In Honor Of My Friend

My cat died yesterday. I feel like referring to her as a cat is utterly inadequate. She was so much more than a cat to me. She was my BFF, my sidekick, my sunshine, my baby, my constant. Cat, or animal minimizes what she was to me. She was my family.

I will attempt to type my feelings and memories through trembling fingers and tear-filled eyes. In July 2000, I went to NorthPark Mall in Dallas. My friends Carmen and Brion were about to come visit me from Nebraska and I was in the mood for a new pair of shoes. I walked out of the mall instead with a one-year-old cat whom I named Purrkins. The SPCA was set up outside Dillards and I fell in love with her and her beautiful coat with the Target logos on each side. Her beautiful blue eyes glistened and she posed with a regal presence. Her "motor" roared in celebration each time she was petted or held closely. I often wondered what her first year of life was like before we met, she and I settled into a happy life together very quickly.

Jay was just as smitten with Purrkins as I was. They too became fast friends and between the two of us, Purrkins was given many nick-names. Pookie-boo, Boo, Boo-kitty, P-kitty, and on and on. The three of us moved into our current house together more than 11 years ago. She was unwilling to simply live within the confines of our home. She was drawn to the outside, especially in the brutal Texas summer. She taught Jay and I to trust her and allow her to live part of her days outside while we were home. It was something we knew was a risk, and we were prepared to leverage that risk against her having a happy, fun-filled life on her terms. While she explored our front and back yard, we have memories of Purrkins climbing 8' fences, jumping up on our garage roof, racing through piles of leaves while we raked in the fall, sunning herself under bushes and plants while she raised her nose toward the sun with what appeared to be a huge smile.

Like everyone, Jay and I have had our share of having to play some difficult hands. Due to the complicated and unpredictable nature of life, we were forced to make our own family which we chose to fill with pets. Purrkins was the centerpiece of our family and our two miniature dacshunds came around in 2007 to turn our family of three into a family of five. For the most part, the dogs and Purrkins got a long very well. There was a mischievous side to Purrkins and she would sometimes tease the dogs or try to get them to chase her knowing that she could spring up quickly on a bed or piece of furniture and leave them feeling inadequate to her athletic abilities and agility.

I couldn't make the bed or change the sheets without her springing up to shuffle the blanket or sheets all around before darting around the room like a pin ball in a machine headed for a record-breaking score.

But that's all in the past now.

Just like that, in an instant, she was taken from us. I can't bear to type or think about the details beyond the fact that she is gone. That alone feels unbearable to me as I swim through my grief that is barely 24-hours old. I would be admitting to be a fool if I thought that she would live forever. Her 15-year-old body was beginning to fail her in ways that Jay and I could see but we didn't want to admit. But we thought we would have more time. More time to love her. More time to hold her. An opportunity to say goodbye. I guess I just can't believe that there is such an immense hole in my heart and an emptiness in our home. I am going to miss her terribly and miss the fact that she will no longer be part of my daily routine.

Of course we know that time will help us learn to live without her. Other highs and lows will come and go and fill our days up with stress, happiness, worry, doubts, dreams, hopes, and fears. But for now, it hurts. It hurts deeply and horribly and I wish I could fast-forward through whatever amount of time is going to take to be at peace with this loss.

Thank you for your sensitivity to my feelings at this time, there will never be another Purrkins, and that is a damn shame.

Coming Clean

I have a confession. Before you get too excited thinking I am really going to tell you my lifelong friends' secrets (you seriously didn't think I would tell you mine, did you?), I should say that it's really more of an epiphany. After thinking about what I would write about to kick-off the reunion tour this week, it dawned on me. I think I put my finger on why I haven't touched this blog in over a year.

This wasn't the worst case of writer's block that I have ever had...I have plenty of material, trust me. It's just that the "stuff" that's been on my mind...well, I just didn't think anyone would care.

Most of the people who read this blog are friends and family and I know and appreciate that you care about me. It's just that some of this "stuff" has the potential to be a one-way ticket to downer town and I don't want to be responsible for dragging anyone there. So in the spirit of full disclosure, you have been warned! Now on with the blog...

