as the trains wind their way above the city streets. The efficiency of the snow ploughs and gritting trucks when a blizzard hits. The ability to buy a beautiful DKNY cozy sweater (retailing at $195 plus tax) on clearance for just $29 at Marshalls. And don't get me started on the delights of my local supermarket Trader Joe's. The fact that I couldn't ship home a huge box of edible goodies is one of my biggest disappointments.
Anyway, I don't have the luxury of thinking about all the things I am going to miss just yet.
I am far too preoccupied with the thought of how many layers of clothes I am going to have to wear on the plane, because my case simply won't accommodate the bags of must-have bargains I have been insane enough to purchase the past 2 weeks. Goddam you Banana Republic and your ridiculous sale. It is your fault and your fault alone that I am going to look like the bloody Michelin Man at check in.
So if you happen to be at Heathrow on the 28th December and you spot a rather hot and bothered person resembling a bag lady and wearing what appears to be her entire wardrobe...well, that will be me.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Loss
It's a grey day today. The sky is monochrome and the weather is decidedly dreary. Which is a bit of a blessing. It wouldn't have seemed fitting to put down my beloved cat on a bright, sunny day.
Feeling a little bit bleugh right now. It's not just losing Ernie. I can't quite shake the sense of loss I have about leaving Chicago. It's not really leaving the city, or America. I have been lucky to live here - and there have been many fun times and great experiences - but it's always been a bit of a hit or miss relationship and I have never truly felt like I have belonged. However, the thought of leaving my dear friends does leave me feeling bereft. Strange how I haven't gone anywhere yet, but I already miss them.
People seem to think I should be excited about moving home. And after all this time of fighting for the right to move home with the boys, I should feel excited about moving back, of course I should, for so many reasons. But I don't quite yet. In fact, at times I feel quite the opposite. It's not a sense of dread or regret, but it is a sense of deep sadness. I don't think I will miss Chicago itself to a large degree, but the loss of my friends here is a different matter entirely.
But then again, the underlying tone of my 10 years in Chicago is tinged with loss.
First the loss of my independence. Boy, I wasn't expecting that. I had been so gung-ho about living in another country, so it was strange to arrive on the back of my husband's working visa and to immediately be persona-non-grata. I couldn't get a job, couldn't co-sign the lease on our apartment, couldn't get a mobile phone, couldn't jointly be on any of the utilities. It seemed to take me forever to get a social security card. It was a shock to the system, after being independent from 18 years of age, to suddenly be totally co-dependent, verging on invisible. I even had to start using my married name, which I had never done in the UK, because sticking to my maiden name was causing so much confusion and hassle. I don't think my husband ever understood why this made me so angry and feel so belittled, but I have always resented the bureaucratic push I was given which seemed to change my whole identity to 'wife'.
Then there's the loss of my career. Before arriving in Chicago I had worked for 15 years in Advertising and Marketing and was proud of my achievements. I don't think I had really appreciated how significantly my job had defined my sense of self. I did work for an advertising agency in Chicago, but unexpectedly felt like a square peg in a round hole. The working culture was so undeniably different. After 6 months I settled in, but options for continuing my career once I had children were extremely limited. My choice was to go back to work full-time after 12 weeks of maternity leave (with only 2 weeks holiday) or to not work at all. There was no happy medium. And I guess when it came down to it, my career meant a lot to me...but being a hands-on, present mum meant more.
I did try to return to work but was incredibly frustrated that there were seemingly no flexible alternatives. I interviewed at a few places and spoke to several recruitment agencies, but repeatedly came up against a brick wall. Eventually I re-trained as a personal trainer and did work part-time, but it was never a professionally satisfying alternative. And the pay was crap. Yet again, my self-esteem took a good kicking and I felt all the more like a second class citizen.
Of course, prior to the disintegration of my career we lost our first son. Along with the devastating grief and the introduction of a black hole in my heart, I experienced a loss of my own physical confidence. Suddenly I was no longer a strapping, healthy lass, forever at the gym and taking on new fitness challenges. My body had failed me. I no longer trusted it. It was no longer an ally I could rely on, but a reviled enemy who had let me down in the most unforgivable way. Its failure at the most important time of my life contributed to the death of our son. There was no-one else to hold accountable except for my own, previously undiscovered, physical flaws.
So in a way, it was no wonder that ultimately, after losing so much of what I recognised as being irrefutably me, I would lose my marriage too. I was no longer the person that had stood at the alter on that sunny day in June. I had changed beyond recognition. Become the antithesis of the values and principles I had once lived my life by. I hadn't yet had the time, or energy, to replace all these critical components of me that I felt I had lost since coming to America, when my husband decided he was Done.
