Hmmm. Good news, or bad news? When offered the choice, I always pick the bad news first; to me it just seems easier to get it out of the way.
When I came back home this evening, I went (as usual) to visit Squoosh. He's still alive, and spunky. But it occurred to me that since his checkup is tomorrow, he actually should be over that head-tilt thing. But he isn't. And it's actually very cute--Meg calls him "the fat-tummed, cock-headed beast". He grows on you, fast. But, he should be over the head tilt. So I was wondering if tomorrow I needed to ask the vet if I should take him to like, a kitty chiropractor, or something. I figured maybe his little neck hurt or the muscles were tensed from him having such a bad infection, or something. So I was rubbing his neck to try to help if that was the case, and I noticed that he has a little lump in his under-jaw area on the side that he cocks downwards--the same ear that's been infected but now looks much better. You actually don't notice it until you're rubbing both sides at the same time and feel the difference in the two sides.
I doubt it is a growth, or some type of tumour; not that I'm an expert, but it felt too soft or malleable to be. I'm thinking that it's a swollen lymph node. This leads me to think a few things: First, that I am the dizziest bitch that has ever lived because I didn't check before. Second, that Squoosh is going to be on antibiotics for a little longer. Third--and this is the one that worries me--we're going to have to have an FIV test tomorrow.
FIV is AIDS. One of my cats, a Bombay, died from it. It's passed the same way AIDS is transmitted in humans; unlike FeLV (Feline leukemia), it is not airborne. Cats can pass it through sex, fighting (scratches/bites/saliva/blood), and being born to an infected mother. The first symptoms occur a few weeks after infection, and can themselves look like an infection; one of the symptoms is swollen lymph nodes.
I found all of this out when my beautiful Bombay baby was diagnosed. I'd made the mistake of letting him be an indoor/outdoor cat, because I'd inherited him from an ex-roommate who left him with me who let him out and he loved the outdoors so much; that's how he became infected. Before he went into ARC, I had no idea. His vet said that a few years before he went into ARC, he probably showed some signs of infection that went unnoticed and then went away. FIV then goes into a dormant stage that can last several years before it rears its proverbial ugly head again.
And Squooshable is about six weeks old. The timing fits. As much as I don't want it to, the timing fits.
I would think that being on amoxicillin for two weeks should have gone to work on that swollen lymph node by now. Unless there's some confounding factor. So now I'm worried. Did Squoosh's mom infect him? And if she did, what should I do about it?
If Squoosh has FIV, he's going to die. I tried as hard as I could to save my Bombay baby. We did AZT, Interferon, transfusions, and a bunch of other drugs that I can't even remember anymore. When he became paralyzed in the rear, I took him to the vet at least once a day to have his bladder expressed, because I couldn't learn how to do it. Then the Interferon kicked in, and he regained some tail and bladder control. I tried; I really, really tried. It's no use. You can't win.
So what should I do? I believe that if it were just me and Squoosh, I would keep him and let him have a happy life for as long as he could. The problem is that it's not just me and Squoosh. He might get into a fight.
I'm going to not take this for granted until I know for certain. I know I sound as if I have, but I'm a realist, not a doomist. It just looks like pathological depression to most Polyannas. I know that the ELISA Squoosh had for FeLV was negative but if I am remembering correctly, ELISAs for FeLV actually test for something else--it won't tell you if there's FIV. And vice-versa. There is a vaccine for FIV, though. My oldest Siamese has had it regularly since it was invented because he lived in the same house as my Bombay. It's not a 100% certain vaccination, but it lowers the rate of infection considerably. I wonder if Squoosh had it now if it would help at all.
I know that's stupid thinking. I know it's too late for that. In my head I know it, and I know I shouldn't do it. But I just can't help it; my heart wants to think it. I'm a weak and feeble critical thinker. But if Squoosh is old enough, I'm going to ask them to give it to him tomorrow. Even if he is positive. Maybe it could work.
