Stolen Hearts and Broken Bank

Taz the cat  © Shutterbug

We all know what we sign up for when we let these little creatures into our hearts. They steal them, and then one day, they break them.

This is Taz, short for Tasmanian Devil. He is 16 years old, and was adopted as a small kitten by my wife. I met him when we began dating more than two years ago, under less than ideal circumstances. He arrived in the arms of my beloved, who was in the midst of a very ugly separation. She showed up at my apartment with a car full of clothes, her cat, and nothing else. She was able to walk away from everything else she had acquired in life, but not him. This little guy is something special, full of both personality and patience (helpful when one of your moms is a professional photographer).

I don't understand people who don't like cats. I'm an animal lover in general, and I've bonded with everything from mice to dogs to birds, so cats are no exception. Their personalities are just as individual and idiosyncratic as humans, and you grow to accept their quirks as you do every other member of your family. This one has a penchant for climbing door jambs, despite being declawed and, quite frankly, old. It's the funniest thing I've ever seen, although it scares the hell out of us when it happens. The cat door bangs open, his little body flies through and takes a run at the nearest door jamb, which he shoots up as high as he can crawl before gravity drags him down. He hits the ground running and tears through a room or two, often up a flight of stairs or two (and if the dogs get involved the excitement gets ratcheted up a notch), before coming to a stop with a crazed look in his eyes. He may repeat these steps, or he may just saunter over to the nearest chair and collapse beneath it, looking over as if to say, "What are you looking at?". I love him.

This poor little guy has lived in a lot of different places, often surrounded by people who were indifferent to him at best, before landing in a smallish apartment with two largish dogs. This cat took it in stride and learned to navigate the apartment on surfaces, much as his predecessor Dallas had done. Two more moves have ensued, and one more feline joined in the fray. It's a wonder any of us survived, really. He is now king of his castle with as much space as he could want, if not quite as much freedom as he desires. Every now and then he makes a run for it out the back door, but so far we've beaten him to the fence line every time.

It started as a cold, or so we thought. Sneezing, wheezing, and another Taz-ism we refer to as "pancaking" (put that in your Funk and Wagnalls) where he flattens himself on the floor and makes every effort to cough up a lung. Trips to the vet became more frequent, a variety of medications ensued, a variety of testing ensued, and still the symptoms returned with a vengeance. And then there was blood.

As our apartment, and then our house, became decorated with the contents of Taz' nose, both our disgust and concern grew. And our bank account shrank. Eventually we were referred to the VEC (veterinary emergency clinic, for those of you lucky enough not to know) to see a respiratory specialist. She recommended a rhinoscope at a cost of around $4,500 to determine whether Taz has a sinus tumour. I wasn't sure where the "line" would be, but we drew it there.

Taz has been to three vets and been prescribed every antibiotic known to them. He has rebounded and relapsed, run circles around this house, been force-fed cherry-flavoured medicine (what sadistic company came up with that idea?) by his naked co-owner while crouched in the bathtub, vomited various medicines all over the house, and almost died. We have spent thousands of dollars and many hours shuttling him to and from appointments, feeling torn about spending so much money, and feeling guilty that we weren't doing enough.

Taz started his last round of his last antibiotic today. The next step would be steroid treatments, with additional costs and potentially frightening side effects. We are almost at the end of the road here, with our boy who still seems to have good quality of life and personality to spare. How do you choose to end the life of a wonderful pet with essentially a stuffed-up nose? What do you do when he is sneezing mucus and blood all over your house and sounds like a slurpy kid with a cold at the best of times? It's not a clear-cut illness like cancer, where pain and suffering make the decision clearer.

What do you do?

Taz in his "house"  © Shutterbug

Starbucks Purgatory

Starbucks cup  © Shutterbug

It never ceases to amaze me that people whose sole job it is to make coffee and provide customer service are so often capable of doing neither.

I try to avoid the Starbucks located nearest to my house as much as possible, because it appears to be staffed entirely by idiots. Today I had no choice but to get my coffee there, since it would have been beyond the scope of my lunch hour to get to the location slightly further away with better service.

Throwing caution to the wind, my wife and I opened the door to find no lineup at the counter. Feeling encouraged, we approached the young girl at the cash wearing the friendly enough smile, and I carefully spoke our order. I try to speak slowly and clearly so as not to be one of those insufferable yuppie types who rattle off their complex orders at top speed.