Half-year Resolution!

Not too many days ago, I was asking myself why I hadn't posted in NEARLY A YEAR! How embarrassing...it will be hard to convince anyone that I actually enjoy writing. So I am officially back! I have dusted off my laptop and I am ready to begin again. Who says you can't have resolutions in the middle of the year?

In Over My Head Part 3 (final)

It’s funny what thoughts go through your mind when you are faced with an uncertain situation.  The “what ifs” quickly take over and bounce around your mind like a pinball dancing around inside the machine.   One fear leads to a barrage of unanswerable questions and the fears multiply and can take over quickly. 

And yet, I was worried about my hair. 

Days before my first doctor’s appointment, I had a haircut and I really liked my new style.  Here I was faced with a situation that was already very serious and I was worried about my hair.  In retrospect, I believe it’s some type of defense mechanism, a way of protecting ourselves or a way to help us survive and cope.  These situations are so overwhelming and difficult to process that it becomes natural to focus on something, anything that you can control.  For me, it was my hair. 

I went back to work to help me pass the time before my next appointment with Dr. Mickey.  I clutched my purse as I rode up in the elevator to the fifth floor of the office building I was working in at the time.  I was riding with three colleagues that first morning back to work and prepared myself for the blitzkrieg of questions.  “I heard about your health issues, is everything okay?” “I hope so, thanks for asking,” I responded realizing that work wouldn’t be an escape for me after all.  I would have to relive the events of the last three days a thousand times that day.  It’s nice to know people are concerned and want the best for you, but I was really hungry to just feel like I was living my normal life.  I wanted everything to go back to how it was just a week before when my biggest decision in a day was deciding where to go to lunch with my co-workers.

But time did pass.

Seconds turned into minutes; minutes to hours; hours to days.  My friend since fifth grade, Sara, flew down from Nebraska to Dallas after the tumor hit the fan.  She called and asked if she could visit me for the weekend.  I was very touched by her gesture of support, as Sara was married with a little girl and pregnant with her second child at the time.  I welcomed the distraction and Sara was relieved as she had already booked her plane ticket.

This is bad if people are coming to visit. 

I had convinced my parents that they didn’t need to make the trip just yet.  One of the scenarios that I was contemplating was surgery (which lead to the concerns about my hair) and if that was the case, I would need my parents at that time.  Yes, it would be good to see Sara and try to feel normal. 

Sara, Jay and I had a good weekend.  We went to dinner, shopping and went to a downtown arts festival.  The weather in Dallas in April is usually cool enough to wear jeans or shorts and a long sleeve shirt.  The sun is bright and you tell yourself that you better appreciate the beautiful weather now because that wicked Texas summer heat is just around the corner.

The weekend passed relatively quickly.  We dropped Sara off at the airport, it was so great to see her and be able to catch up and feel like there wasn’t anything wrong.  But there was, or there could be, I still didn’t know.  The elephant in the room stayed close to my side and wouldn’t let me forget about it for too long.  Most days, the uninvited brain tumor was the first thing I thought of in the morning and the last thing I thought about at night during my prayers to God. 

Please, please, please, please, no, don’t let this be the worst-case scenario. 

I begged.  I won’t ever ask for help to find a lost contact again…I will not miss church…I will appreciate my life and the gifts you have given me.   I promised.

Monday passed.  Tuesday was now.  Wednesday is my appointment with Dr. Mickey.  One more day.  I had a flashback of being flat on the table before that first MRI.  A cool sensation started at my toes and moved up my legs. As the feeling hit my arms, I felt goose bumps explode on my skin and causing me to shiver until it reached my head.   The cold wave was a product of the realization that this one test could change everything.

Gulp.