There's this really fine line between acknowledging that The Experts That Be are experts but don't know everything, and being a wholehearted believer in cockamamie bullshit. Kind of like a "how far can you open your mind before your brains fall out?" thing.
Maybe it is a growth, or some kind of tumour. Maybe his lymph node needs to be drained, or something. Maybe it's something simple.
-------------
I took a break from writing this. I can't tell if he has a fever or not. I guess that probably means no. I can't believe I waited this long to "notice" that his head tilt should be gone. I'm just going to try to be optimistic and get to the vet first thing in the morning. Squoosh's appointment is for 9:40, but I'm going to try to sneak him in at 9:00. They're usually pretty busy, so I don't think I can hope for better than that. But they open at 7:00, and I'm setting my alarm to be there when they open just in case. If Squoosh is not in an emergency in the morning, we'll play Fingers until it's time to leave. :-)
God, this sucks. This is like, the story of my life: I want to do the right thing, but always fuck it up somehow. I mean it; I have the best intentions in the world, but I just can't make it work out the way I intend. It, by the way, is EVERYTHING. I want to be like SuperMom. I want to have everything prioritised, written out, labelled, filed, and ready in little Ziplock baggies. All the kids dropped off and picked up, dinner made, socks stitched... This stuff doesn't happen to some people. They have everything taken care of before it happens. They would have engaged their brain a week ago and had Squoosh back at the vet.
I really, really love Squooshable. I guess it doesn't show at all, but I really love Squoosh. I love all my cats. And other people. And I just keep screwing it up.
I took a Xanax. I have this huge-ass bottle left from when I had two surgeries. The surgeries are a long story, but I'm ok now for the most part. One was an ovarian cyst (there; that's not such a long story); the other one is a longer story. But for whatever reason (probably because he looked Deep and Long into my eyes and saw a neurotic, paranoid, hysterical idiot underneath the silent exterior), my doctor prescribed like, six thousand Xanax. Ok, ok...it was actually more like three hundred. I was supposed to take two a day (I think), but I ended up only taking about ten before each surgery, and only when I would have those moments where I was certain I was going to die under anaestheia or something, so I have this stockpile of Xanax that should see me through to the next millennium. My drug-using-for-fun days are over, so I just use them now for panicky moments--like flying, and stuff like this. And when I really, truly can't sleep and even Excedrin PM isn't working.
I would take Squoosh to the emergency vet, but my experiences with them have not been positive ones in general. I think the vets are too new, or something. I brought an abandoned kitten to them when I first moved here, and they let it die; then I brought my oldest Siamese in when a guy I was dating came over and made lobster (my oldest Siamese's favourite food, we've discovered), and to get my cat out of the way, he flicked one of the elastics they wrap around the claws across the room. Well, Romeo chased after it and ate it, 'cos it smelled of lobster. I didn't see any of this--Shit For Brains just called from the kitchen, "hey, I think the cat ate the elastic; should I give him the other one?" Fucking moron.
So I had to rush him to the emergency vet that night (because the hydrogen peroxide I gave him didn't make him throw up; I think he thought it was an after-dinner drink); they gave him eye drops to make him vomit, and he barfed up the elastic eventually later on that night, but the psychotic vet there said he had a behaviour problem and wanted to put him to sleep. All because he struck her after she put the drops in his eye! I told her no, I wasn't going to put him to sleep, and what in the hell did she expect him to do? In his mind she attacked him, and did something to his eyes that made him sick, and he was defending himself. She got pissed off at me and we had a scene in the waiting room, and then she left and the tech that had been with her told me that she didn't think Romeo was a behaviour problem, because he only struck at the vet, even though there were other people in the room, and after he had startled the vet and she'd let him go, he ran under a cabinet and this tech had been the one to pull him out; when she did, he didn't even growl. I agreed with her, and she apologised for the vet and suggested that the vet must not have liked Romeo for whatever reason. Fine. I'm taking my despised cat and going home. :-) The guy I'd been with had insisted on coming because he "felt guilty" (not guilty enough to offer to pay part of it, though!), and he agreed with the vet, for what it's worth.
