Announcements

(Continued from Parts 1 and 2)

Later that day, I reached out to my friend Warren, who put me in touch with the folks on the Feline SmallCell Lymphoma Yahoo Message Group. They told me to try a combo of two different anti-emetic drugs that many cancer cats respond well to and that help them regain their appetite. The problem is that they both effect the liver. I called Dr. Larry’s office yet again, asking for more medications. I went back and had a long talk with Dr. Mary, explaining to her why I wanted these drugs, but that I also respected her advice about how dangerous they might be. I knew the folks on the Board focused on cats with cancer and what they were saying made sense. One of the meds, Zofran, had questionable results, but of the two, the other being Cerenia, we decided it would be safer. I can’t tell you how man medications we almost gave Gracie or did give Gracie. I kept a log so I could keep it straight. I was sleeping very little and had completely lost my appetite I was so stressed out. I tried not to second-guess what I was being told, but I had to make sure it made sense. I don’t like to give my cats any drugs and here I was loading Gracie up with them.

Gracie did not like to be pilled, but we had to make it happen. I tried all my tricks but we had to hold her down and struggle to get the medications into her. I felt like I was betraying her by treating her roughly. Immediately after we pilled her I insisted that we spend time brushing her, which she loved, and simply being gentle and loving with her make up for what we’d just done. Gracie seemed to relax and appreciate our efforts.

That night I got a text from a friend. I was feeling so down and lost. I’d given up. She gave me a kick in the behind, reminding me that maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to try getting a transfusion done. We’d promised to keep Gracie going for a few more days and it would certainly help her feel so much better. I feared the costs, but knew she was right. If Gracie didn’t make it to Monday and we got the test results and it WAS something treatable I’d never forgive myself.

Tough I couldn’t imagine this not being cancer, I also didn’t want to give up. That’s not me, but I was so beat down I needed that push to keep going. I’d even made an appointment for Gracie to see the oncologist, Dr. Gerald Post, on the following Wednesday, just in case things didn’t go as I feared. We had to keep trying.

©2015 Robin AF Olson. Waiting for the results while Sam comforts her.

Poor Sam. He was scrambling to get some work done and I’d already taken up some much of his time, but I was so buoyed by my friend’s advice that I had to talk to him about getting the transfusion done. I called over to our ER Vet and asked about costs. If I took a few dollars from here and used a credit card or two I could make it happen. We decided to give it one last try.

I called my dear friend Connie who’s had transfusions done on a few of her cats. She told me what to expect and that it could make a big difference. She also said that it might take the full night, into the next morning to have it done and did I want to give up that precious time to Gracie being at the vet or did I want her to be home? She explained that it WOULD help her feel better and that the reason it took so long was that some of the time was spent in cross-matching and typing Gracie’s blood and that sometimes they used a blood donor who is on site at the hospital and it takes time to get the blood from the other cat. I realized that meant another cat was going to help my cat survive. Even though we have Gracie’s daughter here, Petunia is too skittish to sit still for a multi-hour procedure. As I gathered Gracie’s vet records I grabbed a new catnip banana toy. I decided that the donor cat should have a token of my appreciation. You can’t have enough good Karma.

Gracie was very weak and quiet. It only took a few minutes to get to the hospital and within a half hour or so we were seeing the ER Vet on call. We talked to him about our intentions-we just wanted to give our cat good quality of life so that she’d live a few more days-until the test result came in. That was it. We weren’t looking for a cure. We were looking for a way to give her ease her suffering. He agreed that it would help her, but he also was concerned about the fluid in her abdomen. He felt that if it was blood it would not make the transfusion worthwhile. He asked if he could take a sample of the fluid (since removing the fluid was dangerous because it could drop her blood pressure down too low. We could only take a small amount of fluid for that reason) and we agreed.

Once again I was hoping for something-that the fluid was clear, not full of blood. It made me sad to think that the longer this went on, the less I could hope for. I just hoped to give my cat comfort in her final few days.

The ER Vet entered the room holding a vile. He held it out to us and showed us it was full of blood. Gracie was bleeding internally either from a ruptured cyst or from the needle biopsy done a few days before. The blood was fresh so that meant she was actively bleeding. He said a transfusion wouldn’t help her; that emergency surgery might stop the bleeding but if her liver was full of cancer, which we suspected, then it didn’t make sense to put her through that. He said that it might be best if we considered euthanizing her soon because she could either have a heart attack and die or because of the anemia she might simply become weaker and weaker and die in her sleep. He offered that they could “take care of her” in the back right now. Sam and I did not hesitate to answer NO. Gracie was coming home. I was going to syringe-feed her and we were going to stay strong-not just for our benefit. Gracie was still “Gracie.” No, she wasn’t eating, but she had enough quality of life that we knew it wasn’t time. We had to risk it and bring her home and not let her go in this sterile place.

We got Gracie home and I cried yet again. That was it. All hope was lost.

I was so emotionally tapped that I took medication to help me calm down. I have a tiny stash of it to use for when I have to fly somewhere. It’s probably outdated but it was all I had. I could barely breathe I was so distraught, but I had to find a way to continue to be there for Gracie, and the meds let me do a better job.

©2015 Robin AF Olson. After we got the news we decided to bring Gracie home, even if it meant risking her passing away.

As I had on Saturday, on Sunday I syringe-fed Gracie. I liquefied raw chicken liver and added it to her food. I hoped the added iron would help her anemia. We gave her all her pills and she surprised us by grooming herself after she was fed. She was very tired and uncomfortable, but at least her belly was full. Sam and I set up shop in the living room, which was where she was resting. We did not leave her alone. I wanted to inflate our air mattress so I could sleep in the living room but I couldn’t find the pump or nozzles. I was so frustrated, but I also realized I had to get at least some sleep and our sofa is not comfortable for naps. I decided I would just sleep for a few hours and get up very early to check on her. I made Sam promise me that I wouldn’t have to go downstairs alone. I didn’t want to find Gracie dead on the floor.

Reluctantly, I dragged myself to bed Sunday night. Before I went upstairs I gave Gracie a kiss and told her I loved her and to not give up.

I think she was listening.

Part 4 is next...Cytology results and the 10% chance it's not what we think it is.

In my last post I wrote about trusting your gut instincts. My 14-year old cat, Gracie hadn’t been quite right after having a dental cleaning. She was barely eating and becoming less and less active. I kept taking her to see my vets, telling them something was still wrong. We all tried to sort out what was going on, but as often happens with cats, they’re great at hiding health issues until they’re in such bad shape that their life is in jeopardy.

A little over two weeks ago, my vet, Dr. Larry, was very concerned about Gracie’s liver. He urged me to get an ultrasound done as soon as possible. It would give us a better idea of why Gracie’s liver looked strange on x-ray. The problem was that the vet who came to his office once a week and performed the ultrasound diagnostics was booked up for weeks.

Gracie's x-rays. Another good reason to do a baseline x-ray of your cat during a routine exam when they're seniors. (top) You can see how the center of Gracie's abdomen, where her liver is located, looks cloudy. That's the fluid buildup in her abdomen and her liver is enlarged. (Bottom) organs look more defined.

I knew we could get the ultrasound done at one of many emergency veterinary hospitals in the area, but Dr. Larry said he really wanted me to take Gracie to the one he considers top notch and that meant a trip to Pieper Memorial, which is over an hour drive away. Though other hospitals were closer, Dr. Larry trusted Dr. Sean’s expertise and he knew I'd do whatever was asked to get to the bottom of Gracie’s issues.

©2015 Robin AF Olson. Waiting for Dr. Larry.

