The day my brother died was surreal for me because I was suddenly put in a place of acting adult. I was the one people were looking to for answers on what needed to be done.  I think at some point I was on automatic, barely acknowledging my own feelings as I took charge and got things done. 

When my parents died, I remember how hard it was listening to all the condolences and sympathy from other people. I think maybe it was because I couldn’t grasp they were really gone.  I couldn’t grasp what death meant, couldn’t fathom the foreverness of it all.  I think also I didn’t want to acknowledge everyone’s sentiments because then it meant I had to acknowledge their deaths.  It took me years, maybe even decades, to be comfortable with telling new people I met that my parents were gone.

With my brother’s death, the condolences weren’t as difficult.  Yet, I still couldn’t grasp what they meant, how I should feel, and what I should say in return.  It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate what was said, it just didn’t elicit an emotional response.  I felt badly about that fact, even as I accepted the sentiments.  Shouldn’t I feel something?

The night of my brother’s death, J came out to meet me at my brother’s place of residence.  We all waited together for the coroner to complete her assessment.  He didn’t have much to say, and I loved him fiercely for this because I didn’t know what to say either.  After the coroner left, we gathered my sister-in-law’s items and took her home with us to get some rest. 

As J and I lay in bed that night, he held me close without any words.  The comfort of his arms spoke to me and I was finally able to let myself cry. 

“Are you crying for your brother?” J queried and I simply nodded.  At last, I was able to acknowledge my own feeling of sadness.  I cried for my brother.  I cried for the pain and suffering I knew he endured at the end.  I also cried for the loss of the man he was or could’ve been.  I cried for my own loss of a brother I barely knew but still loved deeply.  I’m not really sure what all I cried for.   I just knew  in J’s arms I could seek and I could find the solace I needed.

Last October, I bit down on a soft chocolate candy and almost swallowed one of my crowns.  It apparently came loose while I was enjoying my rich chocolatey goodness.  Or maybe I lost it because I’m just so darn sweet!  At any rate, I went to the dentist to have it placed back on the tooth it previously had protected… but it was not meant to be.

See I’d had a root canal done on this tooth when I was 19, which was almost 20 years ago!  So apparently the tooth continued to deteriorate and it was to the point where a simple crowning would not work.  I had to have the tooth pulled.  This was quite distressing to me – if you know me at all you understand why. I’m seriously anal about my teeth.  Floss every night, brush a minimum twice a day, use every contraption my dentist tells me will work for cleaning my teeth – I mean everything.  And yet my teeth give me such problems!

First I had that root canal when I was 19.  Then they pulled all four of my wisdom teeth and four additional teeth when I got my braces.  I wore those damn braces for over 2 1/2 years… meanwhile I had cavities galore!  A few years ago I cracked one of my teeth and had to get a dental bridge to replace it – and those things are not fun to keep clean.  And then I lost this cap and eventually the tooth it protected.

Since it was a tooth that was serving as a back tooth, I can’t get another bridge (thank goodness).  So my choices were a flipper tooth, which it has to be taken out every time it needs cleaning – again not appealing – or an implant.  The implant has its own problems (uh they drill into your jaw and screw the implant in, your body could reject it, uh did I mention the cost?) but in the end I decided it was better to have the surgery for the implant than to have to deal with a yucky removable tooth.  I mean I can barely handle flossing my bridge without heaving for goodness sake!

So I did the implant and of course our insurance decided that they wouldn’t be covering the implant because I could’ve gone with the lower cost of the flipper tooth.  Ain’t that a bitch?  I wonder if any of those jerks have to deal with a flipper tooth. Blah.

So now I have 160 days to contest by writing a letter (strongly worded, I might add) asking them to reconsider.  I don’t even know what to say… “Quit being cheap bastards… please… and thank you.”

So it turns out I didn’t kill Digi.

The vet called J this weekend and said they’d analyzed the contents of Digi’s stomach and nothing was in it that was poisionous to kitties.  After consulting with other experts, she feels Digi possibly had a blood clot in her heart or lungs that broke free.  Basically Digi died from a stroke.  A small kitty stroke.

I’m relieved it wasn’t me that killed her and want to focus on the wonderful 2 1/2 years we got to have Digi in our lives.  She was a pretty girl, a sweet kitty (even with her bitchy attitude), and I’m just thankful we had her to spoil for her short life.

Simon is still not home.  We had less time with him but all I hope for him is that either he is safe with a new owner or that it was quick and painless.

Last week was rough.  We flew home Sunday night late from Chicago, where we spent the weekend visiting friends.  I broke out in a terrible rash all over my body, a reaction to having used the hotel soap instead of bringing my own.  We only got a few hours sleep before we had to up for work on Monday morning.

On Monday morning, our boy cat Simon escaped from the house.  He’s broken out before a couple of times but always come home within an 8 hour timeframe.  However, we have not seen him since J watched him jump the neighbor’s fence last Monday morning.  He is chipped but we lost our last cat, Bodie, the same way.  I admit to fearing the worst.

Then Monday night after I got home from the gym, I found one of our girl cats, Digi, in my closet in obvious distress.  I took her into the kitchen to show J – and she got progressively worse.  I made the decision to take her to an emergency vet.  Once there, Digi’s condition worsened even more and at 655am on Tuesday morning, she died.  The vet and I both believe Digi ate something she shouldn’t have which led to her death.  I worry it was my fault because I believe it was a supplement I was taking that I must have inadvertently dropped at some point.  I believe this based on her symptoms and what I learned about caffeine and animals.  Caffeine was one of the  main ingredients in the supplement and is poisonous for kitties and doggies.  Digi must have found it in my room, a room that is normally closed to the cats but was where I found her. 

So we are down to one kitty cat having lost two cats in less than a 24 hour period.  Poor Moxi, the remaining girl cat, is the only cat left standing.  What makes this all the more painful is that Digi and Moxi were sisters from the same litter and virtually inseparable since we brough them home.  So Moxi wanders through the house, pausing at the slightest noise, perhaps wondering if that’s her missing family.

So last week sucked big time.  Please be careful when you take your own supplements.  Our furry friends deserve better.