Ummm...yeah. I dumped him. Not exactly father material there. What--if we'd been married and had children together, he'd give our three year old a live power cord to gnaw on so he and I could have some "alone time"? I don't think so. Buzz off, freak. You tried to kill my cat.
And I've been a few other times before I finally caught on that most of the time it wasn't working out well.
If Squoosh has an actual emergency, of course I would take him. Them doing something is better than me doing nothing. But unless it is an actual, literal emergency, I think he's safer waiting for the regular vet. They know me and him (well, they have his first visit history and blood work and stuff), and I trust them. I'd hate for Squoosh, or any of my cats, to die because some vet "didn't like" them. Or misdiagnosed them because they're new, or some other stupid shit like that. There are some very, very good vets out there, but there are also some very, very horrible ones. Most of them are in-between, and I'm automatically suspicious of any vet that's low enough on whatever totem pole there is to have to pull midnight duty. And sure there are exceptions, but I have no way to know who those are. Some emergency vet that sounds perfectly reasonable could be a raving idiot; I have no way to know. There's a lot of trust that has to be in that relationship. For instance, I really, truly trust that this vet did everything possible for Puff-Puff. I feel that if someone else could have done more for Puff, it would have been by accident. He inherited this vet hospital from his father, and I'm told he's developed as strong a reputation as his father had as a good, caring, knowledgeable doctor. He may not be The Best (I'm not claiming he's World Class), but...I trust him. I don't think he cuts corners, or errs either by going too much by the rules, or thinking too far "outside the box".
I'm rambling; it's because I'm nervous and angry at myself. I had better go to sleep. I started this post hours ago, and there's no end in sight. This is one of those times that I just want to talk--that pathetic, nervous talking with which guards on Death Row are probably pretty familiar.
And I lied at the beginning of the post. There isn't any good news. I hope I have some tomorrow.
I'm fucking pathetic.
When I came back home this evening, I went (as usual) to visit Squoosh. He's still alive, and spunky. But it occurred to me that since his checkup is tomorrow, he actually should be over that head-tilt thing. But he isn't. And it's actually very cute--Meg calls him "the fat-tummed, cock-headed beast". He grows on you, fast. But, he should be over the head tilt. So I was wondering if tomorrow I needed to ask the vet if I should take him to like, a kitty chiropractor, or something. I figured maybe his little neck hurt or the muscles were tensed from him having such a bad infection, or something. So I was rubbing his neck to try to help if that was the case, and I noticed that he has a little lump in his under-jaw area on the side that he cocks downwards--the same ear that's been infected but now looks much better. You actually don't notice it until you're rubbing both sides at the same time and feel the difference in the two sides.
I doubt it is a growth, or some type of tumour; not that I'm an expert, but it felt too soft or malleable to be. I'm thinking that it's a swollen lymph node. This leads me to think a few things: First, that I am the dizziest bitch that has ever lived because I didn't check before. Second, that Squoosh is going to be on antibiotics for a little longer. Third--and this is the one that worries me--we're going to have to have an FIV test tomorrow.
FIV is AIDS. One of my cats, a Bombay, died from it. It's passed the same way AIDS is transmitted in humans; unlike FeLV (Feline leukemia), it is not airborne. Cats can pass it through sex, fighting (scratches/bites/saliva/blood), and being born to an infected mother. The first symptoms occur a few weeks after infection, and can themselves look like an infection; one of the symptoms is swollen lymph nodes.
I found all of this out when my beautiful Bombay baby was diagnosed. I'd made the mistake of letting him be an indoor/outdoor cat, because I'd inherited him from an ex-roommate who left him with me who let him out and he loved the outdoors so much; that's how he became infected. Before he went into ARC, I had no idea. His vet said that a few years before he went into ARC, he probably showed some signs of infection that went unnoticed and then went away. FIV then goes into a dormant stage that can last several years before it rears its proverbial ugly head again.
