The Story of Hobbes

[This will be another post where much less We is used in lieu of more I. {Sorry Rachel.]


It's been a long time. Almost two years. Despite a whole load of things that have happened over the last few years, it remains prudent to keep them private...for awhile.

However, there are some things that don't require as much discretion.

This is one of them.

You're not supposed to have favorite pets. Just like you're not supposed to have favorite children (should you have them).

But it happens.

Juniper & Hobbes, 2008 

Hobbes (and his adopted brother Juniper) came into my life in the Spring of 2008. They were kittens from a shelter in Canada.

I had just bought my first house, and had only planned on getting one - because every home needs a cat. The cat I had selected was Juniper because he seemed the most friendly. Later it became evident that he was friendly because I had been eating potato chips before going into the shelter and he loved the salt on my fingers. Still he was beautiful, so I chose him. While scoping out the kittens the man I was dating at the time fell for one of the scrappy ugly loud cats,who was pacing back and forth across his shoulders screeching, and I couldn't say no. So I got them both.

Turns out the cat I never wanted would be the one I couldn't imagine life without.

In his first week Hobbes got sick. I was having a low-key house party and so I cradled him in my arms all night, walking among my guests. I believe that it bonded us in a unique way.

A year or so later I rented out my house and moved Hobbes and Juniper from a big three bedroom two-story to a one bedroom apartment...where, depending on who you ask, I lost my mind, had a mental breakdown, or found myself (or, myselves, as the case may be).

In that apartment I crumbled. For the better part of 7 months I experienced severe mental health issues. I was "a bit" out of control, having fits of panic, at one point laying on my kitchen floor screaming and crying because I thought was going insane. I would hardly sleep. I drank a lot and would pass out on the living room floor. I would be short with the cats, yelling at them when they would meow incessantly while I was trying to write (entries for this very blog). It was a painful time. For half the year in that apartment I was a bad cat mommy. I don't recall how often the litter box got changed, or how frequently the water got replenished or the dish got washed or if I kept them fed. I do know that Juniper and Hobbes deserved so much better. But we survived together.

In October of 2011 we packed up and moved back to the states due to some work permit issues. Ultimately I ended up living with The Mother for about a year and a half.

She took care of the cats when I went to England for a couple of months. In that time she got them declawed - if they were going to stay in her house this was part of her conditions.

Juniper and Hobbes had new buddies to play with, as Mother had her own cats and was taking care of my cat Louis (named after the vampire from 'Interview with a Vampire'), whom I had relinquished to her when I moved to Canada nearly 8 years earlier. We survived.

Finally, in spring of 2013 I bought a house in the Midwest of the United States. A small two-story with a basement and plenty of room for the cats. They made the house home.

They had very different personalities, Juniper - the cat I had chosen from the shelter so many years 

Christmas, 2017

ago - was a loner. A beautiful loner with wonky back legs, neurological issues, and abandonment trauma from when he was a kitten, which is common with cats separated from their mothers too early. He wasn't my favorite. But I loved him dearly. And so did Hobbes.

Juniper passed away this past December, 2018, dying while I was on one of my regular trips to Los Angeles. He had been sick for awhile, fluid had built up in his lungs. We caught it early and they were able to remove some of the liquid which provided him a few final months of love, cuddles, and treats. He was 10 years old and left behind his brother Hobbes, who was the same age, and his two new siblings - Whiskey, 3 years old at the time, and Baxter,1 year old at the time (two accidental rescues).

Hobbes and I grew increasingly close over the years. He would sit on my lap and push himself into my arms when I was playing video games and I would happily give in.

He would sit in my lap and look up at me in the most lovingly way. Some have said his love for me was unusual (some might use the term creepy), as they'd watch as he would slowly reach is soft paw up to my face as if he wanted to stroke my cheek, and then he would try to coax my face towards him so he could lick and nip at my nose. Kitty kisses

When I would get out of the shower he would be sitting on the seat of the toilet waiting. As I would dry myself off he would reach for my wet hair and lick the water from it - sometimes he would chew a small, but thick, bundle of it off, but it was hard to be angry about it. 