"I'll have one decaf, triple tall, nonfat latté please," I said, pausing in between each word. I waited as she wrote the order on the cup, then added when she looked up again, "and one decaf grande nonfat latté". She grabbed a second cup, began to write on it, then picked the first cup up again. She looked at the cups, looked at me with a confused expression, and asked with a heavy accent "Ahh….tall nonfat latté?" I repeated the first order, whereupon she nodded vigorously and wrote more things on the cup. Then I noticed the second cup she'd grabbed was the same tall size, so I pointed to it and said, "That one is supposed to be a grande." Again the look of confusion as she held both tall cups in the air, then she shook her head and began crossing things off the first cup. I started to repeat the order for the third time, at which point she said, "Ohh, two grande, two grande," and reached for new cups. I decided I was not going to be able to complete my transaction. "Never mind, I can't deal with this today," I said, and we walked out coffee-less.

How is it possible that this is our experience each and every time we frequent this location, regardless of who serves us? I'd complain to the "manager", but he is often there, busy chatting on his cell phone while his staff gets weeded.

The best experience in that particular store happened a little while ago, when I found myself in line behind a distracted mother with a young boy about 3. She was so busy trying to select an item from the bakery case that she hadn't noticed her son wander over to the milk station and actually climb on top of the counter. Next thing you know, he is STANDING on top of the counter - you know, where people put their FOOD and DRINKS - and looking pretty unsteady on his feet. Worried for his safety but also appalled at the behaviour, I tapped the mother on the shoulder and said, "Excuse me, your boy has gotten up on the counter over there." She looked over at her son, then back at me, and replied with obvious pride, "I know, he's just so ATHLETIC!"…and turned back to the cashier. I'm still speechless.

But I digress. Today's lunch hour ran into overtime as we rushed to the other location after the service fail above. The service was much better, and we returned to our car with coffees in hand. We'd taken our two dogs with us just to give them a change of scenery, and when we returned to the car we found our labrador retriever had jumped in to the front seat as usual. She slunk to the back seat when told, and we drove home making conversation and jokes to one another. Right as my lovely wife made a raunchy joke, my eye caught sight of my cell phone, which was sitting on the console between us. On the screen was my mother-in-law's phone number, and a clock counting the elapsed time of the current call. It took a moment for the situation to sink in…the dog had speed-dialed my mother-in-law's phone number during her foray to the front seat, and there was now a five-minute recording of our conversation on my mother-in-law's answering machine.

And we think we're ready to have kids…

Gotcha!  © Shutterbug

Goodbye, gallbladder

Hospital i.v. bag  © Shutterbug

I suppose I should take some comfort in the fact that I made it to 40 with all my parts intact.

My fabulous Italian honeymoon in September took a nosedive on our last night in Rome, when I was forced to seek help at the nearest ER after many hours of excruciating abdominal pain. Apparently dieting one's way into a wedding gown and then gorging on rich Italian food and wine is frowned upon by the gallbladder.

The culprit (or rather, the final straw) was the most delicious meal I've ever tasted in my life, cooked for us in our rented Roman apartment by a pair of professional chefs. It was all arranged from Canada by my amazing wife as a romantic surprise for me, which it was. Prosciutto and cheese-stuffed zucchini flowers, handmade pasta with duck ragout, pork loin, chocolate lava cake…each course paired with a different gorgeous local wine. 

As we walked through Rome the next day, I felt what I thought was a little indigestion. By the time we got to the Vatican it was painful, and by the time we climbed the interminable number of stairs inside St. Peter's Basilica, I knew I was in trouble. The view was totally worth the pain, though.

Rome and Vatican City seen from St. Peter's Basilica rooftop  © Shutterbug

It was a long and arduous trek to get back to the apartment to lie down. I drank water, took antacids, and tried to nap, but several hours later the burning pain was still sharp enough to make breathing difficult. I finally had to admit this was more than indigestion, and suddenly considered my gallbladder. The unassuming little organ we rarely think about or appreciate, but which can produce stones that block the bile duct, or rupture like an appendix. I remembered that a few of my family members had needed to have theirs removed many years ago, and made a long-distance call to my mom. She agreed it sounded like the right diagnosis, and said a gallbladder attack was either going to abate over time if I could tough it out, or get bad enough to require hospitalization and/or surgery. 

Around 1:30 a.m. I woke up my wife and said I couldn't take it anymore. It was unimaginable that this was happening, given that we were set to check out and leave Rome the next day for a road trip up the coast. Instead we found ourselves in a taxi, on a road trip to the nearest hospital - which turned out to be at the Vatican.

