Loss & Grieving Revisited

It's been more than six months since my post of euthanizing my cat, Hank, and it wasn't until just a few minutes ago that I reread what I wrote in December 2009. It hurts just as much now as it did that day. I wonder if perhaps I was wrong to have included every detail I could remember about that small part of just one day, because it made me cry all over again. I am still crying as I write this.

I've had to discipline myself to think of other things, to avoid even speaking about my old friend, because there have been times when it would have been entirely inappropriate to burst into tears just from a casual mention of his passing.

And I still feel like a murderer. Guilty. Logic doesn't help. Emotion just is, and isn't either right or wrong, but I can't help but wonder if I should have waited an extra day, spent time with him, said a longer good-bye, instead of doing it quickly so I would still have the courage. I don't know. I just know that it still feels horribly, horribly wrong.

I'd had him since he was a kitten. I got him when I was thirteen years old, and he and his brother Frank were so wild they wouldn't let anybody get within three feet of them. They lived in the hay barn, and hunted. Hank was a particularly prolific hunter, and learned how to catch moles. Frank was the more mild of the two, and was the first one to become friendly.

Frank was killed by coyotes sometime during the time while I was away at college. Hank was lonely, and getting careless--he had two narrow escapes with coyotes himself, and came to me (even not entirely tame) to get treated. It was the most amazing and humbling experience: this big cat voluntarily lying down on a clean towel and letting me pour hydrogen peroxide over these horribly stinking abscesses that had formed from coyote bites. I didn't have to hold him in place. I didn't have to confine him. He came every day and laid down to get the hydrogen peroxide poured on, and then the antibiotic ointment, like clockwork.

Inevitably, during those clean-and-medicate sessions, he couldn't lie still any longer from the pain of getting out the dead, infected skin, and he'd get up and pace. Then he'd come and lie down again; sometimes I'd have to call to him and pet him and help him calm down, but I never had to force treatment on him. It never ceased to awe me, the way he trusted me without question.

He'd been staying at my parents' place, and he was getting older. He started having urine crystals causing urinary tract infections, and I knew if he didn't come inside permanently that he would eventually get sick and not get help in time. So I brought him home with me. There was absolutely no adjustment time. He went from being exclusively outdoor to exclusively indoor, and never tried to go outside again, for the rest of his life. I guess I wasn't the only one who had decided that he'd needed to "retire."

I don't think I'll ever quit missing him. He was a calm, steady, affectionate cat who I loved as a very dear friend for twenty-one years.

If Heart Surgery Were Performed In Second Life

Okay, I goofed up when I sent out my supposedly explanatory notecard to all of my friends about the upcoming procedure to be done on my heart. I repeat yet again: it is not a life-threatening condition, nor is the procedure especially risky. Also, it's happening on Thursday, April 8, 2010.

So I was clarifying this information for someone for the umpteenth time and thinking that I really need to learn how to write more effectively, the thought occurred to me: what if I were able to get this procedure done in the world of Second Life?

The results would likely be as follows:

If heart surgery were performed in Second Life...
...the entire inventory of pre-op sedatives and peri-op general anesthesias would disappear, only to reappear with half the stock missing. The surgery would still happen on schedule, only without general anesthesia, because it would be the patient's responsibility to make sure supplies were 'backed up.'

If heart surgery were performed in Second Life...
...the operating room and all the equipment in it would not fully rez until the surgery was half over, and the patient would still be a glowing nebulous blob. The surgeon would be visible only as a featureless gray outline with only his unnaturally large penile attachment, his blingy wristwatch, and his hair rezzed.

If heart surgery were performed in Second Life...
...the poseballs for both surgeon and patient would get out of sync, so that the surgeon was operating instead on the patient's left patella (who would be floating in mid-air) until the surgeon hit 'RESET' in the blue pop-up menu section...at which point both patient and surgeon would have to climb back on the poseballs and start the operation from the beginning.

If heart surgery were performed in Second Life...
...then in the middle of the operation, the operating room and hospital would lag so badly that the entire hospital would have to restart.

If heart surgery were performed in Second Life...
...just as the surgeon was getting ready to close the incision, the viewer would crash, and while the patient lay in the operating room bleeding to death, the surgeon would be on the phone to Linden Labs trying to explain that he couldn't get his viewer to restart, while the 'Customer Service Representative' would ask him repeatedly in a phony British accent if he had the latest viewer installed.

AND FINALLY:
If heart surgery were performed in Second Life...
...at the end of the surgery, the surgeon, the anesthesiologist, the attending surgical nurses, and the patient would all engage in a massive orgy, and then everybody would AFK and BRB.