Anytime I was using the washroom he would put his front paws on my knees and pull my face down to his with his paw for kisses.

When I would mow the lawn he'd sit in the dining room window and watch me, and when I'd have to stop nearby it to empty the bagger I'd talk to him and pet at him through the screen.

Whenever I would fill my water bottles for work with ice from the outside of the fridge he'd reach up, stretching against the refrigerator, and meow. He loved filtered water and ice in his water dish.

Some have remarked in the past that he had a very unique personality compared to other cats.

He loved me unconditionally. He was the only living thing that has ever made me feel unquestionably loved. I don't care how crazy that sounds.

                                                                  ~     ~     ~

When I came home from Los Angeles last Wednesday and did my check-in with each of the cats he was the last to check, mostly because he didn't come to greet me at the door as usual.

I wasn't in the door more than 10-15 minutes before I was out the door with him, in the car on the way to the emergency vet, terrified. There was definitely something wrong with him. He had fallen sick during the day and was lethargic and despondent and his mouth smelled horrible and it was sticky.
I lost it.
I was crying, panicking, growing more fearful. I was sure he was going to die in my arms on the 40 minute drive to the nearest emergency vet (the nearest vet in general).
I was holding him, kissing his ears and singing him nonsense songs, covering him in snot and tears as I told him what an amazing companion he is.
I thought he was going to die in my arms on that interstate.

Instead he died in my arms in a private room at the emergency vet clinic about 24 hours later. 

                                                                  ~     ~      ~

I jumped out of the car and handed them my baby. My love. And they whisked him away to immediately administer an IV of liquids and stabilize him. Through the tears I tried to decide if I would opt for CPR if they had to revive him, or choose DNR. I went for the CPR, which later I would learn in most cases is probably not the best idea anyway.

It wasn't long before they decided they would have to keep him for at least two days. He had arrived dehydrated, body temperature dropping. His blood work did not look promising.

His creatine levels were at 11. The high end of the acceptable range is 2.4.
His globulin readings were also high.
He was in kidney failure.
And on top of that he was suffering from a fatty liver.
They kept him overnight, texting an update before bed, and one in the morning.

The following day I had to work but was able to plan to see him in the afternoon.
They sent me to a private room to spend time with Hobbes when I got there.
But before they brought him in I was greeted by the vet.

He proceeded to tell me that Hobbes had gotten even worse. For the past two hours they had him in an oxygen tent because his breathing had gotten shallow.
He said he wasn't going to recover. There wasn't even a chance.
Through my shattering heart and tears and wailing I told him we should end his suffering.
They brought him, wrapped in a blanket, and placed him in my arms. They said I could have 5 minutes with him. 10 minutes tops.

He immediately reached one of his soft paws up to my face, and as it dropped down he began gasping for air. Before the nurse even left the room I called to her and asked her to bring the shot. He continued to gasp for air in my arms as I sobbed and told him how much I love him, how lucky I was to have had him, how amazing he is.

They gave him the shot and his body started to relaxed against me..

I sat there for about a half an hour cradling my dead cat, the love of my life, in my arms. Kissing his soft ears, covering him in tears.

His ashes joined Juniper's today, along with an imprint of one of his paws, 
and several prints on paper of his little toe beans.

I thought I had several more years with Hobbes. All the cats I had known, which is numerous, up to Juniper, had lived to be around 18 years old. I thought Juniper's death was a fluke, a rare occurrence. Hobbes was going to live forever.

I was, and still am, in shock.

That this light in my life is gone forever. Now when I do all of the things around the house that he used to be a part of there's an emptiness. When ice comes tumbling from the ice maker, it's almost unbearable. It took me days to use it. He will never sleep in the crook of my arm, or be my little spoon again.

When I was done mowing the lawn last weekend I sobbed in the shower and then passed out on the bed. I miss him so much. His funny little face and his weird little ways.

And it was all preventable.

                                                                  ~     ~      ~

I use an app called Pet Desk. It's a communication app between you and your vet. On it you can review things like medication information and blood test results.

