Let There Be Phones

Me and My Life

My brother’s school is no longer offering phone service in the dorms, so he needs a cell phone. My parents have a pay-as-you-go phone that they share amongst themselves or which ever of the still-living-at-home family happens to be traveling. And I have a regular old, run of the mill cell phone. My sister would like a cell phone, but she’s been too polite and practical to say so. And others in my family have their own plans, too. Put this all together and that equals a whole lot of cell phones. Why not all get onto one plan and split the cost?

And so that’s what we’re doing. Today, I ordered a bunch of additional lines on my account. Later this week, once those phones arrive and get activated, we’ll bundle all the phones onto a family plan. And then we’ll have to figure out who pays and how much.

But you know what? I’m almost as excited about this as I was when I bought my own phone way back when. My siblings will be easily reachable! My parents will have a phone no matter how many people are traveling to different places. We’ll all be able to talk to each other for “free.” And I be shelling out less per month than I do on my current run-o-the-mill minimalist plan.

For anyone else thinking of doing this, though, it took a lot of phone calls to AT&T to figure out exacty what to do, so here are the steps.

  1. Order additional lines on your current account (select the family plan as the one that will govern these new lines).
  2. Receive and activate the phones.
  3. Call AT&T to have your current phone added to the familiy plan. At this point I’ll also check to make sure we’re all on the same area code and have them put us all together if we’re not. They’ve assured me this is no problem.

There should be no termination fees or anything, and I get to keep my old phone number and some of my accumulated roll-over minutes (equal to the number of monthly minutes in the new family plan). All in all the only things that would make this process nicer is if there weren’t those pesky activation fees on each phone, and if it didn’t freak out their computers that I asked for the phones to be sent to an address other than my own. At least the second one got cleared up with a minimum of fuss and only a slight delay in processing time. Now, if we could just work on the first… But I suppose that’s wishful thinking.

Uncertain

Me and My Life

I’ve been going back and forth with myself. One minute I think that yeah, all the symptoms seem to fit, I must be hypothyroid. Why else would I always feel like I pulled an all-nighter, even when I got 10 hours of sleep? Why else would I have unexplained aches, or lose a small handful of hair every morning, or never really shed that pesky 10 pounds, or wake up with a body temperature that’s a full degree lower than I would have expected, or generally feel run down and icky all the time? Maybe this even explains my oddly rhythmed heart.

Then I remember that so far, the actual scientific proof isn’t very clear. Nobody, least of all me, is sure that the shift in my TSH level is far enough off from normal to mean anything at all.

Maybe the last five or six months have just been a little more draining than I thought. Maybe this is what it feels like to be leaving my 20s. Maybe I’m a little hypochondriacal and am just imagining it all. I’d hate to start giving myself permission to whine only to find that nothing’s wrong with me and I’m just a whiner looking for excuses to hone my craft. That would really stink.

So, since I can’t do anything about it at least until the next blood draw in six weeks, I guess I’ll try not to think about it too much and just get on with the business of living like normal. After all, there’s a good chance that everything is normal.

The Olympics Aren’t Helping

Me and My Life

I’ve been trying to get even more sleep than normal lately. I’ve always needed a lot of sleep, but recently I’ve thought that another hour to hour and a half each night would probably make me (and everyone around me) happier.

Of course, I made this resolution just days before the Olympics started. Not smart. First there were the stunningly spectacular Opening Ceremonies, better than any I have ever seen. There was no going to bed before I found out how that torch got lighted. No way. And now I’ve seen the coverage schedule that runs until 11pm every night, and realized that I’ll probably be running on a massive sleep deficit for the next two weeks.

I’m not even a very sport-loving person. I’m pretty terrible at all sports (especially those having to do with running or with balls… which is most of them), and I normally don’t see the point in watching people go around and around anything (like a track), or try to get a ball to do, well, anything. And yet, the Olympics hold a special fascination for me.