WARNING: Intensely Political Discussion

I originally sent this out as an email to a few friends, but decided to put it on here, not because I expect it to get wider readership or because I particularly enjoy pissing people off, but simply because it's a short essay on my feelings about what I see as an increasingly partisan, polarized government. In this post, my aim is directed at the Republican party, simply because they're the noisiest. But I'm fairly egalitarian in playing Whack-A-Mole, so I'm sure something else will stick its head up sooner or later that will change my focus of derision. With that said...

...I find it very interesting that the Republican party is so adamantly opposed to viable health care reform and say we're headed for socialism, yet they don't want to get rid of--or even alter--Medicare or Social Security, both of which are government-provided social services, and both of which as they exist right now, are draining this country dry. Apparently the Republican party has decided that it's acceptable and expedient to pay people who choose to retire from the workforce, and that it is one of the rights of being an American, but the caveat is that you have to survive to retirement age first. Social Darwinism at its finest, Creationists.

Furthermore, a certain statistically significant percentage of Americans (I won't pretend I can quote hard statistics) may reflexively say they are against "socialized medicine," but if you only ask these average people if they think insurance companies shouldn't be able to deny coverage, have caps on coverage, and any number of other individual items included in this bill that was passed on Sunday, March 21, they're enthusiastically in support of it. It's only when they hear the phrase "universal healthcare," that they think "socialism," and give a reflexive kick, sort of like the doctor thumping your knee at a checkup.

I do have to give a certain sneering credit to the Republican party for this smear campaign. Their rhetoric about "Obamacare" has successfully discouraged a great many people from engaging in thoughtful discussion and self-education both about the greater health care issues themselves, and more specifically about the bill as passed. Kudos to them for a propaganda campaign possibly rivaled only by Nazi Germany prior to and during WWII. America so desperately needs to shift politically toward fascism, don't you think?

I consider myself independent, politically. When I vote, it's a patchwork of who I think is most qualified for the job, not on which party they belong to. But I don't like the looks of the place where the Republican party is currently headed. Since it appears that the Republican party is going through a purge in which moderate voices are unacceptable, I don't think I'll be casting many votes for members of that party very soon.

Second Life: The Experience So Far

I've been on Second Life since May 12, 2009, and I guess I'm still technically a newbie. But, I've been having SUCH a merry time making fun of and feeling superior to the people who let themselves get hurt in this fascinating and quirky universe. It was all a game, you see.

But somewhere in there, I apparently forgot to mind my own emotional levees, because I got a sharp dash of reality when I fell for someone, and subsequently got wounded. And all the cold logic in the world can't convince me now that any of this is only a game.

Previously, I've walked away from friends and lovers as easily as taking them off my Friends list, accompanied by a mental shrug and an "Oh, well." Now, it's not so simple. I feel slightly battered and frayed around the edges, but after a little consideration, I'm not entirely sure that that is a bad thing. I certainly can't make fun of people so readily who have been hurt.

I can no longer blithely say that one must at all times mind one's boundaries between First Life and Second, because now I know that it can become very difficult and, occasionally, impossible. I'm not even sure anymore that it's wise to maintain a distinction between the two. Emotions felt don't distinguish between Real and Virtual. Grief and loss and hurt are real, regardless of where they were experienced. The comfort of friends is as warm, laughter is no less real, and beauty exists in pixels.

Recently, I was invited as a friend of a friend to a memorial service for someone who had existed as a vibrant presence in Second Life, and then subsequently passed away. I didn't know many of the people there, but the number of lives this man had touched, and the deep affection he inspired in so many people truly amazed me. He mattered, and he was missed, and he was remembered with a great deal of love. None of it was false.

To create a schism in the mind and label the experiences in one part real, and the other unreal, I think could even be unhealthy and, in the long run, dehumanizing. To refuse to acknowledge that the person behind the avatar is entitled to real emotion is to make ourselves less real, and less human and, ultimately, more shallow.

I don't think that places like Second Life are going to go away. I think that they're going to become more and more real--or at least less distinguishable from what we call 'reality.' I don't think it's wrong to acknowledge as real the emotions created by interacting with others in virtual realities. Joy, no matter where or why it is felt, is still joy.

...And Now For A Completely Different Attitude...

I don't know about anyone else, but I get really tired of being bombarded with the super-strong smells of scented holiday candles, with names like "Hot Cocoa," and "Sugar Cookie," and "Apple Pie," and so on. I have to change my clothes after a visit to the mall, because otherwise I can smell it on myself for the rest of the day. Not coincidentally, I'm not fond of perfumes, colognes, cigarette smoke, cooking beef, or incense, either. And I love flowers that don't have discernible scents. But that's me.