At the time, it felt like I had truly lost everything. For a while Chicago represented the toughest of times, where my life took a series of turns that I had never anticipated and prepared myself for. It was hardly the carefree, exciting 2 year adventure that I naively set out on over 10 years ago.
Yet I know I would not have the strength and optimism I have today about my future, without the love and support of my friends in Chicago over the years.
God, I'm going to miss them.
Feeling a little bit bleugh right now. It's not just losing Ernie. I can't quite shake the sense of loss I have about leaving Chicago. It's not really leaving the city, or America. I have been lucky to live here - and there have been many fun times and great experiences - but it's always been a bit of a hit or miss relationship and I have never truly felt like I have belonged. However, the thought of leaving my dear friends does leave me feeling bereft. Strange how I haven't gone anywhere yet, but I already miss them.
People seem to think I should be excited about moving home. And after all this time of fighting for the right to move home with the boys, I should feel excited about moving back, of course I should, for so many reasons. But I don't quite yet. In fact, at times I feel quite the opposite. It's not a sense of dread or regret, but it is a sense of deep sadness. I don't think I will miss Chicago itself to a large degree, but the loss of my friends here is a different matter entirely.
But then again, the underlying tone of my 10 years in Chicago is tinged with loss.
First the loss of my independence. Boy, I wasn't expecting that. I had been so gung-ho about living in another country, so it was strange to arrive on the back of my husband's working visa and to immediately be persona-non-grata. I couldn't get a job, couldn't co-sign the lease on our apartment, couldn't get a mobile phone, couldn't jointly be on any of the utilities. It seemed to take me forever to get a social security card. It was a shock to the system, after being independent from 18 years of age, to suddenly be totally co-dependent, verging on invisible. I even had to start using my married name, which I had never done in the UK, because sticking to my maiden name was causing so much confusion and hassle. I don't think my husband ever understood why this made me so angry and feel so belittled, but I have always resented the bureaucratic push I was given which seemed to change my whole identity to 'wife'.
Then there's the loss of my career. Before arriving in Chicago I had worked for 15 years in Advertising and Marketing and was proud of my achievements. I don't think I had really appreciated how significantly my job had defined my sense of self. I did work for an advertising agency in Chicago, but unexpectedly felt like a square peg in a round hole. The working culture was so undeniably different. After 6 months I settled in, but options for continuing my career once I had children were extremely limited. My choice was to go back to work full-time after 12 weeks of maternity leave (with only 2 weeks holiday) or to not work at all. There was no happy medium. And I guess when it came down to it, my career meant a lot to me...but being a hands-on, present mum meant more.
I did try to return to work but was incredibly frustrated that there were seemingly no flexible alternatives. I interviewed at a few places and spoke to several recruitment agencies, but repeatedly came up against a brick wall. Eventually I re-trained as a personal trainer and did work part-time, but it was never a professionally satisfying alternative. And the pay was crap. Yet again, my self-esteem took a good kicking and I felt all the more like a second class citizen.
Of course, prior to the disintegration of my career we lost our first son. Along with the devastating grief and the introduction of a black hole in my heart, I experienced a loss of my own physical confidence. Suddenly I was no longer a strapping, healthy lass, forever at the gym and taking on new fitness challenges. My body had failed me. I no longer trusted it. It was no longer an ally I could rely on, but a reviled enemy who had let me down in the most unforgivable way. Its failure at the most important time of my life contributed to the death of our son. There was no-one else to hold accountable except for my own, previously undiscovered, physical flaws.
So in a way, it was no wonder that ultimately, after losing so much of what I recognised as being irrefutably me, I would lose my marriage too. I was no longer the person that had stood at the alter on that sunny day in June. I had changed beyond recognition. Become the antithesis of the values and principles I had once lived my life by. I hadn't yet had the time, or energy, to replace all these critical components of me that I felt I had lost since coming to America, when my husband decided he was Done.
At the time, it felt like I had truly lost everything. For a while Chicago represented the toughest of times, where my life took a series of turns that I had never anticipated and prepared myself for. It was hardly the carefree, exciting 2 year adventure that I naively set out on over 10 years ago.
Yet I know I would not have the strength and optimism I have today about my future, without the love and support of my friends in Chicago over the years.
God, I'm going to miss them.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Catastrophe
Life is so great at throwing curve balls, isn't it?