For one thing, everyone there is really, really good at what they do. But that’s a given. No, for me, much of the fascination has to do with memories of childhood. Back then, a TV would magically appear in our normally TV-less house and we kids would be given free reign to stay up as late as we wanted to watch the games. We’d make little nests on the floor with our blankets and pillow and get absolutely caught up in the competitions, even when we didn’t fully understand the point of the games, or the rules. Even if we fell asleep early in the evening (and I have it on good authority that this was the common outcome every night), we were still thrilled by the lack of a bed time. And this excitement got bundled in with the excitement of the games themselves, and with my parents’ cheering and gasping and talking excitedly about the events we watched.

Even now, the theme song that plays before and after each commercial break or news cast triggers a smile and the distinct sense that tonight, no matter what I have to do tomorrow, there will be no bed time. Even now, I cheer on the swimmers and the runners with more than characteristic enthusiasm just as we did all those years ago with my parents.

"Terror" is spelled V E T in cat speak

Living with Cats

I’m dead tired, but somehow have the urge to stay up late and watch Project Runway. With half an hour left to go until it’s on, and no guarantee that reading or watching TV will keep me awake that long, I thought I’d tell you about Pippin’s recent trials and tribulations because yay, verily, he has been sorely tested of late.

His story started rather in medias res when I came home from church and errands three weeks ago to find him favoring his back left paw. By the end of the day, the farthest outside toe was distinctly swollen and he was limping pretty badly. He couldn’t even get up on the couch for his nightly massage-n-purr session.

Now, I’m naturally something of a worrier when it comes to this kind of thing, so I started doing quite a lot of self-talk.

“Self,” I said, “animals hurt themselves, but they heal. Remember Toby’s knee? He could hardly walk for weeks, but he healed. And this looks like badly twisted toe, which is similar to a badly twisted knee, only less crippling. Also, remember that he has his annual exam in just three days, so you can just stop worrying and wait until the vet has seen it and told you what’s up with it. And you know what the vet will say? She’ll say it’s nothing and that he’ll limp for a week or so and then be done with it.”

This when on for quite some time.

The next morning he was no better. In fact, he was worse. His poor little toe stuck out from the rest of his paw like the thumb on a mitten.

“Just two days until his vet visit,” I reminded myself. “Hang in there. Don’t panic and reveal to the world that you’re such a worrier that you took your cat to the vet for a swollen toe. You laugh at people who do that.”

Meanwhile, I started grinding my morning coffee. And unfortunately, the sound of the grinder startled the cat and he jumped imprudently down from the table. The next thing I knew, he was dripping gloppy, watery, purple-ish blood from his paw.

That did it. 5 minutes later he was in his carrier (where he couldn’t get blood all over my carpet, or jump around on things, or hide in the deepest darkest areas of Under The Bed where I’d never be able to extricate him should we need to go to the vet) and had called the vet. They agreed that I should probably bring him in and even had a slot for him later that morning, so I emailed work and said I’d be out that morning and then sat down to wait for our appointment while Pippin complained about his incarceration loudly from the other room. Hell hath no fury like a cat caged.

Well, the first circle of hell, anyway. From there we got into the car (which is oh so much worse than simply sitting in the cage while it’s safely planted on the apartment floor). And just when he thought life couldn’t get any worse, I added insult to the previous two insults and his injury by dismantling the cage (to get him out of it, since he wasn’t eager to be cooperative).

“So, uh… Does he still have his claws?” Asked the vet tech as she strategized how best to take a very large, very scared cat away for weighing. And that’s when I remembered how hard I’d laughed while reading about another kitten’s acts of terror at a vet’s office. “Please don’t shimmer and turn inside out. Please don’t shimmer and turn inside out. Please don’t shimmer and turn inside out.” I repeated over and over to myself as I took his carrier over to the examining room’s sink and returned its insides to their normal tan color.