The thought of the trip gave me painful flashbacks to the last time I went to Pieper. It was in 2012 and I had Fred with me; a 10-month old kitten who had lost use of his back legs. Dr. Sean was to look for signs of FIP (Feline Infectious Peritonitis) because that was our fear. I remember pacing anxiously outside the hospital in their garden. It was early April and still cold, but I couldn’t stay inside and sit quietly waiting for the results. I prayed and prayed that Dr. Sean would tell me Fred was going to be okay. Ironically, he did tell me there were no signs of FIP, but sadly Fred did have it and died a few weeks later. I didn’t want to have the same experience now—a clean ultrasound and heartbreak later. I angrily wondered why even bother doing an ultrasound if the results are so questionable, but it was safer than doing exploratory surgery by far.

Sam had been working around-the-clock on a very challenging project and was exhausted. I was emotionally wiped out from worrying about Gracie and didn’t sleep the night before the test. I was going to take Gracie by myself so Sam could stay home and tend to the cats, but Sam somehow dragged himself out of bed, after very little sleep, and we both took Gracie to Pieper. I was so grateful he made the effort because frankly I didn’t want to be alone. I needed him to be with us.

©2015 Robin AF Olson. A very sick girl on the way to Pieper.

It was a sunny morning and the commuters were out in full force. I sat with the cat carrier on my lap with the top unzipped so I could pet Gracie. She was not happy to be back in the car yet again, but she was comforted by my gentle caress. I felt sick to my stomach with worry, but we had to know what was going on and if there was a chance we could do something about it.

We didn’t have to wait long before a cheerful vet tech took Gracie from us. I stopped her before she could turn away and asked if didn’t Dr. Sean want to talk to us first and she said no, that he had all her notes. I found that odd and wondered if they didn’t value my observations. I’m not a vet so what do I know. Maybe it’s not necessary. All he’s doing is looking into her abdomen. Whatever I say won’t change what he finds.

I sat against the side of an austere hallway lined with chairs with Sam by my side. Sam was drinking coffee, trying to wake up and I was trying to be calm while my heart was pounding in my chest. I saw a lot of dogs with their parents. I tried to distract myself by people-watching. Did they match their pets? Not really. Did one of them have a really big behind when the rest of her body was tiny? Yes. Did I wonder if the golden retriever with the white mask of fur on his face was going to be around much longer. Yes.

A few minutes later, the tech arrived and said the Dr. Sean was ready to talk to us. My stomach did a flip-flop as I stood. I reached out to Sam for support as we entered a nearby exam room.

Dr. Sean entered and took a seat. I could read by his body language that the news was not good. He proceeded to tell us that Gracie’s liver was full of cysts and she had fluid in her abdomen. It was likely it was cancer, but to make certain it wasn’t just cysts, he wanted to insert a needle into one of the cysts to take a biopsy (called cytology). I asked about the costs and it wasn’t going to break the bank so I agreed. I asked if we could hope for it to be cysts and he said yes, but that it was unlikely. Of course he’d seen things like this before so I had to accept the fact that maybe this was the end of the road for our cat.

We thanked Dr. Sean and left him to do the test. I felt like my heart was going to explode. I wanted to run away. How the HELL did I miss my cat having CANCER? How is this happening? Just the day before all I thought I needed to do was fine tune Gracie’s medications so that we could get her eating better and now I’m thinking my cat is possibly terminally ill.

I needed to go outside. I didn’t want people to see me react to the news. I raced out the door back to the garden. I paced. I cried. I prayed for a glimmer of hope. Sam tried to comfort me but I couldn’t stand still. I wanted Gracie to be okay. I wasn’t ready for this to happen. My mind was swirling with dark visions of what the future held-if there was to be any future-for my girl.

It didn’t take long for the test to be done. One of the techs came outside to find us to tell us we could check out and take Gracie home. It being a Thursday meant that the results would probably not be ready until Monday. MONDAY?! I wondered if Gracie would be alive by Monday—and sadly I wasn’t wrong to worry about that.

©2015 Robin AF Olson. Gracie's little blankee area where she spends most of her day.

I’d set Gracie up inside a big dog crate with a cat bed and heated pad. She’d spent the last week on the bed, but now she wanted to lay on the cooler flat oriental rug near the crate. I imagined that her belly must have hurt based on how awkwardly she would lay down. I grabbed some soft blankets and made some bumpers for her to rest her head on and one where she could prop herself up. She’d sit up, stretching her abdomen, no doubt to give her enlarged liver and fluid build-up more space inside her. I wanted to keep her as comfortable as possible. I also had to figure out a way to get her to eat.

So began an all-too-familiar odyssey—trying to find the Holy Grail of cat nutrition to keep Gracie alive, at least for a few more days.

Part 2, to Hell and Back, next...and don't think you already know what's going to happen, because no one saw this coming.

Note: As of this writing the initial reports that Cecil’s brother, Jericho was also murdered, are untrue. Sadly what IS likely is a second lion was murdered from Zimbabwe’s biggest park a few days after Cecil was killed. Regardless of which lion died, the death of any creature, especially ones that are endangered, purely for sport, is unconscionable.

Over the past week I’ve barely been able to look at Facebook because it seems almost every status update carries a link to a story about Cecil the Lion, who was murdered by a Minnesotan Dentist named Walter Palmer. Like so many others, I was outraged to learn the King of the Jungle’s death was completely senseless beyond how morally reprehensible it was. With each image I saw of Cecil, laying bloodied and dead at the feet of a psychotically-smiling Palmer, I felt an all too familiar rage boiling inside me towards yet another person causing death to an innocent creature.

There’s no need to re-hash Cecil’s story here, and in truth, I had no intention of writing about it; but with breaking news, the almost incomprehensible news, that a second lion was killed by poachers a few days after Cecil drives me to say something about it now.

Cecil the lion at Hwange National Park in 2010.

I have to ask: what is the point of their deaths? Was it to feed a starving family or to simply stroke the ego of a heartless bastard, who had to turn tail and run off leaving his or her trophy behind?

As someone who respects all life and who works to help others I can never understand what would drive someone to kill animals for sport. I realize some of us eat meat and those animals are killed so we can live, but to spend an outrageous amount of money to go to another country and purposely kill an animal who is part of a group of animals that are struggling to survive is beyond comprehension.

What makes a person like this grow into an adult who feels they have the right to take life and who is PROUD of their ability to do so? It seems as though Death is their Champion—their supreme ruler. They are the ones who deal the “kill shot.” They are the ones who act like a God deciding which animal lives or dies. It’s sickening.

Raul654. Used with permission. Walter Palmer's dental clinic.

I have to wonder if these same people struggle to stay on the “right side” of a fragile line between showing their true nature and using hunting as a smoke screen for what they really want to do. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d rather be serial killers, but maybe they’re sane enough to know that posing as hunters of animals is still acceptable in society. Who’s to say their repeated killing of big game animals isn’t just a cover up. In the least they're sadists. If they didn’t have the outlet of killing a rare beast would they have turned to killing humans? Perhaps that’s how the dentist can fit in with society by masking his true desires.

But what is the root cause of this culture of killing? Entitled-elitists and those who cater to them. GREED. Right now you can book a trip to Texas to kill an ENDANGERED Arabian Oryx for $10,000.00 (of course 4-star accommodations are extra, but easily obtained if you're wealthy).

Have you noticed that killers like Palmer or Lindsey or the latest poor excuse for a human being, Sabrina Corgatelli , know exactly how many and of what type of animal they’ve killed? They love posing next to the dead animal proving they did it. They cut off parts of the animal and take it with them so they can look at it again and again to relive the few SECONDS it took them to slaughter an innocent animal. Palmer was quoted as bragging about killing Cecil and waving photos of his dead body as he tried to impress a waitress at a restaurant in Alexandria, MN. She was disgusted, saying Palmer was old enough to be her dad and his creepy way of flirting scared her badly. What kind of twisted mental disorder do these people suffer from?