Note to self:  avoid foreign hospitals at all costs. Despite the Italian medical system's reputation for having extremely good (and free) healthcare for tourists, my experience was my own personal version of hell. Somewhat amusing, given that I was as close to heaven on planet Earth as you can get.

This major hospital in a major city was dingy, crowded, and had no signage to help us figure out where to go when we arrived at 2 a.m. We also found out that there was not a single person there who spoke even broken English. My fear of traveling in countries where I don't speak the language was suddenly proven to be well-founded. Seeing our obvious distress and confusion, a lovely young man sitting in the waiting area was able to help us find a nurse (by repeatedly and obnoxiously holding down a doorbell on the wall beside a locked door until someone showed up). Not only did our "easy Italian phrasebook" not contain a translation for "gallbladder attack" we also needed to convey the complicating factor that I was potentially pregnant, with an extremely expensive potential baby. 

By this time the pain had been so intense and unrelenting for so long that I just wanted relief, but a blood test must be done before any drugs could be administered. The collection of a blood sample seemed to be outside the scope of everyone's capabilities. Two nurses tried three different veins before finally getting a vial of blood from the back of my hand…and then had to return for a fourth stab after dropping and breaking the first sample. Was I on some Italian Candid Camera show?! This, combined with the very unfriendly male doctor who roughly prodded my abdomen then told me to be quiet when I gasped in pain, made me want to run for my life.

It took two agonizing hours of rocking on a gurney to get the news that I was not pregnant, which was delivered in a delightful manner by a gruff doctor chopping his hand through the air sideways while snapping, "NO BABY." No additional tests were run, and yet the doctor felt confident pronouncing it simply a case of gastritis (i.e. "you ate too much"). I knew he was wrong, but I just wanted to get some pain relief and get the hell out of there. They administered two doses of painkillers via my i.v., after which I was finally able to hobble out into the ER waiting area, rolling the i.v. behind me, and tell my wife what was going on. 

At 5 a.m. we exited the hospital and tried in vain to find a taxi. Impossibly, I had to limp all the way back to the apartment (essentially Piazza Navona) on foot from the Vatican hospital, following a 17 hour gallbladder attack and no sleep. I resolved to watch my cheese and wine intake for the remainder of the trip, as I bargained with my rebellious gallbladder.

Sure enough, back home in Canada an ultrasound in the top-notch medical centre in Box Grove turned up the source of my Roman angst: very large gallstones. My GP called me at home on her own time to discuss the results with me, and then kindly pled my case to the fully-booked surgeon. As 40-year-old woman undergoing fertility treatments, baby plans would have to be put on hold until the gallbladder surgery was performed. Every month is critical at this age, so luckily for me I was given a cancellation spot with the surgeon, Dr. Pallister. Dr. Crystal Pallister. She sounded like a go-go dancer, and I liked her already.

I cannot sing her praises highly enough. Young-ish, articulate, confident and friendly, she calmly answered every single one of our questions. She had a definite opinion on what should be done, and gave me the utmost confidence in the surgical route being taken and in her abilities. The surgery would be attempted laparoscopically, as a day procedure, and open abdominal surgery would only be necessary if complications occurred.

My experience at Markham Stouffville Hospital for the cholecystectomy was the polar opposite of Rome. The hospital is clean, modern, and the staff are efficient and friendly. My surgeon and the anesthesiologist both came out to speak to my wife and I prior to taking me to the OR, willing to answer any last-minute questions. Our only real concern at that point was the possibility of contracting something nasty by sitting in the same chairs that the 300-lb toothless woman mopping at the weeping goiter on her neck had just vacated. It says on every piece of patient literature you receive and on every sign in the area that patients are allowed ONE adult to accompany them. This woman's entire family was with her, seeping over all the chairs, leaving none for the actual surgical patients to sit in. What is the matter with people?!

So here I am, 6 days after a laparoscopic cholecystectomy, almost completely back on my feet and only a little the worse for wear. I was hoping to keep my gallstone as a souvenir, but was informed it is "medical waste" that must be properly disposed of. I'm a little sad to think of my stony organ floating around out there somewhere, and a little skeptical of the opinion that its absence will have no effect on my life…but am relieved at the assurance of no further attacks. That is not a pain I would wish on anyone.

Maybe we'll skip the chef's meal next time we're in Rome.

Bible Thumping

A fallen angel on Halloween  © Shutterbug

The irony of a lesbian dressed as an angel on Halloween, answering the door to welcome an evangelical Christian guest didn't strike me until later.

