The Boys

On our vacation I expressed wanting another cat. Not that there was anything wrong with the ones I had, they’re lovely, but I felt that a 4th cat would be fun to have and round off the household nicely. Our housemate was leaving us to move into her own apartment. The room would be there. My husband said he would think about it so I let the conversation end with that.

My hospitalization was unexpected, and discouraging, and during this time my husband must have had plenty of time to think. When I arrived back home he told me he wanted to go through with getting another cat as well.

We were in no hurry of course. A couple opportunities came and went and I decided that I would put in an online application to the Humane society.

They called us within the hour of our application submission and we scheduled a day to meet the cats they had.

We brought a carrier just in case we could take one home same day. There were tons of kittens and a handful of seniors. We held a couple of kittens that had been lounging together and had very sweet dispositions.

We looked at each other. We were done looking. We couldn’t separate them. They were bonded.

Constantine and Nosferatu are welcome additions to our home. They’re 6 months, spirited, and typical littermates who snuggle and tumble all over everything. We love them so very much and our own cats have adjusted and enjoy them.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would one day own 5 cats.

Hospitals and Hospitalists

I made the call to have my housemate take me to the ER. It all felt like the beginnings of the last time I went into DKA and I refused to wait as long as last time to go get medical attention. Sure enough, a few test and they said they wanted me to do an overnight to stabilize me, and while it was serious, it was caught early enough to resolve more quickly.

The nurses were amazing as they always. They were pleasant both as conversationalists as well as in giving me care. But an hour or so before my discharge the hospitalist started dropping bombs on me that caused me to panic and arguing ensued.

I had suspicions when he came down into he ER and started asking me who put me on my insulin pump and my sliding scale insulin regiment. I had been on pump therapy since high school and on a sliding scale insulin regiment since I was in middle school. Even my husband commented that the question seemed a bit aggressive, but I told him that perhaps it was the Nigerian accent mixed with the abruptness of presentation of the question and he never meant anything by it.

Trying to explain my mental health issues and diabetic burnout to someone who clearly hadn’t ever had mental health issues before was infuriating. Plus he didn’t have the whole history. I explained my unresolved trauma with my diabetes. I explained how overwhelming it often felt to take care of myself. I explained how I was doing so well at everything I was supposed to the weeks prior, and how I thought this was caused by my insulin expiring and not my insulin pump malfunctioning or my being noncompliant. I sat through the accusations. I explained I’m under the care of physicians and a therapist. It took me getting to the point of being in tears before he relented and didn’t take me off my insulin pump, but it was extremely exhausting to go through the motions that way.

It’s not without empathy that I vent about this. All he has are my charts. On paper I look like I’m noncompliant. My A1C is terrible. My pump data in the past is sparse because the burnout literally makes me not want to do anything. The last couple months I had been so much better though. Even while I was on vacation I did my best to stay on track, keep my sensor going, and took blood sugars and insulin regularly. in most cases I would have just not done those things.

I was and am really trying.

When I was discharged I called my mom to pick me up despite my husband wanting me to call him so he could leave work to get me and snuggle me a bit before he went back. Really I just wanted another diabetic to talk to about this whole thing. I was so upset that it took so long for the Dr. to believe me and to trust me when I said I thought it was my insulin going bad that was the issue.

Turns out he still didn’t believe me.

When I left the hospital they had scheduled appointments for me to follow up with my Dr and a diabetes educator. Of course it was on a work day, so I thought, hey, I’ll just call and reschedule as I can so I don’t have to inconvenience work. So I did, and they seemed reluctant. So when I inquired as to why, they said it was because they viewed me as high risk, and there was an expressed possibility from the hospitalist that I had made an attempt on my life.

Fucking what?!?!

I keep running the scenario over and over in my head. What gave them the impression that I did this intentionally? Yes, I have a history of ‘non compliancy’, but in this case it ended up being my insulin just wasn’t working. It had expired. If it had been an attempt on my own life, why would I have gone to the hospital to get better again? Attention seeking? No way. Not with America’s Healthcare System and how fucking expensive it is. It’s a no for me.

Thankfully my coworkers were amazing and able to find me a replacement for work on Friday so I can take the day and see the doctors I need to…even though this all feels very much against my will. I’m not looking forward to having to justify myself, though I have taken the steps of digging through the trash to find the old bottle of insulin with the expiration date on it to prove that I’m not suicidal. If my husband didn’t have to work I’d bring him to vouch for me as well as to have some kind of moral support, but unfortunately he does have to work and we have to pay these medical bills now and I’m so fucking infuriated.

