Life Being Extra Lifey

I have not shared a blog in a VERY long time. Not since August where I wrote about the death of my grandfather, the realizations, and healing growth that came with it. That was about nine months ago. Life has been lifey. Like really fucking lifey. In December, I started writing again but I couldn’t bring myself to post it. My heart hurt. It still hurts. However, today I am getting out of my own way and doing the fucking uncomfortable thing that I have been avoiding.

Full disclosure, the following blog is raw and vulnerable. I can’t promise that there has been much editing or how it will flow. I have been writing as a stream of consciousness as I process my feelers and I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to go back through it just yet. I pray that there are tidbits and knowledge nuggets that resonate with you.

December

I don’t know where to start. It is not often that words escape me and the only thing that comes through is “well fuck.” Some would say start at the beginning but I don’t even know where the beginning is. As I look back at the last few months, it is a testament of pausing, taking a deep breath, and reminding myself that I can navigate hard things. If you have been here awhile, you know that in February of 2022, I was in a bit of a car accident that I fondly refer to my great reset. Multiple bones were broken, got a spicy little traumatic brain injury, and experienced the most divine healing on every level. Two years after the boop, it was discovered that I also had a deviated septum. All I needed to do was have a little outpatient surgery to fix it, easy peasy lemon squeezy. NOPE. During the surgery, the Doc discovered that I had shattered my nose internally. This was not discovered previously because everything looked normal. Thank fuck…. I think.

During surgery, they had to rebreak my nose and essentially stitch the pieces together again as if they were weaving; however, they couldn’t fully repair it because they didn’t want my nose to collapse. No Micheal Jackson mishap needed here. A month later, I go in for my postop check-up with a few questions. I still can’t breathe well which surgery was supposed to fix. Another NOPE. There was damage to the bone structure in my face that has permanently impacted my sinuses and unless I want to go through a more invasive procedure, it is not getting fixed. I opted to not have additional surgery. I was sitting in a place of duality. Yes, I am exceptionally grateful that I healed so quickly and well post boop, but I was also tired of being blindsided by “oh by the way” things that kept popping up that were initially missed at the hospital.

Through this, I was also navigating finishing grad school with my Masters in Professional Clinical Counseling and the convoluted hoops the State of Hawaii has for pre-licensed providers. Those hoops are enough for a therapist to need a therapist. We will leave the rest of that fuckery there.

Post surgery, I had to take some time off of running. Duh. I was good with that but I was excited to get back to it. I had registered for some epic back-to-back events (oops) that were going to challenge me in new ways and I was fucking STOKED. October rolled around, my first event, Trailfest, three half marathons, three days….Bryce Canyon, Zion, Antelope Valley. For the first time in my running escapades, I lost toenails. Four of them to be exact. My blisters had blisters. No clue what happened. I didn’t do anything new, this had never happened to me before. Had to take a couple weeks off of running. Slightly frustrated because I was genuinely excited for my new training schedule. One week back into running. First trail run. It is a trail that I do often. It can be slightly sketchy but it is an exhilarating challenge. I am feeling solid, flying down the trail when I call ahead to the people in front of me, “Passing on your left.” What did they do? Fucking moved to the left. I scrambled and slid to a stop. I felt something not amazing. They laughed, said my bad, and carried on. I limped a mile and a half down a very steep hill to my car. I figured I could rest it a few days and be good to go. NOPE. I was dog/housesitting for friends at the time, and once I gimped around the house, showered, let the dog out, I decided to prop my leg up and ice it. I quickly noticed that one did not look like the other, my anklet would need to be cut off, and I definitely needed to go to urgent care.

Well, your girl ended up with a very fractured fibula on her right leg. That was Thursday, October 24th.

Monday, I go straight to the office from housesitting then back to my home late that evening. I am sitting on the couch decompressing when I notice my sweetest love, Tinkerbell, grinding a tooth.

Immediately, I reach out to the emergency veterinarian and schedule her an appointment for the following afternoon. Bloodwork showed that she had the beginning stages of kidney disease. Nothing to worry about. The rest of her bloodwork was amazing and she was incredibly healthy. The grinding? They couldn’t find anything wrong. By Wednesday, she slowed down eating significantly. I was mixing wet food and bone broth just hoping that would help. Thursday, I started feeding her through a syringe. Friday her entire cheek was swollen. She had an abscessed tooth and emergency surgery would be Monday. I spent the weekend cuddling her. Coaxing as much food, broth, tuna water into her as I could. I took her outside to sit in the lawn because she loved being outside before becoming an indoor meow when we moved to Hawaii. I slept on the couch to be with her because she wouldn’t come to bed.