The flip side of this is mankind is capable of so much brilliance and innovation, compassion and true bravery, but our legacy seems Hell-bent on shitting up the planet and murdering animals to the point where none will be left because the poaching “industry” is well into the BILLIONS OF DOLLARS. Good luck stopping that. Good luck telling Asians especially in Viet Nam that rhino horn does not prove they are wealthy or give men an erection. They’ll still pay $60,000 for a kilo of ground rhino horn. How can we make it more worthwhile to keep those animals alive when there are such high prices on these animals when they're dead?

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I want to know why there’s an airport storage room in Denver with thousands of animal trophies confiscated from hunters trying to smuggle them into the country. Heads of tigers, bodies of lions, tusks of rhinos. And why is it OKAY that our country allows the importing of 440 lion carcasses a YEAR. How many other Cecils were destroyed, setting off a chain reaction of cub and lioness death? How many other animals considered “big game” are suffering the same fate when for FOUR YEARS there has been legislation on the books to ban the import of these items beyond the ivory ban that’s in place now.

I know what will happen next. Everyone who totes a gun around will wave it in the air and shout how it’s their right to have a gun and they can kill animals with it if they want to. Hunting is part of our culture and tradition—just for the “sport” of it, not to provide food for anyone. Just for bragging rights. They can go trophy hunting with a permit and kill animals with a bow and arrow. They can throw rocks at the animals. Who gives a shit about them. They just want their trophy and to feel like someone important, when in truth they are lower than pond scum.

Shame on all of you. Shame.

It’s not necessary to kill a lion to be a real man or to get a thrill. Crawl under an old house in the worst of summer heat. Carefully remove the tiny kittens out from under it who are dying from flea infestations. Clean them off, while you’re covered in debris. Give them nourishment then slowly see the light come back in their faded eyes. Hold them close to your heart so they can feel your heartbeat and know they are loved and safe. Isn’t that a far better thrill?

Or do you stop being a big tough person if you can’t KILL another creature? Or is this about bloodlust? Maybe you need a therapist? Medication? Do you really know what being tough truly means? Do you have any idea how tough it is to care for a terminally ill kitten? How tough of a person you have to be to stay up for days straight trying to save the life of a tiny newborn kitten? With one heartbreak after another that very same person will go out and rescue MORE KITTENS. They will gladly suffer through more challenges involving just as much heartache so those animals have a chance to grow up and have a good life. THAT IS A TOUGH PERSON, not someone who hides behind a bow and arrow or a gun.

THAT IS ALSO A BRAVE PERSON. THAT IS A COMPASSIONATE PERSON. THAT IS A FEARLESS PERSON WHO LOOKS DEATH IN THE EYE AND SAYS. “NOT NOW. NOT ON MY WATCH.”

Mankind will be known for thousands of years of killing each other, animals, the planet. We’ll be known for our “1 percent” who greedily have it all and want more, when they know they could stop trophy hunting and paying outrageous sums for animal body parts and finally do something decent with all that money.

It is NEVER going to end until we ALL DIE from the effects of the greedy-entitled continuing to take and take and take---from aggression and inability to see the power of simple compassion and empathy. Then, at least Mother Nature will do what she does best. She will step in after we’ve trashed the place and the earth will go on without us and it will be far better off.

Or we can look at the deaths of Cecil and the second lion and the thousands of others and say; “No. We don’t need to do this any more. We don’t need to allow trophy hunting anywhere, any time. We don't need to raise lion cubs in captivity and later sell them to be slaughtered later by entitled losers who need to feel powerful over a "canned" hunting simulation under controlled circumstances. We can reward the people who put their lives on the line to keep poachers from killing the animals. We can create programs that support the economies of the regions who need help. We have technology that can increase the effectiveness of our ability to protect those animals. Let's get it where it's needed. We can let the voices of those who CHERISH what's left of the wildlife on this planet rise up over the desires of the rich. We can PROTECT the animals, not sell them to the highest bidder.”

I hope we can find a way to criminalize big game hunting throughout the world and give those animals a real chance to regain their numbers. If the good people of Africa and beyond need tourism to rule over big game hunters, then let’s all go visit. Let’s show our support for doing the right thing and let’s NEVER FORGET this lesson when the next big story hits the airwaves.

These animals have no voice. Maybe that’s the one thing we can do right-speak up. Tell your government official you agree with the Cecil Act which would disincentivize trophy killings. Sign the petition to extradite Palmer to Zimbabwe. Book a trip to Zimbabwe to take photos of those magnificent creatures. Donate to organizations who put their lives at risk to protect these animals from unscrupulous poachers. Let's find a way to work together so heartbreaking stories of wildlife being murdered can come to an end.

Rest in Peace, Cecil...

...and all the precious animals that are being lost to us in record numbers. Your death matters.

It may be long overdue but it’s no less sincere: a BIG, BIG SHOUT OUT AND THANK YOU TO Andrew, master craftsman and design daddy behind the sublime line of cat scratcher/loungers called Brawny Cat.

I’ve written about Brawny loungers before, but this lounger is different. It’s far bigger, bolder, utilizes exotic hardwoods and is completely hand built. It even had a tiny metal plaque on it that glints in the sun. It’s HUGE. It’s heavy. It’s built to last for a very long time. It’s called the Big Sleeky Comfort Throne and our little Freya is lucky enough to have one to call her own.

©2014 Robin A.F. Olson. Little Freya not long after rescue.

This story began innocently enough. Last autumn I reached out to Andrew for advice. Freya hadn’t had her surgery yet and although she loved using corrugated cardboard scratchers, she keep soiling them to the point where I was replacing them every DAY. Clearly that was not a good use of resources so I thought there had to be a better way. I knew Andrew must have scraps of laminated cardboard so I hoped I could take some of it off his hands and use those.

©2015 Robin A.F. Olson. Of course Fluff Daddy liked the box best.

Andrew chose to go above and beyond, telling me that although he was taking a short break from building cat loungers and didn’t have anything he could send me right away, that he would send me a little something later in the year. He did just that, shipping Freya a lounger that took our breath away. When a HUGE box arrived for Freya, I knew it was from Andrew. Inside the box was a breathtakingly GIGANTIC lounger, far bigger than Freya would ever need.

©2015 Robin A.F. Olson. Freya's impressed!

Within less than a second of putting the lounger on the floor, Freya ran over to it, claiming it for her own. She must have known it was for her!

©2015 Robin A.F. Olson. Lots of room to grow into-that is IF Freya grows beyond kitten-sized.

What’s not surprising is that our other ten cats have spent time on the lounger, too. Frankly, it’s rarely ever empty. That said, if Freya wants the lounger-end of discussion. She may be small, but that’s HER lounger and she’s not going to share. If she wanted to there’s plenty of room on it for two.

©2015 Robin A.F. Olson. Blitzen is a big fan!

Freya also likes to watch TV since the Throne is in view of her favorite shows. In the four months (yes, a very tardy thank you) we’ve had it, the cardboard is still in great shape and the lounger is a nice compliment to our furnishings.

©2015 Robin A.F. Olson. Blitzen showing off his modeling chops.

We also have a few Sleeky Lounges, which are a very budget friendly version of the Throne. They wear well. It’s been nearly two years since we’ve gotten those loungers and they’re still going strong and are used every day. You can see more about them here.