Wednesday.  Jay drove me to the doctor’s office for my sequel appointment.  Armed with my hospital check-in card and two oversized and awkward envelopes full of pictures of my brain, we walked toward the entrance.  The automatic doors opened quickly as we approached the door.  As we entered, the smell of latex gloves and Clorox bleach filled my nose.  Phones ringing, elevators dinging, wheelchairs piled up on the side of the room next to the windows.  Definitely in a hospital, I thought.  I squeezed Jay’s hand too hard, but he didn’t say a word. 

Checked in with the desk staff.  Turned to sit in the waiting room.  I glanced around the room as I tried to get comfortable in the chenille-covered chair.  Old people, young people, children and family members waited all around us.  No words were spoken, but the eyes told the same story.  Stress.  Fear.  Anxiety.  Sleep deprivation.  One man sat remarkably still as he looked up at the television tuned to CNN.  His head was wrapped in white gauze and bandages.  I slowly closed my eyes and tried to think of something else.  Anything else.

Sue opened the door leading into the waiting room from the exam rooms.  She called my name and Jay and I slowly marched behind her after a quick smile, nod and “fine thank you.”

“Dr. Mickey will be with you in a moment.”  Big sigh.  I stared at the poster of a human brain on the wall for two minutes or maybe twenty, I can’t be sure.   Tap, tap, tap on the door.  Dr. Mickey entered looking a little more tan and somehow taller than I remembered. 

Hello.  Hello.  Good to see you again.  Yes, you too, thank you.

Dr. Mickey flipped through my chart, grabbed my MRI and CT Scans and was having what was for him, a completely average day.  He was the only one in the room who could say such a thing.  He threw the scans up on the illuminated light box.  One scan from the first MRI was on the far left.  The other scans were only from the CT that was done the week before.

He plucked his glasses out of his white coat pocket and carefully placed them on his face.  Jay and I watched Dr. Mickey scour the films.  We didn’t know it at the time, but Dr. Mickey had already reviewed my CT scans with his colleagues earlier that morning; the radiologist gave me a copy and Dr. Mickey a set of his tests.  He was checking his work one more time before speaking to us during my appointment.  He moved his eyes from one side to the other and back again.  Repeat.  My heart was beating out of my chest.

He turned to face us.  Removed his glasses and reached toward the plastic brain on the counter to use as a visual aid.

“Your tumor is right here,” he pointed with his index finger to a space that to me was on the back and base of my brain.  “It’s the size of a quarter, roughly.   What we can see from your CT Scans that you had taken last week with the contrast fluid is that the fluid moved around the mass rather than in or toward it which is what we want to see.”

Good news.

My stomach jumped, I shifted in my seat, and glanced over to Jay to check his reaction.  Did Jay hear what I heard?  A cautious smile filled his face.  Yes, he did.  Okay, focus on the doctor.

“It’s impossible to say why you have this cyst.  It’s not supposed to be there, and it’s definitely not what we would say is normal, but it isn’t impacting your brain, vision or speech.   It very well could be that this is how you came from ‘the factory’.  You have a vey healthy brain.  My recommendation is that you return in one year, then in two years and again three years from now.  We will want to keep on an eye on your benign cyst to make sure it doesn’t change in size or position.”

Wait.  Did he say cyst?  I heard the word tumor a hundred times before each time any of the doctors referred to what was on my brain.  Now in just two minutes, everything changed, but this time for the better.  He said mass, but then cyst.  I had never heard a prettier combination of words in all of my life—benign cyst.

Then we discussed my excessive headaches and double-vision.  From Dr. Mickey’s point-of-view, there wasn’t anything on my scans that told him why either symptom was occurring.  He recommended I go to a Neuro Opthamologist for my vision and to continue watching my headaches.  After my additional appointments and tests, the consensus was that my headaches were related to swinging hormone issues so we adjusted some medications and eventually, the headaches cleared.  Once the headaches were history, so was the double-vision.

I didn’t know Christmas could come in April.  I felt like I woke up that morning and got everything that I had asked for on my list including a winning lottery ticket.  Dr. Mickey answered some additional questions politely and we were soon on our way.  Passing the waiting room full of people who didn’t have answers or hope tempered my excitement for the moment.