Just when everything seems to be falling into place, there's yet another drama. The last two weeks have been surprisingly calm. The house in North London is OURS - I am still have trouble digesting the fact that, after all this time, it does appear that I will in fact be moving home to the UK by the end of the year. I have a new home, I have applied to the local borough for school places, I am coordinating all the logistics for a transatlantic relocation for me and the boys. It is so overwhelming that I can't quite get to grips with the fact that it is actually going to happen, but the fact that the house is ours makes it real. There's no going back now and the sense of relief is enormous.
The only concern I had was what to do with my two cats. I had planned to take them home, but started to think that maybe it would make more sense and be better all round if I found them a new home in Chicago. Which of course is easier said than done.
I have had both cats since they were kittens, adopting them both when we first moved to Chicago and I was volunteering at a local no-kill shelter. They are now 9 years old and part of me just wanted to spare them the trauma of a move. So I emailed everyone in my contacts list, placed local ads and waited for the offers to come pouring in. And waited. And waited. Lots of people expressed concern for the cats, and my predicament, but it appeared that all the cat lovers were already inundated with felines and there was nobody willing to take them.
I knew that taking them to a shelter would not be an option. I couldn't desert my faithful, loving pets without knowing whether or not they had a family to go to, so just last week decided that I had to bite the bullet and start to coordinate plans for their move to the UK. Once I made the decision, I again felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It was going to be costly - nearly $3,000 - and I wasn't sure where that money was going to come from, but all the alternatives seemed too heartless to contemplate. It's only money, I told myself, and started to get all the paperwork together to make it happen.
However, there was one nagging concern at the back of my mind. My big, fat, fluffy hair ball of a ginger tom, Ernie, had lost a lot of weight. I knew I had reduced the cats diet a couple of months ago and initially I assumed that it was a natural side-effect from eating less. But as I watched him more closely, I began to notice that he no longer had a ferocious appetite. And then in the last few days he seemed to have no appetite at all.
Oh no, I thought. What's going on now? I don't have time to deal with this. I felt sure it was nothing but googled 'cat weight loss' nevertheless. Of course the internet threw back a list of ailments as long as my arm, all of which looked alarming and expensive. I decided to book an appointment at the vet the following week to get him checked out, reassuring myself that it was probably a simple ailment that could be cured simply with medication.
When I woke up on Saturday, with a busy and fun-filled day planned (the expat bloggers were in town and I was excited to spend the day with them) Ernie could barely drag himself up the stairs. His fur was bedraggled and greasy looking. From being a chunky, lump of a cat just a few months ago he was now skin and bones. I could no longer ignore the obvious. I had a sick cat on my hands and needed to take him to the vet immediately.
A couple of hours later I was sat in the vet waiting room, feeling fairly optimistic that I was panicking over nothing. It's bound to be a simple parasite, I thought, which would explain the weight loss. I couldn't allow myself to think that it was anything worse. Having made the decision to take both cats back the UK, the thought that Ernie might now be suddenly and inexplicably ill and unable to travel, made no sense at all.
The vet came in and looked him over. Ernie purred in his usual friendly fashion. He has a big, traction engine type of purr that reverberates through his whole body and reflects his general contented personality. The vet looked at his teeth, as I explained my concerns, then she started to feel the rest of his body. I suddenly remember that I forgot to bring his faeces sample with me and internally berate myself for forgetting the evidence which would reveal the parasites. The vet pauses in her examination and looks me in the eye. "Ernie has a large tumour in his abdomen. I can't be sure, but in my opinion I think it could be lymphoma. I'm going to have to run more tests. Can you come back in 45 minutes?"
I look at my cat, who is obviously a shadow of his former self, and burst into tears.
Oh holy crap. Cancer. How? Why? And why now, for Christ's sake? What does this mean? Is it curable? And what will the treatment involve? How can I possibly deal with this, when I am going to be homeless in 3 weeks and living in my friend's basement?
I stagger out to Starbucks and email Ex to tell him the news. He responds immediately and is kind, considerate and thoughtful. He reminds me that I have given Ernie nine very happy years and that he probably wouldn't have survived as a kitten if I hadn't nursed him around the clock for the first few months. He tells me to keep him posted. I call a friend and can't seem to stop the tears. I can't help feeling that I gave a sign to the universe that this cat was disposable, that he wasn't wanted. And it had responded with a fatal solution to not having to bare the expense and stress of shipping him home.
Eventually I go back to the vet, dreading the results and feeling sure this was going to be a worse case scenario prognosis. Which it is. There are options for surgery / chemo / long-term treatment, but none of them are guaranteed to cure the disease. And he certainly can't travel back to the UK in a matter of weeks. The vet kindly advises me that euthanasia is probably the kindest and most respectful option.