Wish me luck and send prayers.

Too Many Houses and No Home

“I can tell you what I don’t like about it.” I said with shadows piercing  a touch of attitude in each word. My mother hadn’t finished gushing about the house, but stopped abruptly at my statement. “What is that?” she asked in a curious and amused voice, as if the mansion my aunt purchased couldn’t have a single flaw. “It only has 5 bedrooms.” I retorted. I saw my mother smile in the rearview mirror as she stifled a snort. “Think about it mom. It has the same amount of bedrooms as your current house does. Your house is a third of the size of that place and a very nice home. The space in that house is wasteful.” 

My mother’s expression changed from amused to concerned. “But Em! The VIEW!” She exclaimed as if I had been blind while walking through the home. “Yeah I saw it. It’s beautiful.” Which it had been. The house was situated at the top of an enormous hill with a 360 degree view. Lake Michigan was on one side of the home at the bottom of a steep bluff and looked out on two large islands in the distance off the coast, while the other 3 sides overlooked meadow, fields, and vineyards in the distance just off M22. It was breathtaking. You could watch the weather come and go. You saw so much sky at night being a sizable distance from any large towns or light pollution. 

Yes, it was beautiful…but it wasn’t any different from my parents house situated out in the countryside of rural Wisconsin where you could see the same expanse of beautiful sky and fields on all sides as they swayed in the breeze. Sure you couldn’t see the lake from my parents house, but at least most of our beaches were within driving distance and had free parking to the public and well protected by local government environmentalists. My aunt had to buy another plot of land to have beach access here…and it took almost as long of a drive to get to it as it did for my parents to get to the lake from their house. Which was all the more for me to be annoyed at my mother for oohing at such a place, when she had a home that was beautiful, had great views, similar amenities available to her, and was much more practical in size. 

My aunt’s house was the epitome of impractical extravagance. The great room alone had once been a swimming pool, so old and unkept by the former homeowners that it was eventually filled with concrete and turned into a great room so awkward in dimensions that to figure out what to do with it was my aunt’s biggest first world problem.

There was a lot to do at the house to make it better. Water damage in the basement required some drywall to be replaced. Every room could use a fresh coat of paint to freshen it up. The master bedroom had 4 walk-in closets and a linen closet while all the other rooms either had no or hardly any closets at all, which seemed an unfortunate oversight for such a large place. My aunt had a few spaces she wanted remodeled eventually. Like the front living room with outdated trim and built in bookshelves. The finished basement, from which she wanted the old dark wood bar removed and the space reworked. There were 3 staircases, which seemed impractical for my aunt and her wife who were getting older and likely had mobility issues in their near future. One was a spiral staircase with a 4 ft clearance to the corner of the ceiling, and required even my small frame to duck to get up into the widow’s walk…which was merely a 10×10 room that overlooked the property and made one very aware of the last time the roof of the house had been done last…as well as the weirdness of the roofline. 

I think as humans it’s very typical for us to aspire to more, especially in our consumerist western culture. Money would be nice to get us out of debt and get us nice things and experiences, but all it does is get rid of the worry of money. Your stuff begins to own you after a while as it requires maintenance. I watch my aunts run from property to property and do nothing but work the entire time, even if it’s under the guise of vacationing. The work never ends, and the relaxation never begins. 

My aunts at least have money to pay others to maintain their properties when they are away, even though the properties are clearly impractical for them as they are older. Plus the properties are always fairly large or historic and there are only the two of them to stay on top of it all and manage all those who they require to manage their properties when they are away. Not to mention the risk they take letting strangers come and go from their homes. 

My parents raised me in a very nice house, and have made that space into a wonderful home, but the more my mother gushed over my aunt’s newest property the more upset I became over her unbridled envy. My parents’ home is much too large for them now that we kids moved out, and as they’re getting older, it’s so much more work for them without us kids to help out. My parents live well in their space, and have used it practically all our lives to house family and friends and create an atmosphere of love. They’ve invested their entire lives to making that house a home, and while it is only a house, it holds a lot of sentiment that these other properties my aunts keep getting don’t and won’t have. 

Plus I have a little thing against the toxicity of the income property industry.

There was a sacredness there. A quiet sanctuary amidst the leaves as they changed their colors and hummed on the breeze. The quietness of the morning as the sun rose over the hills and as the water rippled it’s whispers to a shore that hung on every word.

It moved me to a resounding hush that quieted my tired soul.