We walked out of the hospital.  For the first time in over two weeks, my stomach growled.  My appetite had been missing in action since my follow-up visit at my regular doctor’s office.  Were things going to be normal again?

No.

Nothing would ever be the same.  I looked at everything differently.  Those two weeks of uncertainty, fear and anxiety changed me, opened my eyes to the fact that life really is as fragile as you fear it can be.  The flowers were prettier, the birds sang the most beautiful melodies, and I laughed as I ran my fingers through my hair.

Thank you, God.  Thank you.

In Over My Head Part 2

The next few minutes were a blur even in the moment.  I remember telling myself that I needed to breathe and blink, because I wasn’t doing either automatically.  And I heard the words tumor, neurosurgeon appointment tomorrow, this is serious, do you want me to go get your boyfriend? 

Yes, please.

The sandpaper tissues scratched my tear-soaked face.

Blink. 

Tears. 

Oh my god.

Friends and family were called.  Emails were sent via my dial-up Internet connection.  Calls started pouring in.  I couldn’t answer, couldn’t say any of it out loud.   It’s strange, but I remember so clearly that the outfit I wore on that first day was never worn again.  It was donated very quickly to charity.  I just couldn’t bring myself to put on the tumor uniform again.  I didn’t want to see any reminders of the day that everything changed.

Day two.  I dropped the shampoo bottle in the shower.  It banged loudly on the shower floor and the noise frightened me and shook me into a realization.  I was someone I had never been before—the person everyone was going to think about when his or her day went south and they would say to themselves:  it could be worse, I could be going through what poor Stephanie is going through right now.  I was that person.  I was 25 years old and I didn’t want to be that person.

I was early for my appointment with Dr. Bruce Mickey.  I had a neurosurgeon.  Most people my age have a doctor and a dentist.  I had a neurosurgeon.  Dr. Mickey is still considered one of the best neurosurgeons in the nation; the article I read in the salon reminded me of that fact.  At the time, I would have preferred to meet him at a dinner party rather than because I had a tumor on my brain.   His practice was run with military efficiency.  His nurse, Sue, called my name and Jay and I followed her down the long hallway to an exam room.  Orange carpet lined the hallway and bright abstract artwork dotted the walls.

We waited.  And waited.  And waited.

There was nothing to say to each other.

Dr. Mickey arrived in a bright white coat embroidered with his name in navy blue thread.  He tie was in position aligned perfectly under his Adam’s apple.

Nice to meet you.  Nice to meet you.  He sat on a black leather stool with stainless steel legs and black wheels.  He asked for my scans from the day before.  He put one scan up on the bright white illuminated light box and the images of my skull and brain came to life.  Then another scan, and another and so on until there were five scans filling the wall.

Silence.  The wheels of Dr. Mickey’s stool turned from one scan to the next back to the first, over to the second.  Silence.  10 minutes of silence as Dr. Mickey meticulously reviewed the images before him.  Jay squeezed my hand.  I couldn’t handle the silence any longer.  “Can you see how still I was during the MRI?”  Jay smiled and nodded.

Dr. Mickey turned to us as if he just realized he wasn’t the only person in the room.  “Well, I think we need to do some additional tests.  The tumor you have needs to be evaluated further and I would like to send you to get a CT Scan with contrast fluid.”

I was still experiencing headaches and double vision and Dr. Mickey did not think those issues were related to the tumor.  Just a coincidence that the tumor was found during the MRI.  I don't know why, but I thought that could be a good thing.  I knew I had three issues then-tumor, unexplained double-vision, and a cluster of migraine headaches.

The CT Scan procedure started off similar to a spinal tap so that the contrast fluid could be injected into my body.  The gurney I was on was tilted with my head directed down so that the fluid would naturally move downstream to my brain.  I remember I was wearing a periwinkle Nike t-shirt and black yoga pants.  Jay had to work but his brother Jamie had a break in his schedule from law school and dropped me off at the hospital for the test.  I have no idea what we talked about as Jamie drove me to my appointment.  I am sure I couldn’t have told you that five minutes later either.