As most of you know, Freya did have her surgery and is doing GREAT. I’m sure if she could talk she’d thank Andrew, too, for his generosity and for his compassion for cats-especially a little kitten who needed his help.

©2015 Robin A.F. Olson. Freya watching the Secret Life of Cats-of course.

(continued from part 2 and part 1)

Lisa was the Tech. She was a pretty blonde with a slight southern accent. I tried to chat with her but she was all business. The room was not much nicer than the waiting room and certainly not any more cheerful. There was a treadmill flanked by two computers with a hospital bed next to one of them. Lisa told me to remove everything on top and put on a smock with the front open. I balked, being shy, and said I wore a sports bra thinking that the underwire from my other bras would have caused a problem. She apologized and said everything had to go or it could interfere with the test.

I did as I was told, trying to have an out-of-the-body experience. I am not a fat girl, half naked in front of a stranger. It was bad enough having to be naked at all. I wished I was home, scooping one hundred litter pans over doing this.

I knew seeing my boobs was nothing of interest to Lisa because she’d seen a million bare breasts before mine. She was very careful to keep me covered as much as she could as she wiped my chest with rubbing alcohol so the suction cups attached to the leads on the ECG would stay in place. She did her job quickly and effectively, then asked me to lay on my left side so she could take a baseline ECG and ultrasound of my heart. The harness was bulky so I had to move slowly. Once I got into position she warned me that the gel might be a bit cold. I didn’t care. I just wanted to live through what was coming next.

As Lisa began to roll the ultrasound device into my flesh, I looked up at the screen and saw it moving in black and white…my heart. My little heart beating away reminded me of a Kissing Gouramis fish, gulping what looked like air, but I knew was blood. Very quietly I said; “Hello, heart” as tears filled my eyes.

And in that instant I fell in love. There was my faithful heart, pumping lifesaving blood throughout my body. I’d never given it much thought until now, yet there it was, doing its job, keeping me alive. I wanted to care for my heart, protect it. For the first time in my life I felt love for my body. It was one of the most profound moments of my life. I only hoped it wasn't too late.

I had no way to take a photo of the moment I saw my heart, but this is what a typical stress echo looks like.

Lisa explained that the cardiologist would be in soon to do the test. He would be monitoring me the entire time and that I shouldn’t worry. Meanwhile, she handed me some paperwork stating the inherent risks of the tests, including death, and would I sign it please.

Lisa left the room for a few minutes. I sat on the end of the bed noticing a readout on the wall. It was showing the beats per minute of my heart: 110. I didn’t need to see that to know I was in a panicked state. I tried to focus on my Buddhist training; settle your mind, let go of your thoughts. My heart slowed down to 89, but only for a moment before it returned north of 100. Pure adrenaline and terror pulsed through my veins with every beat. Not much was going to change that.

The doctor came in and said hello. I told him about my concerns and he told me in 30-something years only three people had been pushed into a heart attack and one died but they revived him. He must have told this to every patient because he was moving through the motions at a fast pace. He assured me not to worry and to step onto the treadmill. I was to walk at increasing speed and sharper angle to push my heart to a target zone. This was it. Make or break.

I started to walk and my heart felt all right. The doctor quickly increased the angle of the treadmill and I started to falter. I told him I had pain but it was coming from my gut and my lungs more than my heart. The aspirin had done a number on me and so had being sedentary for six weeks. I couldn’t do it. I broke out into a cold sweat and warned I was going to vomit. He asked me if I could go another 30 seconds. I did, but in the end I couldn’t reach my target heart rate. As directed earlier, I got off the treadmill as fast as I could and laid back down on the bed on my left side. I was panting, desperately angry at myself for not reaching the target heart rate, but glad I was still alive.

Lisa fumbled around, searching for a vessel for me to purge into while she mumbled about how she thought she had one somewhere. As I tried to keep everything down, she finally dug out a dusty rose colored plastic dish from the innards of a cabinet, placing it in my free hand that was out of the way of the wires of the harness. She quickly began moving the ultrasound device around my chest grabbing video of my heart. As she focused on her task, the doctor said, very matter-of-factly, as he left the room, that he didn’t see anything wrong with my heart and that everything looked good. He went to fetch Sam as I laid there clutching the dish, trying not throw up.

I heard the curtain move and I looked up. Sam gave me a small smile and sat down, not saying a word. He reached out and squeezed my toe. I tried to smile back while Lisa kept making records of my heart, switching back and forth from one computer screen to another. It took about five more minutes until she was done. She gave me a towel to clean up with and said we were all set and I could go home.

I was done. I was okay. I could go home and watch the next episode of The Bachelorette where Kaitlyn would continue to suck face with guy after guy; the romance of the show long gone. I used to love these trashy programs, but now I didn't care any more.

As I got dressed I held my breath. I felt shaky and stunned. I was certain my next stop was going to be Yale-New Haven hospital, not home. I didn’t say anything to Sam until we were back inside his car. Once seated and belted, Sam fired up the engine. I felt cool air blowing on my face. I looked up to see more geriatric patients entering the building, but I was leaving. I was going home. As the shock of the past few days began to wane, I felt my body slowly rock back and forth as tears ran down my cheeks.

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The next morning I got a call from my G.P.’s nurse. She said my heart looked fine so there was no need for our appointment on Thursday. I told her that I was still having chest pain so I was going to come in. After all this, I had no idea what was bothering me.

For the next few days I focused on my new eating “lifestyle.” I had to cut carbs very dramatically. I read that I should to try to keep it to about 50-55 grams per day. After a lifetime of eating a lot more than that. I had to work on portion control along with what I was eating. I never even gave myself a chance to say farewell to my favorite foods. I just stopped eating them.

I came up with a game plan. I’d work very hard to be careful for the next few months or however long it would take to lose enough weight to get out of the Diabetes-zone. I didn’t even know how much I had to lose. From what I’d read it would need to be a percentage of my weight and that would be a good bit of weight. Ideally I need to lose even more than that. The painful truth is I need to lose at least 30 pounds if not 50 pounds or more. I couldn’t look at it as one big number. I’d have to chip away at it. I’d do it reasonably and thoughtfully. I know I’d have bad and good days. I’d try to be as cutthroat as I could with carbs until I was out of danger, then slowly re-introduce SOME carbs back into my diet, as long as I was exercising (which I hate doing-yay!).

But what pained me more than changing my diet, was in trying to sort out who I was now. Eating is also a deeply social thing for me. I love to go out for breakfast with some of my rescue friends and we have a joke about how pancakes always soothe our souls. Now I can't eat pancakes.

I'm a "Foodie." I love go on road trips and discover out-of-the-way diners, little mom and pop restaurants where the locals like to eat. I also know I use food for neurotic reasons like boredom or anxiety and God knows running a rescue means preventing stress-related eating is going to be a BIG factor...oh and I LOVE to cook. What am I going to do?

The best I could aim for is that I could do this for a few months, then maybe try to go a year, then maybe it would become my new routine and it would be harder to go back down that path full of sugar and carbohydrates since now I see what it will do to me...but can I do it?

Thursday arrived. It marked one week since I’d been diagnosed. This time I was anxious for the nurse to weigh me because I felt thinner. I thought maybe I’d lost a few pounds, but I prepared myself for only a pound or two. I lost SEVEN pounds! Not only that but my blood sugar was normal. This was a very good sign that maybe I wasn’t too late.

I spoke at length to my doctor and she admitted she thought I had agina and she apologized to me that she hadn’t said something sooner. When I told her about taking so much aspirin she gasped. No wonder I’d been so sick. She can’t even tolerate one baby-sized aspirin. I asked her to not hold back any more and to just tell me what she was thinking about. Hiding things from me wasn’t working. I was figuring it out on my own.