Now, I also have to admit that I have a decidedly Grinch-y attitude about the whole Christmas thing, and I am talking about the Grinch who STOLE Christmas, not the Grinch who gave it back again. And I also have a hyper-sensitive sense of smell. I'm the woman, after all, who has insisted her whole life that skunk spray doesn't really smell bad. Frankly, I think it smells almost identical to the air outside (and maybe inside, for all I know) of mint distilleries. But I digress.

So back to the whole scented candle thing. It's cheesy. Buy your own goddamn oils and add 'em to cheapy little tea candles if you want stinky candles. That's what I do, and it's a helluva lot cheaper and a lot less obnoxious because I'm not making the whole world smell 'em first.

With that in mind, I think I'm going to start a counter-scented-candle revolution. I'm going to open a candle store, and call it "Scentsual Nightmares." I'm going to sell candles with names like "Wet Dog," and "Cat Butt." Maybe "Rotten Onions," and "Burnt Garlic,"-- or "Ripe Roadkill," for the catchy "R" alliteration. I'm also fond of "Pig Shit," and "Rat Piss."

Happy Fucking Holidays.

Liz Grieving in Real Life

My cat, Hank, went to sleep for the last time on Thursday, December 10, 2009, at 10:55am, at the vet's office. He was twenty-one years old. I found out that morning, at an 8:00am appointment, that he had developed a severe heart murmur and had suffered a stroke at some point since March that left him mostly blind in his left eye, and seeing only poorly out of his right. He had arthritis making his back so stiff that he couldn't groom himself properly, and finally, that he had a mass in his abdomen--almost certainly cancer, and in any case, totally inoperable. I made the decision to euthanize him because I couldn't bear the thought of him gradually declining, being in pain, and slowly...unraveling and losing all of his considerable grave dignity, becoming more forgetful and vague, until he was only outwardly the cat I'd known and loved for so long.

I took a pillow off of my bed--the one he had been sleeping on most--and put a clean pillowcase on it. I took a thick towel, and took them both to the vet's office. I settled him down on the pillow, and wrapped the towel around him. He didn't want to snuggle at first, until I wrapped the towel around him, and started scratching his chin and neck. Then he started purring, and kneading.

The vet had already put an IV port in his right foreleg, and while I held him close and sobbed uncontrollably, the veterinarian injected the clear pink solution that stopped Hank's indomitable heart. He shifted once, started to sit up, just as the veterinarian started to inject the drug. I don't remember clearly what happened, except that the veterinarian said, “I know, it feels strange, Hank.” I wanted to tell her to stop, and realized that there was no going back.

Then he just...went limp. The vet listened with her stethoscope, and nodded. His head lay on the pillow between his paws, which no longer kneaded--something that had so often annoyed me in years past (especially when he did it on my bladder) now seemed to be terribly absent and wrong. I couldn't look at his face. I was afraid his eyes would not be closed, and there would be some kind of accusation in them, a betrayal that mirrored what I felt I'd done to him. I felt that I'd used his trust of me to calm him while the vet ended his life. I felt like there should have been some kind of struggle, that it shouldn't have been so easy to erase him from existence. That there should have been anger, rage--something or someone crying out that this was so terribly, horribly wrong, no matter how much sense it made, or how merciful it was to end it this way. How could there be dignity in this, any more than if I had let him suffer and finally fade away to nothing?

The vet and her assistant left me alone with him, at my request. For a long time I simply sat and stroked his head, his ears, his neck, under his chin. I kept expecting him to lift his head and start purring again, to shake his head the way he did when someone found his 'sweet spot' around his ears, and made him cant them at a funny angle, something that had always made me laugh. I talked to him; I don't know what I said, other than “I'm so sorry.” I kept saying it over and over. And I wept. After awhile, I could smell urine on the pillow, and as I reached around to resettle his weight, trying, without thinking, to make him more comfortable, I brushed the damp spot where his bladder had released. It made me cry again--Hank would never have dreamed of lying in his own urine. He had too much dignity.

After a long time, I thought I had finally cried all the tears that were in me for now, and I placed him--still on the pillow and in the towel--on the counter in the exam room, and finally went around to look at him, at his face, one last time. I'd always loved the way he looked so unwaveringly at me when I spoke to him, his wide green eyes somehow so honest and straightforward and uncomplicated--how he was so trusting, so loyal, and completely unaffected. There were no guessing games with Hank, ever. Now, just as I had feared, his eyes were indeed open. But there was no Hank behind them. There was no condemnation—I had plenty of that all on my own.

Instead, they were dull, seeing nothing. And somehow, that was worse than if I had seen betrayal and hurt in his eyes. It meant he was finally, forever, gone.