I cuddle Ernie close to me and he purrs rhythmically in my ear. I don't feel ready to lose him. I don't know what I was thinking about even considering re-homing him several weeks ago. Out of the two cats, Ernie was always the one from a kitten that has been attached to me like velcro, taking every opportunity open to him to coat me in a layer of hair impervious to most lint rollers. He has the sweetest, most loving nature. The thought of putting him down is heartbreaking.
I call Ex and tell him what is happening. I can't stop the tears as I am talking, although I am trying my hardest to keep my shit together. I have decided to take Ernie home, with medication, to be able to say a proper goodbye. The vet assures me he isn't in any discomfort right now, although he probably will be soon. The medication will increase his appetite a little and make him a little more alert. When I am ready I can bring him back and be with him while he is put to sleep.
I drive home slowly and sit on the couch all afternoon with Ernie curled up on my chest. This wasn't how this weekend was meant to be. I feel sad and somehow responsible for my pet's imminent death. I feel worried about how his brother, Bert, the little black mischief maker is going to cope in his absence. I'm not sure how I am going to cope with his absence. Yes, he is just a pet, just a cat. The boys love both cats, but that affection has never, in all honesty, been returned (with both cats running a mile as soon as the boys are within sprinting distance). But they will be sad. And I am going to miss him very, very much.
This is the trouble with having animals as part of your family, isn't it? Their life span is shorter to start with, so the relationship is duty bound to end in heartbreak. I can't tell you how many times I have moaned about having the cats over the past two years, particularly when tripping over them carrying armfuls of laundry or shooing them out of my kitchen when trying to get everyone fed. There have been times I have really resented the responsibility of having to find people to look after them whenever we have gone on holiday. And I've felt guilty if I haven't had the time to give them much attention, when they seem permanently desperate for a lap to curl up on. Some times I have just wanted to sit down and write a blog post for heaven's sake (okay, not that often admittedly) which is hindered somewhat when there is a cat determined to sprawl across the keyboard. And it's probably best not to mention at this point my constant whinging about Cat Hair and it's ability to impregnate every surface with super glue tendencies.
Because despite the minor irritations and my petty little grumbles, I really love having pets and I have been really lucky to have had such a gentle and affectionate cat.
Goodbye my darling Ernie. Turns out you were always meant to be an American cat - and not an English moggy - after all.
Just when everything seems to be falling into place, there's yet another drama. The last two weeks have been surprisingly calm. The house in North London is OURS - I am still have trouble digesting the fact that, after all this time, it does appear that I will in fact be moving home to the UK by the end of the year. I have a new home, I have applied to the local borough for school places, I am coordinating all the logistics for a transatlantic relocation for me and the boys. It is so overwhelming that I can't quite get to grips with the fact that it is actually going to happen, but the fact that the house is ours makes it real. There's no going back now and the sense of relief is enormous.
The only concern I had was what to do with my two cats. I had planned to take them home, but started to think that maybe it would make more sense and be better all round if I found them a new home in Chicago. Which of course is easier said than done.
I have had both cats since they were kittens, adopting them both when we first moved to Chicago and I was volunteering at a local no-kill shelter. They are now 9 years old and part of me just wanted to spare them the trauma of a move. So I emailed everyone in my contacts list, placed local ads and waited for the offers to come pouring in. And waited. And waited. Lots of people expressed concern for the cats, and my predicament, but it appeared that all the cat lovers were already inundated with felines and there was nobody willing to take them.
I knew that taking them to a shelter would not be an option. I couldn't desert my faithful, loving pets without knowing whether or not they had a family to go to, so just last week decided that I had to bite the bullet and start to coordinate plans for their move to the UK. Once I made the decision, I again felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It was going to be costly - nearly $3,000 - and I wasn't sure where that money was going to come from, but all the alternatives seemed too heartless to contemplate. It's only money, I told myself, and started to get all the paperwork together to make it happen.
However, there was one nagging concern at the back of my mind. My big, fat, fluffy hair ball of a ginger tom, Ernie, had lost a lot of weight. I knew I had reduced the cats diet a couple of months ago and initially I assumed that it was a natural side-effect from eating less. But as I watched him more closely, I began to notice that he no longer had a ferocious appetite. And then in the last few days he seemed to have no appetite at all.
Oh no, I thought. What's going on now? I don't have time to deal with this. I felt sure it was nothing but googled 'cat weight loss' nevertheless. Of course the internet threw back a list of ailments as long as my arm, all of which looked alarming and expensive. I decided to book an appointment at the vet the following week to get him checked out, reassuring myself that it was probably a simple ailment that could be cured simply with medication.
