On we go

Things are going well after the farewell to Nuala. Both my wife and I are dealing with Our Things in our own way, and that's OK. It will be a while before we hear (think we hear) a noise somewhere in the house and think immediately that it's the cat; Karen says she has gone through the house looking for the friend she can pick up and cuddle and... the little one isn't there. At least not in a cuddlable form.

The usual "final cleanup" things still get seen too, each in their own time. The cat food in the refrigerator, Nuala's bowls of water that haven't gotten picked up, washed, and put away. Yet.

As I told our vet on The Night, "I didn't cry over getting MS. I didn't cry about not being able to play, or even sit at and operate, organs any more. But I am crying about my poor little cat." It was a hard night, and continues to be hard, but gradually the "hard" is backing down.

And now, we return to the standard make-you-scream fights with the insurance company. The pill my doc wants me to take works far better than the one the insurer wants me to take, but of course I don't need the one doc prescribed. I need the other one. I'm gonna call doc's office today and see if he can do anything about it with them;  he told me he has this kind of fight all the time.

What a great way to spend the fleeting moments of our lives, here on this little earth. Fighting with the insurance company that, apparently, cares not a whit of anything besides their bottom line. Which I understand a company cares about, but really? Telling me that I don't need the drug  the doctor says I need and that is tested and proven to be a superior help.

I don't need it... Really. Do tell me, how do you know? Do you even know what I look like? Or what I look like when I have to deal with you people?

So, then...

On we go.

Well done, MS

This to some may be off the "what's up with your MS?" mainstay of MS blogging, but I need to share this, at least...

Yesterday, we set our precious little cat free from her old, frail, and failing body. She loved us, and adored being with us; but oh, as all us mortals eventually come to the same place, she was pretty much done with that old body, time to cast it away and be set free.

We thought that a very poor final gift was to put her in the box she hates, drag her to the office she hates, and have her last experiences in this mortal coil be unpleasant... But instead, we took her to the back patio. Karen made the whole back yard shine with beauty, putting candles out and even some roses, sent by a friend's daughter (who may not have had any idea of what was planned) that just lifted us all.

We were graced by Dr. Robin Holmes, of a group here in Pasadena called Gifts of Peace. Karen quite correctly told Robin last night, "You're a pastor." She ministered to us as well as the dear little cat. I'm sure many of my readers aren't in the Pasadena (just east of Los Angeles) are, but if you come to this difficult place, you want people like her to help you.

A very hard time, a very beautiful time, a very precious time. Wheelchair and all mattered not a bit, and being "disabled" actually enabled me to cradle Nuala in my arms and let both of us be at peace with... everything. We MSers are ... inconvenienced, let's use a gentle word, by things like wheelchairs, but last night, it didn't matter.

Today is the first day since we moved in here that we haven't had Nuala with us. She loved it here since the day we brought her over, she had spent her life as an indoor cat before, but when I showed her the cat door, joy simply radiated from her--"You mean I get to go outside?"

There is but one more thing to do, to close out... Robin will bring ashes back in a special, and beautiful, box. And, as I promised and Robin agreed... then we'd have tea, and celebrate together.

So what were MS's gifts, in this intense time? Being able to hold the cat and not care about anything because the chair was holding both of us up. Living in a world where I have immediate, personal experience of "this body ain't nothing" and feeling that the truth of the moment, and the touch of the warmth of spirit, is what really matters.

Well done, MS. Well done.

And so the next chapter begins. As I said to Nuala last night, I won't say goodbye. You'll be back... after all, she already is. Somehow, somewhen, somewhere.

And when we reconnect... we'll both purr.

So, physician...

So the saga of the 19-plus-year-old cat continues in an unusual way... My wife took her to a Special Animal Doctor Place yesterday, where they did all this stuff and such, but my wife described it as a very dear, caring, gentle place.

Not like a human doctor visit, eh? I mean, one's MD may be gentle and kind, but the waiting room? Full of happy patients and their caregivers? No wall-mounted TV saying that "If you die, ask your doctor if XYZ is right for you," or any of that nonsense.

Apparently, the doc told my wife, those happy people and animals are all chemo patients. Ever hear of human chemo victims being radiantly happy?

Apparently, doc said, they don't use even close to the nearly-killer dosages they use with humans. Their goal is not to eradicate the disease, but to keep it contained. And, more importantly, to help the animal to live comfortably.

Now that's a goal, ain't it? Live comfortably?

My personal MS experience, and let's be honest, everybody's MS-experience is personal and completely unique despite maladies we share ("Everybody with MS goes through this," my urologist told me about joining the Cath Club), is that nothing helps. Nothing makes things better. But there are things to do that increase comfort... Take a little of these herbs, have some tea, keep the air conditioning going at whatever level is comfortable, pet the Cat while we still have her, listen to things that warm my heart.

Comfortable is a very, very worthy goal. Which having been attained, is darned comfortable.

Now, how would the western "treat MS" world be different if the primary goal was "get the patient comfortable?" I certainly don't think being ravaged by DMDs that do nothing but make you feel worse counts as "comfortable." As certainly, allowing one's self to sink into the mire of "it used to be so wonderful before The Disease" or whatever, that certainly doesn't count as "comfortable." That, at least, is non pharmaceutically treated: Change your consciousness and your world changes.

Try that, DMDs. Bitter, moi? Probably. Definitely...

So then,  "changing consciousness" to increase comfort...?

No side effects there...

So, physician... Heal thyself.