I didn't actually realize ahead of time that our guest was the bible-thumping, socially challenged wing nut he turned out to be, or perhaps I would have reconsidered the costume. He was the new husband of my childhood French teacher from out of province, and they were stopping by for a brief visit on their way to their honeymoon. The whole thing came about rather suddenly.

After a hug and a handshake hello, our guests sat awkwardly across from my wife and I on the sofa, and I began to catch up with my former teacher. I could feel her husband's eyes on me, and periodically glanced over to find him literally sitting on the edge of his seat, leaning forward to stare at me like a little boy who had just wandered into the freak tent at the circus. To say this became disconcerting and distracting would be an understatement. Apropos of nothing he suddenly blurted, "So did you have a ceremony and everything?". I looked him in the eye for a moment before responding. "Yes, we got married, so there was a ceremony just like every wedding." I wasn't sure where he was going with this, but I was already feeling uneasy with his intense expression and body language. "Well, good for you…because you realize the bible condemns it outright."

Seriously?

My wife somehow managed to politely deflect his judgmental statement, while I was rendered speechless. Our conversation flirted with danger for the next few moments while we tried to get back into neutral territory, but he couldn't let it go. He stated that throughout history people have interpreted the word of the bible to suit their own needs, by saying that God had made them do things, and this absolved them of any responsibility for their own actions. He cited the genocides committed by both Moses and Hitler as examples of people supposedly acting on their interpretations of God's word, and appeared to be making the point that the word of the bible was not always accurate. Then he dropped a verbal bomb. "The bible says the gays and people living in sin should be stoned to death, but now that's a little barbaric." You think?

Was he really sitting in my home, with my wife and I, referring to us as "the gays"?

At this moment his wife–my former teacher–finally joined the conversation by saying, "Oh, don't get him started on religion". As if we'd been in the driver's seat.

It was a most confusing situation, because offensive comments would burst forth from him like uncontrollable tics, but then he would add statements (like the "good for you") that made it seem as though he were trying to be supportive. We still aren't sure what to make of it all. Perhaps it's fair to say that he isn't sure either.

To add insult to injury, my former teacher and I left the room for a moment together, and the preacher man jumped to his feet. He marched over to my wife and got right in her face, close-talking to share information that hadn't been requested. He explained that since his wife had died seven years prior, he and his litter of mostly adult children couldn't keep up with running the house, so they needed someone to help with the cooking and cleaning. I felt sick when I heard this, wondering whether my friend is aware of her perceived role in her marriage.

The final kicker came when the four of us were seated together again, and my friend told me that since the sale of her house closed just a couple of weeks prior to her wedding, she had moved in with her new fiancé a little early. Apparently this was such an affront to one of her grown soon-to-be stepchildren still living in her soon-to-be-home, that the young man had insisted on pitching a tent and sleeping outdoors to avoid being under the same roof as two people "living in sin". This sort of pious judgement has never made sense to me, and is part of why I can't get behind organized religion. I try to respect the fact that other people have different beliefs than I do, and I wouldn't dream of telling someone else how they should live their life. If you happen to believe that there will be a final judgment day, then it would hold true that there will be consequences that are still of no consequence to you. Live and let live.

We calmly redirected the conversation yet again with our visitors, knowing there was nothing to be achieved in debating this man, and bid them a friendly enough goodbye at the end of their short visit. I do find myself wishing I had a few of those moments back to do over, but we handled it as best we could. I don't know whether to tell my friend now how disappointed I am that she would bring him into our home, knowing his personal views. The chance of us ever seeing them again is quite slim, and I don't want to rain on my friend's newlywed parade, but I'm not comfortable leaving things status quo. I think by not letting her know how we feel we are in fact condoning his behaviour. And his behaviour was just not acceptable.

What Georgia thought of the costume   © Shutterbug

Have vet, won't travel.

Ebony after surgery  © Shutterbug

Oh, Ebony.

A friend once suggested I should have named this lovely Lab Paris, since her vet bill at the time was the equivalent of a trip across the pond. "Safari" is starting to sound more appropriate at this point.

Our latest adventure began with the sudden appearance of a cyst on her foot, which was clearly a candidate for surgery. I've started to make a game out of guessing the value of anticipated vet bills. I was a couple of hundred dollars shy this time, because we figured if she was going under the knife we might as well address the disfiguring lipomas on her torso. She was sent home with two unexpected, disgusting draining tubes hanging out of her main incision that the vet said "shouldn't leak much". Our carpet would beg to differ.

At least we're accruing air miles on the Visa towards Paris.