We talked about the weird lung pain, gut pain, neck pain, back pain on walking up stairs or some other activities. She said she had no differential diagnosis unless it still was angina and that was something I was not ready to hear. My heart might still be in trouble.

©2015 Robin A.F. Olson. My new BFF. Fortunately for me, I only have to test if I feel woozy to make sure I don't have hypoglycemia.

She told me that angina presents very oddly in women and that if not angina I might have some sort of problem with my stomach or esophagus. There’d be more tests to do, of course, but I was worried about doing too much and making things get worse. I told her that over the two months it wasn’t as bad as before and that maybe I should give it a week or two and see how I was feeling then. I did not want to take something to turn off the acid pumps in my stomach. I just wanted to give my body time to adjust. I prayed that maybe I’d luck out and it would go away because one treatment for angina is the same as diabetes—diet and exercise. That said, wondering if I have a ticking time bomb in my body is no comfort. I just want to be pain-free and well enough to begin exercising.

The problem is that I don't have a lot of faith in myself. As much as I love my heart (my new BFF) and treasure the health I have, I don't know if I can do this long term. I've already had dreams about eating carbs and repeated uncomfortable cravings. That said, I know what lies ahead for me if I don't do it.

I am NOT going to be a cliché: Middle-aged, fat, unhealthy, crazy-cat-lady. No. Get ready world. Some shit is goin' down in this town.

(continued from Chapter 1)

I had a really really really terrible weekend. My diabetes diagnosis was on Thursday and by Friday I was terrified I had stable angina, too. I decided to be safe and began taking aspirin. It couldn’t hurt, right? I began to experience a mild reduction in symptoms. I wasn’t certain whether it was from the medication or the beginning of my new eating regime.

Speaking of which, Diabetes SUCKS. I read web site after web site of material trying to understand what to eat, when, what not to eat, how much of this or that to eat and it’s VERY CONFUSING. I should have been sent straight to a nutritionist instead of being given a few page printout telling me how I had to be careful about my nutrition choices and why I was diagnosed with Diabetes. I got to a point of frustration where I just went to bed and slept, even though it was in the middle of the day. I didn’t care. I was too angry and tired and my gut was killing me—I assumed from not eating much.

I was taking aspirin, two, every 4-6 hours, with a shaky hand. My gut hurt. I didn’t really want to eat. I had to force myself to eat something. All I thought about was the stress test on Monday and if I was going to live through it.

I was so scared all I did was have crying jags and try to come up with something meaningful to say if I died. What would my last-ish words be? I told Sam how sorry I was for the shitty things I’d put him through and that I loved him.

I told him we should end our engagement after seven YEARS and finally get married if I survived. He knew my duress was extreme, pushing me to say things like that, but in my heart I meant them.

©2007 Robin A.F. Olson. Our engagement portrait.

My Will was out-of-date so I sat down and wrote something, anything to ensure some changes might be made if I died. I tried to write up a list of Bequests, too, but I was a member of crazy-town by then and my mind just couldn’t make sense of much of anything.

I looked over to my cat Spencer and I thought of him without me and what would become of him and the others and what of the foster cats? I knew if I did die I’d be leaving one huge mess for Sam and that upset me even more.

I tried to just sit in front of the TV, hoping to zone out and take a break from worrying, but it didn’t work. I couldn’t concentrate. All I kept thinking was; “Is this pain the sign of an impending heart attack and if so am I going to live through this? On Monday am I going to the hospital after my test? Will I need a stent? Why did I let myself get so damn fat? Why couldn’t I take better care of myself? Why couldn’t I love myself?”

As Monday dawned, my gut felt even worse. I had palpitations I was so anxious. At 11AM we had to be at the Vet to bring our 15-year old cat, Nora in for her first acupuncture treatment. I could have stayed home but part of me felt like maybe this was my chance to say goodbye to the staff. I didn’t want to think like that but what if I missed this chance? OR, would I seem like a nut worrying about what was going to happen and everything would be fine?In the end I decided to remain as stoic as possible and focus on our cat.

Thankfully, I was distracted by meeting our new Vet, Dr. Carmen. She was great with Nora and we were stunned to see Nora walk comfortably for the first time in years right after her treatment.

©2015 Robin A.F. Olson. Nora tolerated acupuncture very well and was purring through most of it.

Sadly, my anxiety returned as soon as we were on the way home. My appointment was at 2:45 PM so there was yet another two hours to wait until it was time to leave…the longest two hours of my life.

Sam drove me to my appointment, taking yet more time off from working. He’s been incredibly busy the last year and was getting very behind with his clients. I felt terrible about it, but I needed him more than ever and boy was I being nice to him to make up for it. I wonder if he thought he was with a different person? I'm usually not such a delicate flower to live with.

As he drove, I tried to make jokes. I told Sam I felt fine so we could go home. I noticed we were going to be quite early so I suggested he stop and get some coffee (because you do not want Sam’s coffee meter to go low-trust me on this). Sam pulled into a parking space at the mini-mall as I stayed behind, resting in the car, while he got his caffeine delivery device.

I looked around at the mall, watching the cars slowly pass by. It was a slate gray day and rather warm and humid. I wondered if this was it-this was the last thing I was going to see. I wondered if I did have to have some sort of scary procedure that I needed to just face it and go through with it so I could begin work recovering as soon as I could.

I have never been more scared in my entire life.

Sam drove us a few more blocks, then into the parking lot. There were a lot of cars parked at the Medical Building. It comforted me because I thought that if something happened surely there were plenty of doctors in the building who could help me. We entered the front doors passing some very senior citizens who had aides or family members assisting them. As I walked slowly past them, I felt very old, too.

The irony, perhaps, is that in my great fear, I wasn’t sure where we were supposed to go. I didn’t know the name of the office, only that they would do the stress test. We read the list of tenants, but none of the names sounded familiar. Fortunately I had made a notation on my calendar that said “Suite 107.”

It was just down the hall.

As we entered the room what struck me was how dingy and airless it was. There were no windows and the only light was those barbaric florescent tubes suspended in the ceiling that make you feel like your eyes are burning. We took our seats across from a small coffee maker/refrigerator that had a sign on it “For Stress Test Patients Only.”

Did they really want us having a cup of coffee before the procedure? We were the only people in the waiting room. There was no one at the desk. There was a note taped to the window by the desk that said to just wait and that someone would come out shortly.

I looked at the clock. It was 2:45 PM. I weakly held Sam’s hand as we sat there in silence. I wanted to say a million things to him, but there wasn’t time. I hoped that maybe he would say something important to me, but a few moments later the tech opened the door and called my name. I turned to him and gave him a quick kiss. I tried to look brave as I handed him my phone and purse. I wouldn’t be needing them any more.

The stress test did not go as expected. Find out what happened in my next post.

There are times in your life when you know you’re at a crossroad. Sometimes the path isn’t so clearly defined and you have to first take a few steps in one direction before you realize you’ve chosen the wrong one. If you're lucky, you can turn back and re-think your choice, maybe even do something about it.

You can take a hard, cold look at your life and visualize the choices you’ve made and what problems you may be creating for yourself to face one day. For example, I saw my parent’s health fail over things they could have controlled early on. I’ve had friends and family, who “knew better” but didn’t do anything about “it” and slowly drank themselves to death or smoked cigarettes for 30 years and wondered why they got salivary gland cancer and died.

I’m not going to live forever, but HOW I live the rest of my life is up to me. I can live it in a strong, vital way or I can make up an excuse not to deal with it. I can give in and give up and just get sicker and sicker, being on more and more medications until I die.