And Squooshable is about six weeks old. The timing fits. As much as I don't want it to, the timing fits.
I would think that being on amoxicillin for two weeks should have gone to work on that swollen lymph node by now. Unless there's some confounding factor. So now I'm worried. Did Squoosh's mom infect him? And if she did, what should I do about it?
If Squoosh has FIV, he's going to die. I tried as hard as I could to save my Bombay baby. We did AZT, Interferon, transfusions, and a bunch of other drugs that I can't even remember anymore. When he became paralyzed in the rear, I took him to the vet at least once a day to have his bladder expressed, because I couldn't learn how to do it. Then the Interferon kicked in, and he regained some tail and bladder control. I tried; I really, really tried. It's no use. You can't win.
So what should I do? I believe that if it were just me and Squoosh, I would keep him and let him have a happy life for as long as he could. The problem is that it's not just me and Squoosh. He might get into a fight.
I'm going to not take this for granted until I know for certain. I know I sound as if I have, but I'm a realist, not a doomist. It just looks like pathological depression to most Polyannas. I know that the ELISA Squoosh had for FeLV was negative but if I am remembering correctly, ELISAs for FeLV actually test for something else--it won't tell you if there's FIV. And vice-versa. There is a vaccine for FIV, though. My oldest Siamese has had it regularly since it was invented because he lived in the same house as my Bombay. It's not a 100% certain vaccination, but it lowers the rate of infection considerably. I wonder if Squoosh had it now if it would help at all.
I know that's stupid thinking. I know it's too late for that. In my head I know it, and I know I shouldn't do it. But I just can't help it; my heart wants to think it. I'm a weak and feeble critical thinker. But if Squoosh is old enough, I'm going to ask them to give it to him tomorrow. Even if he is positive. Maybe it could work.
There's this really fine line between acknowledging that The Experts That Be are experts but don't know everything, and being a wholehearted believer in cockamamie bullshit. Kind of like a "how far can you open your mind before your brains fall out?" thing.
Maybe it is a growth, or some kind of tumour. Maybe his lymph node needs to be drained, or something. Maybe it's something simple.
-------------
I took a break from writing this. I can't tell if he has a fever or not. I guess that probably means no. I can't believe I waited this long to "notice" that his head tilt should be gone. I'm just going to try to be optimistic and get to the vet first thing in the morning. Squoosh's appointment is for 9:40, but I'm going to try to sneak him in at 9:00. They're usually pretty busy, so I don't think I can hope for better than that. But they open at 7:00, and I'm setting my alarm to be there when they open just in case. If Squoosh is not in an emergency in the morning, we'll play Fingers until it's time to leave. :-)
God, this sucks. This is like, the story of my life: I want to do the right thing, but always fuck it up somehow. I mean it; I have the best intentions in the world, but I just can't make it work out the way I intend. It, by the way, is EVERYTHING. I want to be like SuperMom. I want to have everything prioritised, written out, labelled, filed, and ready in little Ziplock baggies. All the kids dropped off and picked up, dinner made, socks stitched... This stuff doesn't happen to some people. They have everything taken care of before it happens. They would have engaged their brain a week ago and had Squoosh back at the vet.
I really, really love Squooshable. I guess it doesn't show at all, but I really love Squoosh. I love all my cats. And other people. And I just keep screwing it up.
I took a Xanax. I have this huge-ass bottle left from when I had two surgeries. The surgeries are a long story, but I'm ok now for the most part. One was an ovarian cyst (there; that's not such a long story); the other one is a longer story. But for whatever reason (probably because he looked Deep and Long into my eyes and saw a neurotic, paranoid, hysterical idiot underneath the silent exterior), my doctor prescribed like, six thousand Xanax. Ok, ok...it was actually more like three hundred. I was supposed to take two a day (I think), but I ended up only taking about ten before each surgery, and only when I would have those moments where I was certain I was going to die under anaestheia or something, so I have this stockpile of Xanax that should see me through to the next millennium. My drug-using-for-fun days are over, so I just use them now for panicky moments--like flying, and stuff like this. And when I really, truly can't sleep and even Excedrin PM isn't working.