Just as I was reassembling his carrier, I started hearing persistent yowls echoing off the back halway’s walls but getting louder and nearer with astonishing speed. “Ouff, he is not a happy camper,” the vet tech exclaimed rather breathlessly as she burst into the room and Pippin leaped out of her arms to go stake out territory under the examining table and take up a stance which clearly said “Enter And Die.”

Understanding this universal language, the vet tech made a hasty exit and went to get the vet who, unfortunately, turned out to be Dr. Worst Case.

There are three vets at this office, only one of whom consistently has slots open for same-day appointments. Pippin hates him. I dislike him. And he seems to have very little concept that everything he says and does makes both Pippin and me more and more nervous.

“WELL HELLO,” he boomed in his over-loud voice. Pippin ducked under a chair, startled by the sudden decibel increase.

“SO, I HEAR WE’VE HURT OUR PAW,” he continued in his characteristic (and often confusing) first person plural. “CAN YOU HELP GET US UP ON THE TABLE, AND WE’LL SEE WHAT’S GOING ON?”

Pippin was so busy warding off the decibels that he didn’t even notice when I snuck up and got him up on the examining table. But once up there, he changed tactics and set up a guttural warning moan meant to chill the hearts of any within 100 yards of his position.

“DO WE GET VIOLENT AT ALL?” Dr. Worst Case asked, and a keen observer could hear the timid edge that had crept into his voice and demeanor.

I assured him that Pippin had never been violent before, but he’d also never been injured before.

“LET’S JUST GET A TECH IN HERE, SO WE’LL ALL BE A LITTLE SAFER, THEN. WHY DON’T YOU HOLD ON TO HIM FOR A MINUTE WHILE I CALL HER IN.”

The tech arrived and gathered a massive handful of scruff in her right hand, flipped Pippin onto his side, and pinned him with her left arm while her left hand kept hold of his lower arm. It was a wrestler’s hold designed to keep all the pointy bits away from human flesh. And with a couple of rests and re-adjustments in between Dr. Worst Case’s attempts to clean and examine the exploded paw, she managed to maintain general human safety.

Then Dr. Worst Case swung into his favorite act: Deciding on a Course of Treatment. He always relishes this portion of the appointment because it gives him the chance to demonstrate his diagnostic knowledge by laying out all the possible causes of the symptoms at hand, followed by all the possible treatments we could try. He particularly likes fatal diseases and invasive (expensive) treatments. All of the possible causes and treatments that he lists before these are simply appetizers, teasers to set the stage for the pièce de résistance.

“I DON’T KNOW WHEN I’VE SEEN A PAW QUITE LIKE THIS. YOU CAN SEE IT’S OPEN RIGHT DOWN TO THE MUSCLES AND LIGAMENTS, AND THAT SEEMS JUST A LITTLE EXTREME FOR A SIMPLE INFECTION. WE COULD TREAT IT LIKE AN INFECTION, IF YOU LIKE, BUT I SHOULD WARN YOU THAT THERE IS A FORM OF CANCER THAT APPEARS IN THE PAW. NOW, IT NORMALLY APPEARS IN DOGS, AND WE’RE A CAT, AND KIND OF A YOUNG ONE AT THAT. STILL, WE COULD DO A CANCER SCREENING JUST TO BE SURE. OR WE COULD JUST CLEAN IT AND WATCH IT. OR WE COULD GO UNDER SEDATION FOR X-RAY AND MORE THOROUGH CLEANING.”

I kept waiting for him to say which of these many options he’d recommend, but as usual, he wanted me to diagnose and plan for treatment. Exasperated, I reminded him that I hadn’t gone to vet school and asked what he would recommend (while ruling out the cancer screening, since I was pretty sure that suggestion was just an artifact of Dr. Worst Case’s love of, well, worst cases). Pippin was ready to hope back in his cage by the time we negotiated down from full-cancer-screening to an x-ray and deep clean followed by antibiotics, but he had to stay and get sedated, so I left to get a few hours of work in.

I wasn’t prepared for the phone call I got just after noon, though.