©2014 Robin A.F. Olson. Goodbye carbs.

For 50-some years I’ve walked down one road, but there’s a flashing signal alerting me to the failure of my choices and now I need to decide if there’s still time to change course.

I’ve just been diagnosed with Diabetes (type 2).

My Doctor’s office called and said my blood tests were in and the Doctor wanted to see me. There was “nothing to worry about.”

I hoped I’d find out that the chest pains and weird stabbing pains into my arms, chest and neck were related to being Vitamin D deficient (and not the sign of a pending heart attack). I knew maybe my cholesterol would be up or I’d be borderline diabetic, but I’m not a freak about eating sugar and I don’t eat crazy amounts of food. I cut back on wheat and sugar over a year ago. I thought I was basically okay.

I was very wrong.

The Doctor, pardon the pun, didn’t “sugar coat” the news. She said that due to my history (my mother was diabetic late in life) and my weight (which is mostly in my belly) that it was likely this could happen. She said that because my A1C Heamaglobin test was 7.1, and just over the indication of being diabetic (which is 6.5 and the test is accurate to +/- .50), that with diet and exercise I could possibly go into remission. It might not be too late.

My heart sank. I asked what else was wrong and the only other thing was indeed I did have VERY low Vitamin D levels, which can easily be remedied with supplements and some outdoor time. Everything else was normal.

I was glad Sam was in the exam room because I probably would have begun to cry and his being there comforted me. He was putting on a brave face, revealing only subtle disappointment at the news, but I wondered what he thought about what our future might mean now. If I had to change my eating habits, then he might have to as well; but would he be willing?

I asked if any of the tests answered why I was having pains and she answered; “No.” I’m still to take an Echo Stress Test to see if my heart is in bad shape.

Of course with the plethora of information online I’ve already diagnosed my pain issues as stable angina. It would make sense, I have the symptoms, family history and risk factors. If my Doctor senses it, maybe she should have told me and we should have gotten the test done sooner or maybe she’s not really lying and isn’t certain that’s what is going on. I don’t know that I’ve been more terrified of my fate than I am right now. I’m middle-aged. Shit happens-just not to me!

So which path will I take? I knew it before the Doctor finished telling me I about how I had to make serious changes in my life if I wanted any chance to be healthy.

“I’m going to kick this in the ass with everything I’ve got. I heard the wake-up call and I’m listening.” I said to my Doctor.

©2014 Robin A.F. Olson. Perhaps one day I can enjoy a mini-pastry again (if I plan for it and work out after eating it), but until at least next February-no more of this.

I’ve lost weight so many times before, but not studied nutrition as I will have to do now. I’ve never cared about my body. I think I’ve felt unlucky that I was never skinny like the popular girls. In all honesty I only weigh 5 lbs more than I did in early 2000’s, but I’m very overweight and all those years and the STRESS I deal with has taken a toll. I must make changes for the rest of my life IF I want to have a life that does not include: amputations, going blind, heart failure and more. I need to fight for my life and I need to stop hating my body and love and respect it with all I’ve got.

I may already be too late or I may look back on this as the luckiest day of my life. I don’t know if I will be able to give myself the gift of healthy weight for once and for all. It’s been my life’s dream to get rid of this big belly, but something I felt powerless to achieve long-term.

I’m going to imagine my future. I've lost a lot of weight. I can walk comfortably and I exercise. Sam is right there with me, doing the same. We gave ourselves the gift of a better old age and with any luck we’ll get there, but there’s a very long road ahead and the next answers may be even worse than I fear.

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Note to my friends:

It’s not easy to face the fact that you don’t feel quite right. Maybe you’ve been putting off getting something checked. Trust me on this-do NOT WAIT. Yes, there are plenty of reasons not to see a Doctor. I didn’t even HAVE Health Insurance the past decade and if I didn’t have it now I may not have gone. It doesn’t hurt to call a few Doctors and explain your situation and ask for help if money is an issue. There are Federally Qualified Healthcare Clinics all over the country. They can provide services to low/no income families and because they get paid by the Government, it means they won’t cut costs on your care because they’re getting fairly compensated for their services (unlike many Doctor’s offices who don’t get reimbursed enough and will refuse to provide care for people on State Insurance). I found a few in my area and they even have cardiologists.

Be in charge of your future. Own it.

------------------------------

But meanwhile I wonder if I'm still fluttering on the edge of having a heart attack. My pain isn't going away and I'm in a panic. Are these the last few days of my life?

Find out next….

Kristen Lindsey did something most of us would consider a disgrace to humankind. “For fun” she went hunting with a bow and arrow shooting what she claims was a “feral” cat in the back of the head, killing it. If she hadn’t been so completely arrogant, maybe she would have thought twice about bragging about it; but what makes her actions despicable was that she not only bragged about it, she posted a photo (that I will NOT share here EVER) on Facebook of her holding her arrow while the cat’s body dangled from it.

[Update 2016. It's been a wild ride the past 12 months, one that shook me to the core and made me face some big health problems. I'm down about 55 pounds (and counting). I go for long walks, beyond any distance I ever could have achieved before. The mysterious pain was never fully diagnosed, but it's mostly gone. There's a lot more about my struggles on my most recent birthday post. For now, I feel better than I have in at least 20 years and I'm determined not to slip back down that slope into poor health. My wish for all of you is that if you need to face your health-related demons, do it. Life's too short to ignore it, then find yourself on a guerny in a hospital when you could have done something about preventing it.]

It was just another morning feeding routine I do twice a day with the foster cats. I carried their food and a few plates up the stairs to the second floor of my house. Their room is at the end of the hallway. As I reached the top stair I started to feel a pressure in my chest, then a stinging radiating pain from my lungs, into both sides of my neck, down into my shoulders. My head was already throbbing from a headache, but now it was worse. I felt palpitations. I knew if I didn't drop what I was carrying and sit down I was going to be in trouble.

I got to my bed and sat down on the edge of it, trying to calm my nerves. Slowly I felt the pain subside enough to feel like I could stand. I could hear the cats crying and banging on the door to their room. I was already late feeding them so I had to get up.

The cats always crowd around me as I enter the room, anxious to be the first to lick at their food. I shuffled my feet so I wouldn't step on any of them, then began to lower the trays to the floor. Something didn't feel right. The pressure and pain began to return. I sat down on the bed in the foster room, my chest was heaving. Something was very wrong with me.

©2015 Robin AF Olson. Just another day...or the first sign of trouble.

For the past few weeks I’ve been suffering a lot with these mysterious searing aches and pains. Hey, I’m no spring chicken any more. It’s to be expected. The thing is, with the ease of looking up symptoms on the internet it’s lead me to believe that I need to see a Doctor or two and right away, please. Am I going to have a heart attack?

So I went to the Doctor. I did the easiest thing I could. I had Sam schlep me to Urgent Care hoping that they’d agree to my assessment of the situation: that due to my sedentary life, the stress of running a cat rescue, not having a vacation in years, needing a bigger bed so there’s actually room for two adults and a few giant cats to sleep on, was the root cause of my woes.

The Doctor, who was rather charming and silly, shrugged when I told him my symptoms in detail. He didn’t think it was my heart. My ECG looked normal, maybe, though maybe there was a “q-wave” in there (that could be a sign of trouble), but maybe there wasn’t. For the first time in my life a Doctor said to me; “I really don’t know what’s the matter with you. You should probably follow up with a PCP.”