This past April I had taken Hobbes and Whiskey to get their teeth cleaned and opted for the blood tests - a very important thing to do before an older pet ,or a pet with health issues, goes into surgery. The primary concern for everyone was Whiskey because he's Feline Leukemia (FeLV) positive, so his immune system is compromised which makes him susceptible to infections.

I am in the habit of taking notes when the vet or the technicians call, so I have notes related to that time period - none of which reference Hobbes or the test readings that are now clearly warning signs. When I was prompted to go back and review his blood test results from April I was alarmed and angered to learn that at that time his creatine levels (a key reading for kidney function) were already at 2.8, a full .8 higher than Whiskey's 2.0 which they felt warranted a discussion. But they never mentioned Hobbes'.

As a matter of fact there were a couple of blood markers that were a bit concerning that nobody felt the need to address; a point that I have already brought up with my vet when I discussed what had happened, demanding an apology from the person responsible. I got the apology a day later, but it was weak and ineffectual. I have since had to take another cat in (Baxter, he's mostly fine) to the vet and I stayed an extra half an hour until his blood tests were complete so the vet was forced to go over them with me. I have told them that in the future when I get blood work done for my cats (of which there are now 4) at their establishment that I would be waiting the half an hour for the results fin order to have a face-to-face discussion about the readings. With as much money as I have poured into that place, in the several thousands this year, I am now going to make them work for it. Because there is nothing more heartbreaking than someone/something you love dying too soon because of the negligence of a professional.

In the end I decided to write this blog post because
a) This event needed to be documented, because Hobbes was a very important part of my life.
b) As stupid as it sounds I was having a difficult time participating in social media or post about this, save a private post on FB, or anything, because the crushing heartache broke me. I also could not withstand one single assclown who would try to demean my grief if I posted about what I was feeling. Social Media is a different place these days.
c) I wanted this story out here in the ether so that it may prompt other pet owners to be more proactive in the care of their own pets by using tools like Pet Desk, by reviewing test results and researching what they may indicate.

I was lucky to have adopted two kittens (Cori and Siri) at the end of May (who were sick when I adopted them) which prompted skipping my Los Angeles trips for the summer so I could be with them for the first few months, which meant I got to spend a lot of quality time with Hobbes.

I had often talked to Hobbes (as a crazy cat lady does) after Juniper passed about how I didn't want him to die while I was away. That it would be devastating. I know it's a long time from now, I would say, but please don't go when I'm not here.

He died in my arms at 4:45pm CST on September 5th 2019, while I kissed his soft ears and cried into his loving face.

He had waited for me. 

                                                                  ~     ~      ~

Selected photos from the thousands that exist...

    

Always helping with projects

  

 

Hobbes & Baxter, 2019

  

The Thing Living Inside Frankie

Image Source

To preface, "The Thing" is not a baby.
One hundred percent NOT a baby.

Now that that's out of the way, we can move on.

For the sake of easier reading there will be times were the writing of this post is in first person, and times when we flip to us/we when it seems appropriate. This is one of the rare occasions in the many years of writing that there has been swapping, or even use of  "I".
If you don't know who "We" are, and are actually curious, there is an archive of writing available at your disposal right here on the blog (tip: click the hyperlink).
The reason for this, as stated, is ease of reading, because it's about a very important topic.

Some people may have noticed in the last couple of months references to a physical health issue in some of our Tweets, ranging to vague to specific. Until we had as much information as possible it seemed prudent to hold back on writing about it.
Part of the reason for writing about it is that when there first started to be issues we would Google them, find threads, forums, groups, where people would be describing the exact same symptoms we had. Some men, some women, people of all ages. Yet they never returned to say what happened when they [finally] went to the doctor. People would just add to their threads saying they had the same issues. It was frustrating. Not that the internet could have done a proper job of diagnosing the issue anyway. Still, when a person is at wits end trying to get a ballpark estimate on the possible health problem...forums seemed to offer no help.