When I woke up on Saturday, with a busy and fun-filled day planned (the expat bloggers were in town and I was excited to spend the day with them) Ernie could barely drag himself up the stairs. His fur was bedraggled and greasy looking. From being a chunky, lump of a cat just a few months ago he was now skin and bones. I could no longer ignore the obvious. I had a sick cat on my hands and needed to take him to the vet immediately.
A couple of hours later I was sat in the vet waiting room, feeling fairly optimistic that I was panicking over nothing. It's bound to be a simple parasite, I thought, which would explain the weight loss. I couldn't allow myself to think that it was anything worse. Having made the decision to take both cats back the UK, the thought that Ernie might now be suddenly and inexplicably ill and unable to travel, made no sense at all.
The vet came in and looked him over. Ernie purred in his usual friendly fashion. He has a big, traction engine type of purr that reverberates through his whole body and reflects his general contented personality. The vet looked at his teeth, as I explained my concerns, then she started to feel the rest of his body. I suddenly remember that I forgot to bring his faeces sample with me and internally berate myself for forgetting the evidence which would reveal the parasites. The vet pauses in her examination and looks me in the eye. "Ernie has a large tumour in his abdomen. I can't be sure, but in my opinion I think it could be lymphoma. I'm going to have to run more tests. Can you come back in 45 minutes?"
I look at my cat, who is obviously a shadow of his former self, and burst into tears.
Oh holy crap. Cancer. How? Why? And why now, for Christ's sake? What does this mean? Is it curable? And what will the treatment involve? How can I possibly deal with this, when I am going to be homeless in 3 weeks and living in my friend's basement?
I stagger out to Starbucks and email Ex to tell him the news. He responds immediately and is kind, considerate and thoughtful. He reminds me that I have given Ernie nine very happy years and that he probably wouldn't have survived as a kitten if I hadn't nursed him around the clock for the first few months. He tells me to keep him posted. I call a friend and can't seem to stop the tears. I can't help feeling that I gave a sign to the universe that this cat was disposable, that he wasn't wanted. And it had responded with a fatal solution to not having to bare the expense and stress of shipping him home.
Eventually I go back to the vet, dreading the results and feeling sure this was going to be a worse case scenario prognosis. Which it is. There are options for surgery / chemo / long-term treatment, but none of them are guaranteed to cure the disease. And he certainly can't travel back to the UK in a matter of weeks. The vet kindly advises me that euthanasia is probably the kindest and most respectful option.
I cuddle Ernie close to me and he purrs rhythmically in my ear. I don't feel ready to lose him. I don't know what I was thinking about even considering re-homing him several weeks ago. Out of the two cats, Ernie was always the one from a kitten that has been attached to me like velcro, taking every opportunity open to him to coat me in a layer of hair impervious to most lint rollers. He has the sweetest, most loving nature. The thought of putting him down is heartbreaking.
I call Ex and tell him what is happening. I can't stop the tears as I am talking, although I am trying my hardest to keep my shit together. I have decided to take Ernie home, with medication, to be able to say a proper goodbye. The vet assures me he isn't in any discomfort right now, although he probably will be soon. The medication will increase his appetite a little and make him a little more alert. When I am ready I can bring him back and be with him while he is put to sleep.
I drive home slowly and sit on the couch all afternoon with Ernie curled up on my chest. This wasn't how this weekend was meant to be. I feel sad and somehow responsible for my pet's imminent death. I feel worried about how his brother, Bert, the little black mischief maker is going to cope in his absence. I'm not sure how I am going to cope with his absence. Yes, he is just a pet, just a cat. The boys love both cats, but that affection has never, in all honesty, been returned (with both cats running a mile as soon as the boys are within sprinting distance). But they will be sad. And I am going to miss him very, very much.
This is the trouble with having animals as part of your family, isn't it? Their life span is shorter to start with, so the relationship is duty bound to end in heartbreak. I can't tell you how many times I have moaned about having the cats over the past two years, particularly when tripping over them carrying armfuls of laundry or shooing them out of my kitchen when trying to get everyone fed. There have been times I have really resented the responsibility of having to find people to look after them whenever we have gone on holiday. And I've felt guilty if I haven't had the time to give them much attention, when they seem permanently desperate for a lap to curl up on. Some times I have just wanted to sit down and write a blog post for heaven's sake (okay, not that often admittedly) which is hindered somewhat when there is a cat determined to sprawl across the keyboard. And it's probably best not to mention at this point my constant whinging about Cat Hair and it's ability to impregnate every surface with super glue tendencies.
Because despite the minor irritations and my petty little grumbles, I really love having pets and I have been really lucky to have had such a gentle and affectionate cat.
Goodbye my darling Ernie. Turns out you were always meant to be an American cat - and not an English moggy - after all.
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