So I left the clinic with more questions than answers. I feared I was going to have a heart attack at any moment. The signs for women are subtle and range from pain in the back, neck, chest, jaw, down the arms, pressure on the chest and more. I had most of those symptoms. I have a very tragic family history of heart issues and strokes. I have to face the fact that perhaps all this sitting around and carrying extra weight on my bones has caught up with me.

It also made me think about the thing no one ever wants to talk about: Death.

It’s amusing perhaps, that my Mother spoke to me about death. She was very matter of fact about it and got a bit terse with me if I pushed back, not wanting to have the discussion. My stomach would flip flop when she brought it up. I couldn’t imagine my life without her in it. I hoped I’d have her around as long as I was around. She didn’t smoke or drink so she had that going for her. Maybe losing her could be put off for some other day.

She wanted me to know what to do if I ever needed to make a decision for her if she was incapacitated. She wanted me to know she’d written her Last Will & Testament and where I could find it and who her lawyer was. She told me where the bank statements and investments were. She’d even quiz me about those things from time to time. She prepared me for many things, but in the end she never prepared me for what to do if she lied to me about her health problems. She died of heart failure, unexpectedly and I was the one to find her dead on the floor. At least during the worst grief of my life, I knew where the papers were and I knew what she wanted done.

©2006 Robin AF Olson. Mother.

We all want to live forever, but we won’t. Though it’s emotionally draining we have to face it and we SHOULD prepare for our inevitable demise. That way it not only ensures that how we want to spend our final days will be respected (if there’s a chance for that to happen), it also respects those who are left behind; the people we love.

That’s why I realized if something bad happened to me, not being married would mean my brother, who I have no relationship with, would make the decisions about my care. Sam couldn’t even visit me in the hospital. The thought made me feel even sicker. I don’t know what’s going on with me and as much as I hope I will have many more years to go, it’s not a certainty.

So I started the paperwork for a Living Will and other Advance Directives. The forms were very easy to find online for my state and by the way, you don’t even need a Lawyer (though you will need a Notary) for these directives. It made me think about the “what ifs” I may face one day. I didn’t want to imagine myself in a situation where I was in a coma with no chance of recovery, but I had to. I had to think about what I would want. Would I want to live if life only meant breathing while attached to a machine and maybe some sort of low brain-stem level awareness of the world? How would it be if I couldn’t care for myself, even scratch a simple itch? I couldn’t even be with cats anymore or smile at a joke. I would be a burden to Sam both financially and emotionally. So let me fly free.

Running a cat rescue has forced me to look at death more often than I’d care to, but in those lessons my choice is clear. I do not want to live if I have no brain function and if I cannot be saved.

I knew I could designate Sam to be the person to make that choice for me, but I also needed to assign an “alternate” if Sam could not or would not make the choice. The answer wasn’t tough to come by but it did surprise and sadden me. Most people would turn to a family member, but I have none that would be appropriate. I realized that I only have a very few friends I’ve even known long enough to trust with this responsibility. When I made my choice I asked Sam if was okay with him because it was someone I used to have a relationship with. Thankfully Sam was fine with my choice and even agreed with it. I’d known this person for a big chunk of my life and was still friends with him. I trusted him, now literally with my life. I had to call and ask his permission to include him in this paperwork and I felt like asking this of someone required having one of the most intimate and soul-opening discussions of my life.

I was scared to ask him, not knowing how he might take the request, but his answer gutted me with his simply put reply; “Thank you for this gift. Of course I will do this for you.” I guess the comedian in me was on a lunch break because I couldn’t make a joke about how now he could unplug me after all the times I caused him grief.

Without saying the words, I knew that we still loved and cared about each other, but in a way that was not disrespectful to our mates. We both were willing to talk about that thing called Death and both stick our toes into the pool of ever-shifting “what ifs.” The beautiful thing I didn’t expect was the lingering feeling that this was the right thing to do and once done I could relax. I told myself that I have to keep facing situations that are difficult. I’ve done it for all my foster cats for over a decade and now I need to do it for myself.

I saw another Doctor today. She hates cats but I told her if she didn’t go on about why I’d still like her. She listened to my description of what I think is going on and what I’m experiencing. She asked many questions about my odd (to me) symptoms. I didn’t get a diagnosis, only next steps. She wants me to get my heart checked out more thoroughly so that means an echo/stress test. It’s more sensitive and better suited to test a woman’s heart, but the insurance company may deny the request. If that happens I’m not sure what I will do. (GOOD NEWS: I just found out I don't need approval and I can have the test done after the 4th of July holiday is over).

Tomorrow morning I’m having a lot of blood tests done to rule out things that scare the crap out of me. The blood tests will be looking for diabetes (no surprise, but darn it I’m sure I don’t have symptoms), high cholesterol, and just like so many of my foster cats, they’ll check my organ function, blood issues, and a surprise—Vitamin D deficiency. I guess if it’s really bad it can effect your heart and all sorts of other things, too and lots of people have it and don’t even know. Since I live almost like a Vampire, it might not surprise me to find out I’m low in that particular tank.

©2003 Robin AF Olson. As usual, everything is a joke, even with my mother in the hospital. Notice the line up of the magazine with my mom's chest.

Since she couldn’t weigh in on what was going on with me, I asked what I should do until all these tests are done. She replied I should not exert myself to the point of feeling pain and take it easy. On the drive home, I realized that Sam’s birthday is in a few days and we’re supposed to go to see his family in New York City. I can’t go. I can’t risk having to walk too strenuously and in the city that’s a lot of what makes up every visit. With not being able to do much I haven’t been able to even plan something for Sam but this really was the pits.

Inasmuch a I want to get back to working long hours and lifting cats, heavy bags of cat litter, trays of cat food, I can’t. My body has told me something and for once I need to listen and respect it. I need to have a better relationship with my body instead of knowing it’s just “there.” If my body tells me I need rest and to stop, then I’m going to do that. With respect will come understanding and the desire to do something that has always challenged me: to love myself and not always put others first.

This may be the last post I’m going to write before I have some answers. I don’t feel too badly right now. I’m trying not to be scared. Facing your own mortality is no picnic, but if you want to have a chance to squeeze out as many good years as you can, you have to do it.

So please, get your Last Will & Testament written, get your health proxy set up, maybe organize your paperwork and let a few people, including your doctor and lawyer know what you’re up to. Have the discussion with your family. Don’t be shy. It’s tough to talk about this, but better to have it out in the open than hidden away because when your time comes no one will know what you wanted to have done and it could lead to all sorts of legal and family issues.

And after you have your affairs in order, you can forget about it and talk about something everyone likes to talk about (except my Doctor) — cats.

©2015 Robin AF Olson. Morning wakeup call with Freya.

It was just another morning feeding routine I do twice a day with the foster cats. I carried their food and a few plates up the stairs to the second floor of my house. Their room is at the end of the hallway. As I reached the top stair I started to feel a pressure in my chest, then a stinging radiating pain from my lungs, into both sides of my neck, down into my shoulders. My head was already throbbing from a headache, but now it was worse. I felt palpitations. I knew if I didn't drop what I was carrying and sit down I was going to be in trouble.

I got to my bed and sat down on the edge of it, trying to calm my nerves. Slowly I felt the pain subside enough to feel like I could stand. I could hear the cats crying and banging on the door to their room. I was already late feeding them so I had to get up.

The cats always crowd around me as I enter the room, anxious to be the first to lick at their food. I shuffled my feet so I wouldn't step on any of them, then began to lower the trays to the floor. Something didn't feel right. The pressure and pain began to return. I sat down on the bed in the foster room, my chest was heaving. Something was very wrong with me.

©2015 Robin AF Olson. Just another day...or the first sign of trouble.