The symptoms in question were really noticed, fully, at the end of January of this year. They included: extreme fatigue, dizziness, pain in the right abdomen just beneath the rib cage, and in the matter of about 4 weeks a 15 pound weight gain.
Aside from insurance issues, the other barrier to seeing a doctor immediately was that that's not really how we were raised. On the farm you generally didn't go to the doctor unless you were losing a serious amount of blood, or an appendage. The only times we really recall being in a doctors office are when we had allergy testing (at about the age of 6), when we ran our thumb through a table saw (at about 13. It was the cool thing to do.) and then after the car accident. So if you're not feeling well...well that's no reason to go to the doctor, sillypants. So we mostly dismissed it. Came up with other reasons for feeling the way we felt.

The first thing people should know is that I work hard to maintain what little healthy physique this body displays. Aside from [what some feel massive] steady/unchanging amount of alcohol consumption, the diet is stable. A lot of fresh fruits and vegetables (and in the summer garden fresh from our own garden), whole foods, fresh meat products, minimal junk food or processed foods, mostly home-cooked (gotta use that culinary arts degree for something), low-carb (no white bread, no pasta, minimal rice, etc). Lots of fucking apples, cabbages, tomatoes, and the like. Like everyday. I also regularly workout 4-5 times a week for 45-90 minutes at a time (depending on if it's a Kettlebell day). And as stated, no change in alcohol consumption.

So this 15 pounds was a concern, especially when paired with the other symptoms. Call it a perk of being obsessed with paying attention to one's body and how it functions.
Turns out it was a good thing.

We had inquired with a woman at the gym sometimes in April, who is there pretty often, as we are, about tips to kick that stubborn weight issue. This was before any doctor appointment.
One of the first things she asked was about age, and then immediately attributed it to that. "Yeah. I know. The metabolism slows down the older a woman gets. But 15 pounds in a matter of weeks?". She wasn't overly helpful, but it wasn't shocking. We were just sort of querying all manner of sources. Plus, in that early stage of the end of February/beginning of March we hadn't really put the other symptoms together with this issue. Even by April there was only a vague feeling that they may be connected. Truth be told they all did just seemed things that happen when you get old (aside from the pain). And most people backed up that theory with their perspective on it.

We knew we'd eventually have to go the doctor. The problem with the pain increased, the exhaustion made going to the gym a tortuous chore and in addition to it all we were feeling depressed (but, not in a way we recognized well. A new feeling of depression, somewhat linked to other personal issues, but it felt different). I would have went to the doctor sooner, but our household found ourselves without health insurance this year until May, so it was a waiting game.
June 2nd we posted to a select group of FB friends:
"We don't usually go hypochondriac...but...for the past 6 months (the earliest we can recall) we've been having intermittent pain in part of our abdomen (right where the kidneys and liver reside)..."

June 14th we finally made it to the doctor appointment we had scheduled shortly after that night.
They did a complete physical, blood work up and gynecological exam. Ran through all the usual questions. Inquired about different things in life (changes, stress in a relationship, etc). The doctor didn't bat an eye at the alcohol consumption reported; and yes, we are pathologically honest with our doctors about how much we drink. Nothing good comes from keeping stuff from your doctor, especially in cases like this. We gave the most complete details on our health, right down to bowel movements and other strange aches, because by this time we had done enough researching trying to figure out what was wrong it was determined that if could be nearly anything, and it might take one overlooked symptom to be the link to the diagnosis.

The physical went fine. Nothing found. The gynecological exam and pap came back clean. The blood work came back the same day and we passed with flying colors - except for a pretty giant Vitamin D deficiency that is common in places where half the year people don't expose their skin to the sun. Take Vitamin D, people. It has so many physical and mental health benefits. So many people experiencing depression and mood issues could benefit from Vitamin D over some pharmacrap. Look it up. Vitamins are important, especially ones hard come by. The weird depressed feeling we had improved pretty significantly after a few weeks of Vitamin D - plus they come in fun gummies. It's like having candy for breakfast!

But I digress.

