The vet rang to say that overnight he had peed normally, with no more blood loss, and that he was ok to come home. We picked him up as soon as they said he could go, and he is now at home, safe and comfy in the laundry (so I can keep an eye on his poos, and whinging for food. The vet said that he shouldn’t eat until this evening, so I’m taking it as a great sign.
Daisy will be 15 on the first of August. That’s pretty old for a cat these days – apparently 10 is considered geriatric now. And on Sunday when we got home from the conference, he wasn’t well. There was vomit and poo in piles around the house, and he was yowling and looking very unhappy.
I got him to the vet first thing yesterday, and had an anxious wait while they conducted tests. I was told that in a cat his age, it was most likely to be cancer, or kidney disease. Daisy has been a staunch friend for every one of his 15 years with me, and hearing that he was in such bad shape was a horrible shock. Sure, he’s old, and he has slowed down considerably in the last few years, but previous vet checks have always shown him to be in good health.
The call came, good news and bad news. It’s a condition called Mega Colon, his colon has degraded and become like a large bag instead of a sausage shape, and he was having trouble pooing. His system was so backed up that he couldn’t keep food down. The vet recommended surgery to clear the blockage, and then medication for the rest of his life, with the possibility of this happening again and needing surgery again. She hadn’t given him pain relief, since she was hoping that I would consent to the surgery, and she couldn’t give him pain relief before surgery.
So I had to decide quickly, whether to spend about $1500 and hope that he survived the surgery and had good quality of life, or whether to have him put down by a stranger.
We’ve had to borrow the money (thanks mum!), and he’s had the surgery. While he was under, he started pissing fresh blood, and the vet doesn’t know why, so we have that to sort out too, but for now he is comfortable and doing well. We’ll be able to visit this afternoon.
Please spare a thought for my grumpy old cat.
The last four days have brought a huge bruise, a suspected broken finger, driving about 670km, a visit to the radio telescope, an old cemetery, lots of twitching, story time at the Parkes library, and an emergency dash to a regional hospital.
So, I fell over. I wasn’t even drunk. I have a massive bruise, and after four days, I can use my left hand again without much pain.
Then we drove to Parkes. Mum is working there for a few months, and since I’ve never been there, Dad and Inigo and I piled into the car on Tuesday morning, and after an uneventful drive, we landed.
Inigo wasn’t thrilled about getting back in the car
To get to Parkes, drive over the mountains, and turn left at Bathurst.
Once there, we had a lovely time, visiting Mum, taking lots of pictures (more posts to come), and relaxing. Until Thursday morning. Dad was going to take Inigo to story time at the library while I had a shower and started to pack. At the last minute, I decided to go with them.
Inigo and Dad at breakfast
Inigo was a bit cranky, but not acting strangely at all when we left for the library at 9am. But by 9.45am, he was listless, extremely clingy, shaky, and his forehead was on fire. I knew the way to the hospital, so we bundled him in to the car, and went straight there. By the time we saw a nurse, his temperature was 40.4 degrees, and he was getting less responsive. I was holding him, waiting for triage nurse to come and talk to us, worried that he was going to pass out, or worse.
To cut a long story short, he was given panadol and his temp started to come down. The officious Doctor (who heard me say that he had a cough, and then muttered under his breath as he wrote “no cough”), diagnosed an ear infection, asked for a urine test, and sent us home.
We decided to risk the drive home – mainly because if Inigo got worse, I wanted to be nearer a hospital I have confidence in.
Country health services really are as under resourced as you’ve heard.
Today, he’s a little pale, and a shade quieter than normal – but you’d never know he was so sick just yesterday!
*It’s my birthday tomorrow. I’ll be at an ABA conference all weekend, so I am postponing my birthday till next weekend.
Grace asked what type of noodles I use – this is a picture of the ones we are having tonight (because I’m tired, and I don’t really want to spend time in the kitchen). These are Double Merino brand, which I imagine are not available in Canada, but there would be a local equivalent. Grace, if you get stuck, take the icture with you to your local Chinatown – I am sure someone will help out 🙂
Mum is working in Parkes for about 6 weeks, and Mark is still working long hours, so Inigo, Dad and I are off today for a road trip. I have to be back on Friday because I am volunteering at the baby expo for a few hours (for the Australian Breastfeeding Association). Then Inigo and I are spending the weekend at Stanwell tops for the Australian Breastfeeding Association Branch conference. So there will be blog silence for a few days, don’t panic!
The nasty practices of pig farming has reared it’s ugly head again. Please click here for more information.
And there is something you can do about it. It takes 2 minutes to write a note to Woolworths telling them that you won’t be buying pork from them until you are satisfied that the pigs have a decent quality of life.
So far, my Mothers Day experiences haven’t lived up to the “Hallmark Commercial” expectation. Last year, Inigo decided to stop breastfeeding, preferring to scream until he got the formula that he knew I had to give him.
This year, he woke up screaming at 4am, and alternated screaming and using me as a chew toy for over an hour, before I gave up and asked mark to deal with him. Some panadol later, and we got to sleep in until 8am.
For many of us, Mothers Day has an expectation that we will be appreciated for what we do every day, year in, year out, and rarely get thanked for. For some, it’s time to put your feet up, expect breakfast in bed, delivered by clean angelic children in pristine white clothing, accompanied by a ruggedly handsome man with a twinkle in his eye. But for most, it’s a day like every other day, with, perhaps, a card, and a special lunch, and that’s about it.
So what is it really about?
After reading this post, I know what it’s about. It’s about introspection, and thinking about the good parts of mothering, and glossing over the crap. It’s about recognising the freaking awesome it is to know the love of a child. And knowing that no matter how much they love you, you’ll always love them more.
Years ago, when I was adamant that I was never going to have a baby, my mum said that she worried that I would miss out on “something”. She never articulated any more than that, just that there was a certain something that I would never experience if I didn’t have a child.
And today, I understand. You were right mum.