Monday morning I dropped her off first thing. The vet said it would only be a few hours and then I would be able to take her home.

Two hours later, I got the phone call. Tink’s little heart stopped just as they were about to wake her up from surgery and they couldn’t resuscitate her. Though Tink was almost 16, she was exceptionally healthy. Nothing indicating that she would not make it through surgery. The vet has no clue what happened. Had never seen anything like this in over 30 years of combined experience and believed that Tink has many good years left.

My sweetest love. My best friend. My only constant in life passed away.

I had found Tink and her littermate in 2009 when I was separating from the Navy, living in a shit hole apartment. I had been feeding momma cat and the previous litter of kittens out my bedroom window when out popped these two tiny babies. I jumped out the window and scooped them up. Together they weighed about one pound, covered in flees, infection in their eyes, and only about four weeks old. I bottle fed them every few hours, gave them medication, wiped their little rears, and constant cuddles.

We traveled across the country and back together while I was still weaning them. We were rarely apart unless I was off playing military games. After two years, Tink’s sister passed away unexpectedly and it was just the two of us.

She was by my side through everything. The ups and downs. The highs and lows. She was a spitfire, fierce, loving, unique, and special. Yes, I know many people say that but she truly was. She would open cupboards and slam them closed for attention. Vocal as fuck trying to have a conversation with you. At Christmas, I would find her a little holiday hat and we would go get pictures taken with Santa. She HATED it and her facial expressions of utter annoyance was hilarious. When strangers came too close to the house, she would growl at them. When a ex got drunk and pushy with me, she attacked him then continued to attack his feet and ankles for months until he moved out. After my accident, she would place herself between me and my caretakers as they cleaned my wounds. And the cuddling. Oh fuck, she was the best cuddle bug sprawled on my chest.

She was also my last connection to my grandmother, my favorite human. See, when I first found Tink, I had named her Speck and Grandma hated that name. At the time, the babies were so small that I had bells on them. Grandma took it upon herself to start calling Speck, Tinkerbell and the name stuck.

There was a period a few years ago where I was in a very dark place. Every day was a fight. I struggled to find the will to wake up the next day but I hid it well. Two things stopped me from making a permanent decision.

My Grandma

My Sweet Tink

Outside of Grandma, Tink was my only source of unconditional love. My only safe place. Everyone else came with criticism, conditions, threats, fear, even my parents. Losing her was so much more than losing a pet. It has been like losing an extension of my heart. A piece of myself and I feel lost. I don’t know how to adult without Tink. I was only 24 when I found her, still just a kid. She had been through everything with me.

May. 6 Months later.

I have since sold my couch because of all the time we spent cuddling on it and I only had it so she could lay on the back looking out the window. Her sweet curled up kitty is sitting in that window she loved so much.

I donated my suitcases because she loved laying on them stored under the bed. I no longer have an area rug because I bought it for her so she wouldn’t have to lay on the hardwood floor.

Her memorial tattoo is next to Grandma’s. It is Frankenmonkey, her favorite toy that she had for 14 years that I frequently had to stitch together, her mixed bean paw prints trailing up my arm to it.

I didn’t do Christmas. A holiday where I normally go all out. It was just too empty without her.

Hell, everything feels empty without her.

I still struggle not to say goodbye when I leave the house and not to ask her if she had a good kitten day when I get home. There are times I swear I still hear and moments I catch myself looking for her. She was in everything I did.

Every night, when I go to bed, I still call out “Goodnight Tink, I love you.”

Guilt.

It weighs on me. Logically, I know there is little that could have been done to prevent this. Emotionally though, I run the gambit. Why did I never take her to get her toofers cleaned? What signs did I miss? Was I unintentionally neglectful? Did I fuck things away as a fur mom? Did I inadvertently manifest this because I said I wouldn't apply for a service dog until after she passed?

Grief.

It is a motherfucker. I wish I could say it got easier. That is a fucking lie. The hurt does not go away. The deep soul longing. It is still there. The process can’t be rushed. There is no set map or timeline on what steps to take. We get to feel our feels and do the best we can to not get lost in them. I am still a crying blubbering mess and I don’t bother hiding it. It ebbs and flows. And that is okay.

Healing is like the formation of a pearl. The hurt doesn’t go away, we simply grow around it.

She is my heart. My sweetest love. She always will be.

And I will be forever grateful.

“I am afraid I will love you forever and we will never be in the same room again.”

― Clementine von Radics, In a Dream You Saw a Way to Survive