“HI, IT’S [Dr. Worst Case]. WE’RE ALL SEDATED AND CLEANED OUT NOW, AND THE X-RAY SHOWED THAT WE’D CRACKED A NAIL, WHICH IS PROBABLY WHERE OUR INFECTION STARTED. AND MY GOODNESS, WHAT AN INFECTION. THERE WAS DEFINITELY DEAD TISSUE AND A BACTERIAL ODOR. IN FACT, IT’S SUCH AN EXTREME WOUND THAT IT’S MAKING ME WONDER… YOU SEE, THERE’S A RARE LUNG CANCER THAT SPREADS TO THE PAWS. AS LONG AS WE’RE SEDATED, DO YOU THINK WE SHOULD DO A CHEST X-RAY? NO? YOU’RE SURE? OK THEN. WE’LL START COMING OUT OF SEDATION ANY MINUTE, THEN, AND YOU CAN COME PICK US UP ANY TIME.”

“I’ll pick up the cat, thank you very much, but I won’t be picking you up, nosirree bob.” I muttered after hanging up and congratulating myself for negotiating down from yet another cancer screening, through bacterial culture, and right down to a wait-and-see approach with a broad-spectrum antibiotic.

To make a very long story only a little bit longer, Pippin and I then spent some quality time together every 12 hours for the next 10 days as I forced one and a half dropper fulls of antibiotic between his resisting teeth. And all this joy was followed by a follow-up vet visit, this time with Dr. Calm. She speaks softly but with conviction, gets down on the floor to examine Pippin there where he has the illusion of control (though he couldn’t hide his fear from her stethoscope and her astonished count of 200 heart beats per minute).

Oh, and Dr. Calm confirmed that Pippin’s paw is healing nicely, which flies somewhat in the face of the cancer diagnosis.

Mourning Half-Gone Summer

Me and My Life

I’ve been sick this week. Not horribly sick, just sick enough to put me into Accomplish The Bare Minimum mode… and keep me from eating for two days… and make me sleep for 14 hours night day and 10 hours the next. I’d class it is Moderately Miserable on a scale of “It’s Just a Cold” to “I Want My Mommy.” So, while it wasn’t so bad, it’s contributed to my sense that summer is passing me by. I was gone for two weeks that were so pleasant they felt like just a couple of days, then the day after I got back from that our family dog died and I lost a week to the haze of shock and pain that comes from losing a close furry friend, then I popped over to Iowa for my cousin’s wedding, and then I got sick (which only served to remind me that when the dog was alive, he’d come keep watch over me when I was sick). That’s a month, folks. A month of my precious, short summer is already gone. For all intents and purposes, I only have one more month of it left.

I want to dig my heals in and slow time down. I want to accomplish all those big summer projects I had lined up ready to fill the ever-fictional vast stretches of unscheduled time. I want to accomplish nothing at all and spend my time reading, or dangling tantalizing strings in front of the cat, or sitting on the porch watching the trees grow, or taking long walks to nowhere in particular. Uncharacteristically, I also want to meet new people. I’ve been living on my own deserted island for long enough, but haven’t had the time or energy or know-how to change that.

If that looks like about 4 summers’ worth of things to do to you, too, then I guess I’m not crazy.

Meanwhile, all the extra sleeping I did this week, combined with dream-induced anxiety about an upcoming speaking gig, had me up and about by 5 o’clock this morning. I lay in bed composing draft upon draft of an email in my head, complete with emphases and bold assertions. Then I cleaned my kitchen while I decided whether or not to actually write and send that email. And finally I made tea and took it and my laptop to the porch to buckle down to the actual task itself.

And you know what? I think that salvaged my day, because now I’ve been sitting here for 2 hours on the porch, sipping tea, listening to the birds, idly paging through the internet, and marveling at the lazy softness of a foggy morning. This, here right now, is what I want to do for the rest of my summer.

But instead I’ll get up, eat breakfast, take a shower, and get ready for a day at work full of half-finished projects, half-begun plans, and a distinct lack of string toys or cats.