The day after the doctor appointment we ran a local 10K feeling confident about our health - despite the lingering pain: the enzyme panel that measures kidney, pancreas, and more importantly, liver function, was all normal. A fact that anybody we told, who knows how much we drink, felt hard pressed to believe. They'd kind of cock their head to the side and exclaim "Realllyyy...??"
"Yes. Really.", we'd reply derisively.
The red and white blood count was "on fleek" (hahah. How dare you use that in your writing!).
No cholesterol issues, and to that point no high blood pressure. It really made us feel like going back to the doctor, who questioned our healthy lifestyle, and sticking our finger in his face.
It should be noted, also, that when I discussed that 15 pound weight gain with the doctor he said the same thing as everyone else: "Your metabolism slows down as you get older." To which I replied: "But 15 pounds in just a few weeks? By that measure I'll be 300 pounds by winter." He then agreed, yes, it is unlikely to be due to old age. Fucking doctors, man. The doubt about what you're saying, about your own body and lifestyle. Like they know more about the body and life you live in.

The blood work was excellent, so the doctor scheduled an ultrasound to try to get to the bottom of the symptoms, especially that pain.
June 28th we were getting our very first ultrasound.
They warm the jelly and it feels like some gently cumming on you, and then they play in it with their special wand. When done you're handed a washcloth to clean it all off with, like that charming young man you once met.
Not even gonna apologize for that graphic interpretation.

It was about a week before they got back with the results.

Did you know theses days you can see almost everything most health providers post to your chart, almost right away via an online app/portal? It's really cool. Unless you get those results at midnight in the middle of Fourth of July weekend.

There were all sorts of measurements for organs, and then just "gallbladder appears normal". It was midnight, we were at a campground, so we spent the rest of the evening looking up the normal measurements for organs: Liver, common bile duct, right kidney (no mention of the left; what is a renal pelvis?!), pancreas (wait, what does "focal hypoechoic area mean?!). Some of the measurements seemed an issue.
"Further evaluation is recommended. MR or CT would be helpful"

Great. We got this just after midnight on Saturday. There was no one to call until Tuesday.

When we finally got to talk to a nurse she relayed the doctor's message that he'd like to order a CT (or CAT) scan.

July 7th we were sitting in a waiting room full of old OLD people in the cancer center of one of the large local-ish clinics drinking measured amounts of oral contrast mixed with water. It was really a pretty quick procedure after the two hours of drinking the mixture, and of course we made jokes with the nurse the whole time.

"You're going to feel like you peed yourself when I inject the contrast into your veins", she said right before the final scan.
Seconds after it was injected we told her "Oh my god. I'm not entirely sure I HAVE'T peed myself". Laughs all around.

It wasn't too long before the results came in. One of the perks to living in a low-population area is the speedy response to medical testing, I guess.

This one dropped a few things off the search list. The liver was fine (again, people were shocked). Unremarkable, as a matter of fact. The spleen and adrenals. Everything...but the pancreas.
They wanted to double check the ultrasound with an MRI. We could hear the sounds of cash registers and emptying coffers.
But. What is this? At the bottom of the report. This is something new.

"In the left pelvis there is a complex primary cystic mass which measures 7.2 x 10.6 cm. This contains internal septations, which are partially calcified. A more solid component is present along the more anterior and inferior margin. This appears to originate from the right ovary. The left ovary is unremarkable." and then in the recap: "Complex right adnexal mass which appears to be ovarian in origin. This contains both cystic and solid components. GYN consult is recommended.

Hmmm.

They scheduled the MRI for the pancreas issue.

Our favourite grandfather passed in December of 2009 of pancreatic cancer, so this put a little scare in some people. Father was going to be in the area, so he volunteered to be there for us the day of the MRI. We had had MRIs before for spinal issues, so it wasn't anything new. We knew pancreatic cancer to be a cruel, but swift, cancer. But the day came, it was mostly uneventful. A nice time to spend with Father, over cookies and coffee at a local cafe, catching up on life a little.

In the meantime the nurse called to schedule an appointment with a the gynecological specialist. It wouldn't be until August 1st because we were heading out of town for a 10 vacation in Canada soon, a yearly pilgrimage to the city we love so much (that so many people dislike) for the annual Fringe Fest and to spend time with Fabulous People (or at least the last remaining of the happy troupe from way back in the day). and to go to hot yoga, and day drink.