For the past few weeks I’ve been suffering a lot with these mysterious searing aches and pains. Hey, I’m no spring chicken any more. It’s to be expected. The thing is, with the ease of looking up symptoms on the internet it’s lead me to believe that I need to see a Doctor or two and right away, please. Am I going to have a heart attack?

So I went to the Doctor. I did the easiest thing I could. I had Sam schlep me to Urgent Care hoping that they’d agree to my assessment of the situation: that due to my sedentary life, the stress of running a cat rescue, not having a vacation in years, needing a bigger bed so there’s actually room for two adults and a few giant cats to sleep on, was the root cause of my woes.

The Doctor, who was rather charming and silly, shrugged when I told him my symptoms in detail. He didn’t think it was my heart. My ECG looked normal, maybe, though maybe there was a “q-wave” in there (that could be a sign of trouble), but maybe there wasn’t. For the first time in my life a Doctor said to me; “I really don’t know what’s the matter with you. You should probably follow up with a PCP.”

So I left the clinic with more questions than answers. I feared I was going to have a heart attack at any moment. The signs for women are subtle and range from pain in the back, neck, chest, jaw, down the arms, pressure on the chest and more. I had most of those symptoms. I have a very tragic family history of heart issues and strokes. I have to face the fact that perhaps all this sitting around and carrying extra weight on my bones has caught up with me.

It also made me think about the thing no one ever wants to talk about: Death.

It’s amusing perhaps, that my Mother spoke to me about death. She was very matter of fact about it and got a bit terse with me if I pushed back, not wanting to have the discussion. My stomach would flip flop when she brought it up. I couldn’t imagine my life without her in it. I hoped I’d have her around as long as I was around. She didn’t smoke or drink so she had that going for her. Maybe losing her could be put off for some other day.

She wanted me to know what to do if I ever needed to make a decision for her if she was incapacitated. She wanted me to know she’d written her Last Will & Testament and where I could find it and who her lawyer was. She told me where the bank statements and investments were. She’d even quiz me about those things from time to time. She prepared me for many things, but in the end she never prepared me for what to do if she lied to me about her health problems. She died of heart failure, unexpectedly and I was the one to find her dead on the floor. At least during the worst grief of my life, I knew where the papers were and I knew what she wanted done.

©2006 Robin AF Olson. Mother.

We all want to live forever, but we won’t. Though it’s emotionally draining we have to face it and we SHOULD prepare for our inevitable demise. That way it not only ensures that how we want to spend our final days will be respected (if there’s a chance for that to happen), it also respects those who are left behind; the people we love.

That’s why I realized if something bad happened to me, not being married would mean my brother, who I have no relationship with, would make the decisions about my care. Sam couldn’t even visit me in the hospital. The thought made me feel even sicker. I don’t know what’s going on with me and as much as I hope I will have many more years to go, it’s not a certainty.

So I started the paperwork for a Living Will and other Advance Directives. The forms were very easy to find online for my state and by the way, you don’t even need a Lawyer (though you will need a Notary) for these directives. It made me think about the “what ifs” I may face one day. I didn’t want to imagine myself in a situation where I was in a coma with no chance of recovery, but I had to. I had to think about what I would want. Would I want to live if life only meant breathing while attached to a machine and maybe some sort of low brain-stem level awareness of the world? How would it be if I couldn’t care for myself, even scratch a simple itch? I couldn’t even be with cats anymore or smile at a joke. I would be a burden to Sam both financially and emotionally. So let me fly free.

Running a cat rescue has forced me to look at death more often than I’d care to, but in those lessons my choice is clear. I do not want to live if I have no brain function and if I cannot be saved.

I knew I could designate Sam to be the person to make that choice for me, but I also needed to assign an “alternate” if Sam could not or would not make the choice. The answer wasn’t tough to come by but it did surprise and sadden me. Most people would turn to a family member, but I have none that would be appropriate. I realized that I only have a very few friends I’ve even known long enough to trust with this responsibility. When I made my choice I asked Sam if was okay with him because it was someone I used to have a relationship with. Thankfully Sam was fine with my choice and even agreed with it. I’d known this person for a big chunk of my life and was still friends with him. I trusted him, now literally with my life. I had to call and ask his permission to include him in this paperwork and I felt like asking this of someone required having one of the most intimate and soul-opening discussions of my life.

I was scared to ask him, not knowing how he might take the request, but his answer gutted me with his simply put reply; “Thank you for this gift. Of course I will do this for you.” I guess the comedian in me was on a lunch break because I couldn’t make a joke about how now he could unplug me after all the times I caused him grief.

Without saying the words, I knew that we still loved and cared about each other, but in a way that was not disrespectful to our mates. We both were willing to talk about that thing called Death and both stick our toes into the pool of ever-shifting “what ifs.” The beautiful thing I didn’t expect was the lingering feeling that this was the right thing to do and once done I could relax. I told myself that I have to keep facing situations that are difficult. I’ve done it for all my foster cats for over a decade and now I need to do it for myself.

I saw another Doctor today. She hates cats but I told her if she didn’t go on about why I’d still like her. She listened to my description of what I think is going on and what I’m experiencing. She asked many questions about my odd (to me) symptoms. I didn’t get a diagnosis, only next steps. She wants me to get my heart checked out more thoroughly so that means an echo/stress test. It’s more sensitive and better suited to test a woman’s heart, but the insurance company may deny the request. If that happens I’m not sure what I will do. (GOOD NEWS: I just found out I don't need approval and I can have the test done after the 4th of July holiday is over).

Tomorrow morning I’m having a lot of blood tests done to rule out things that scare the crap out of me. The blood tests will be looking for diabetes (no surprise, but darn it I’m sure I don’t have symptoms), high cholesterol, and just like so many of my foster cats, they’ll check my organ function, blood issues, and a surprise—Vitamin D deficiency. I guess if it’s really bad it can effect your heart and all sorts of other things, too and lots of people have it and don’t even know. Since I live almost like a Vampire, it might not surprise me to find out I’m low in that particular tank.

©2003 Robin AF Olson. As usual, everything is a joke, even with my mother in the hospital. Notice the line up of the magazine with my mom's chest.

Since she couldn’t weigh in on what was going on with me, I asked what I should do until all these tests are done. She replied I should not exert myself to the point of feeling pain and take it easy. On the drive home, I realized that Sam’s birthday is in a few days and we’re supposed to go to see his family in New York City. I can’t go. I can’t risk having to walk too strenuously and in the city that’s a lot of what makes up every visit. With not being able to do much I haven’t been able to even plan something for Sam but this really was the pits.

Inasmuch a I want to get back to working long hours and lifting cats, heavy bags of cat litter, trays of cat food, I can’t. My body has told me something and for once I need to listen and respect it. I need to have a better relationship with my body instead of knowing it’s just “there.” If my body tells me I need rest and to stop, then I’m going to do that. With respect will come understanding and the desire to do something that has always challenged me: to love myself and not always put others first.

This may be the last post I’m going to write before I have some answers. I don’t feel too badly right now. I’m trying not to be scared. Facing your own mortality is no picnic, but if you want to have a chance to squeeze out as many good years as you can, you have to do it.

So please, get your Last Will & Testament written, get your health proxy set up, maybe organize your paperwork and let a few people, including your doctor and lawyer know what you’re up to. Have the discussion with your family. Don’t be shy. It’s tough to talk about this, but better to have it out in the open than hidden away because when your time comes no one will know what you wanted to have done and it could lead to all sorts of legal and family issues.

And after you have your affairs in order, you can forget about it and talk about something everyone likes to talk about (except my Doctor) — cats.

©2015 Robin AF Olson. Morning wakeup call with Freya.