Waiting.  Waiting.  Waiting. 

Chat with the radiologist.  Throw in a stupid joke to break the ice.  He’s nice.  Hold still.  Don’t breathe.  Don’t move.  Don’t itch.  Don’t think about it.  Count to 100.  1…2…3…4…5…breathe. Don’t move.  20 minutes.  How much longer?  Don’t move.

“Okay, we’ve got what we need,” the radiologist said as he pushed up his glasses.  “Dr. Mickey is going on vacation for a few days, but I am sure he will call you next week with the results.”

I went into desperation mode.  “Dr. I-don’t-remember-your-name-nine-years later, I know you aren’t supposed to say anything, but I don’t think I can wait until next week.  Is there anything you can share with me that can help me make it until my appointment with Dr. Mickey?”  Tears started to fall onto my periwinkle shirt creating dark purple polka dots.  I was overwhelmed by my own feelings but I controlled the tears before they turned into sobs.  I wasn’t prepared to have to wait that long.  I couldn’t.  But I didn’t have a choice.

In Over My Head-Part 1

I went to the salon the other day for my semi-regular “sunshine injection pilgrimage”.  In other words, to get my hair highlighted.  Sadly, my hair turned on me from medium/dark blonde to light brown sometime in college.  I could be wrong, but instead of attributing this to my increasing age like my stylist does, I attribute my darkening roots to the excessive amount of dark beer that I drank in college.

While in the salon, I typically like to decompress, drink my glass of water and read an empty magazine article.   I started reading a Dallas magazine story about a woman around my age faced with a growth on her brain.  The article chronicled her on the road to recovery and I am happy to report her health and life returned to normal.  Toward the end of the article, she mentioned the name of the doctor she owed her miraculous turnaround to--Dr. Bruce Mickey of the University of Texas-Southwestern Medical Center.

My eyes froze on his name.  They were paralyzed there as I said his name in my head over and over and over again.  I closed my eyes and was transported back through nine years of memories, jobs, parties, celebrations, tragedies and laughter until I was sitting directly across from Dr. Mickey in his office. 

It is an experience I will never forget.  I had been suffering with migraines for years.  I had been able to control my headaches with diet until the spring of 2000.  In the time period of a week, I suffered with six unbearable migraines that were eventually accompanied with double-vision. I went to my regular doctor who ordered an MRI of my brain.  “Routine” was the word she used.  She called me that afternoon and suggested I come in right away.  Don’t panic, I thought. 

Knot in my stomach. 

Jay and I were in the early stages of our relationship.  We had met just six months before and our dating routine didn’t include trips to the doctor to discuss serious health matters.  Things were about to change.

Jay was in the waiting room and I went back to the exam room after my name was called.  The doctor came in and immediately snagged a box of tissues from the counter and brought them over to the exam table near my leg.  She let out a heavy sigh.

“Are you here alone?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.  Her long dark hair was in a braided ponytail and it whipped from one shoulder to the other.  

“No, my boyfriend is in the waiting room here with me.”

“That’s good,” she said, “that’s good.”

Outsmarted

So before I got in the shower today, I saw that my beloved cat Purrkins was asleep on the floor. I had just taken some clothes out of the dryer and didn't have time to put them away.  I naively, but carefully layered each piece on the back of a rocking chair in our bedroom knowing that I would hang or fold everything up once I was done.

Fast forward 15 minutes.

I walk through our room, post-shower and see that Purrkins had pulled my clothes down from the back of the chair to the seat of the chair and made herself a very cozy bed.  It seems impossible, but I assure you that given Purrkins' resume, she did this.  She has never been a feline interested with cat nip.  No, her drug of choice is warm clothes.  The temptation was more than she could handle.

It's hard to admit that my cat is smarter than I am.  I think she was jealous of the bed I created in our bathtub for the canines and myself last night once we heard tornado sirens.  Purrkins wanted nothing to do with our Tornado-hut, but the dogs loved it.  

Maybe I should switch to baths, it seems that my animals keep sabotaging me when I take a shower.