I would take Squoosh to the emergency vet, but my experiences with them have not been positive ones in general. I think the vets are too new, or something. I brought an abandoned kitten to them when I first moved here, and they let it die; then I brought my oldest Siamese in when a guy I was dating came over and made lobster (my oldest Siamese's favourite food, we've discovered), and to get my cat out of the way, he flicked one of the elastics they wrap around the claws across the room. Well, Romeo chased after it and ate it, 'cos it smelled of lobster. I didn't see any of this--Shit For Brains just called from the kitchen, "hey, I think the cat ate the elastic; should I give him the other one?" Fucking moron.
So I had to rush him to the emergency vet that night (because the hydrogen peroxide I gave him didn't make him throw up; I think he thought it was an after-dinner drink); they gave him eye drops to make him vomit, and he barfed up the elastic eventually later on that night, but the psychotic vet there said he had a behaviour problem and wanted to put him to sleep. All because he struck her after she put the drops in his eye! I told her no, I wasn't going to put him to sleep, and what in the hell did she expect him to do? In his mind she attacked him, and did something to his eyes that made him sick, and he was defending himself. She got pissed off at me and we had a scene in the waiting room, and then she left and the tech that had been with her told me that she didn't think Romeo was a behaviour problem, because he only struck at the vet, even though there were other people in the room, and after he had startled the vet and she'd let him go, he ran under a cabinet and this tech had been the one to pull him out; when she did, he didn't even growl. I agreed with her, and she apologised for the vet and suggested that the vet must not have liked Romeo for whatever reason. Fine. I'm taking my despised cat and going home. :-) The guy I'd been with had insisted on coming because he "felt guilty" (not guilty enough to offer to pay part of it, though!), and he agreed with the vet, for what it's worth.
Ummm...yeah. I dumped him. Not exactly father material there. What--if we'd been married and had children together, he'd give our three year old a live power cord to gnaw on so he and I could have some "alone time"? I don't think so. Buzz off, freak. You tried to kill my cat.
And I've been a few other times before I finally caught on that most of the time it wasn't working out well.
If Squoosh has an actual emergency, of course I would take him. Them doing something is better than me doing nothing. But unless it is an actual, literal emergency, I think he's safer waiting for the regular vet. They know me and him (well, they have his first visit history and blood work and stuff), and I trust them. I'd hate for Squoosh, or any of my cats, to die because some vet "didn't like" them. Or misdiagnosed them because they're new, or some other stupid shit like that. There are some very, very good vets out there, but there are also some very, very horrible ones. Most of them are in-between, and I'm automatically suspicious of any vet that's low enough on whatever totem pole there is to have to pull midnight duty. And sure there are exceptions, but I have no way to know who those are. Some emergency vet that sounds perfectly reasonable could be a raving idiot; I have no way to know. There's a lot of trust that has to be in that relationship. For instance, I really, truly trust that this vet did everything possible for Puff-Puff. I feel that if someone else could have done more for Puff, it would have been by accident. He inherited this vet hospital from his father, and I'm told he's developed as strong a reputation as his father had as a good, caring, knowledgeable doctor. He may not be The Best (I'm not claiming he's World Class), but...I trust him. I don't think he cuts corners, or errs either by going too much by the rules, or thinking too far "outside the box".
I'm rambling; it's because I'm nervous and angry at myself. I had better go to sleep. I started this post hours ago, and there's no end in sight. This is one of those times that I just want to talk--that pathetic, nervous talking with which guards on Death Row are probably pretty familiar.
And I lied at the beginning of the post. There isn't any good news. I hope I have some tomorrow.
I'm fucking pathetic.
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