The MRI came back, for the first time we had to call and ask about why it hadn't been put in our chart yet. The nurse said that the MRI came back fine, nothing much of note (though when we looked at it it said there were two small lesions on the liver. Should probably keep an eye on that), but to be sure not to miss that appointment with the specialist next month. Later we got a call from the other nurse saying everything on the MRI was fine so there was no need to see the doctor. We pressed her, saying that's not what we were told that same morning by Nurse A. She looked further and said, oh, yes, absolutely go to that appointment.
How irritating. If I hadn't taken it upon myself to inquire about the results earlier that day all I would have had is this woman saying everything is fine, go about your life.
This is why you should ALWAYS be proactive in your healthcare. Make calls. Ask questions. All of the questions. Ask them twice. Just because they have the education and the degrees doesn't mean they are perfect. Don't be a statistic of negligence.

Fast forward to August 1st. The day after my 38th birthday.

The nurse takes me into the examination room and gets all of the particulars (she clearly has no idea why I'm there). When she gets to the alcohol consumption portion and I throw the number (in mL) her pen stops.
"Wow! That's a lot!" she exclaims.
"Yes. I know." I reply flatly.
"Do...do you think you have a problem?" She asks. She is the first doctor to ever ask that. And we do, in fact, have fairly regular doctor appointments. Every two years at least.  Little does she know, up until recently, the amount of alcohol she was struggling to understand was just from two to three nights of weekend drinking.
"No. I don't think I have a problem." I say.
"Can you face the day without a drink?" she asks, searching for an obvious sign of alcoholism.
"Absolutely. As a matter of fact I wake up every morning thinking 'I don't think I'll need a drink today'. And then life happens. A day happens."
I follow it up with pointing out the geographical region she shares in living with us, and saying it's not unusual given the specific coordinates.

She gets all the info she needs, leaves the room and the doctor comes in.

She asks some cursory questions before getting to the meat of it. Checks the vitals, asking about reported symptoms, asking about symptoms I hadn't mentioned because they have become such a part of my life. Backpain? Sure. I broke my back and have a degenerative spinal issue, I say. Though later I'll realize that, while I try to maintain the pain with exercise, diet, and alcohol, I had found myself reaching for the Ibuprofen the last few months, just thinking I'd been overdoing the Kettlebell workouts, or perhaps pulled something.
Digestive issues? She asks.
That's a hard one too. At a young age, before it was really a thing, Mother had us get allergy testing, for whatever reason, so we know have allergies to corn, wheat...pretty much every grain but rice. And a lot of other things to boot.
And because we've been fairly successful at maintaining weight after that one hundred pound weight loss, all thanks to a low-carb Atkins-type diet, which requires keen observation of your body's reaction to certain foods as you add them in, we know that the times when we splurge with a burger, or a bit of pasta, our digestive system...well...it ain't pretty. But sometimes nothing happens. It's literally a crap shoot. But since we've had this issue forever, the slight increase of problems turned out to be a symptom.
Symptom after symptom, she kept asking questions. Do you find yourself feeling fuller faster than usual lately? Who knows? I don't eat much to begin with, not really. But I could always eat. (Being vigilant about diet, and having a historically poor relationship with food, means sometimes you don't know if you're actually hungry or not. But that's another issue, and is more nuanced that we have time for here).
She said that next she'd do a pelvic exam, and then we'd talk about "why you're here".
She was totally burying the lead.

She finished up the pelvic exam. "Everything appears to be normal", she says.
Duh. We just had an exam less than two months ago.

She sits at her little desk, while we sit on the examining table, naked from the waist down, a little paper sheet over our lap.

She turns to me and says "So, you're here today because they have found a sizable cyst on your ovary. About 10cm across." She forms her hand in an weird circle, shows me, and says "it's about the size of a babies head".

Now. I'm not sure why this was a surprise, other than, despite reading it in the CAT scan report we didn't really think about it the measurement/size.
First, it's in cm. And we are American. What is a cm, even? (Joking. Yes, we know what a cm is, even it's harder to visualize than an inch).
Second, the couple of times we thought about it we pictured some web-like structure. Not a fucking large grapefruit lodged in our pelvis.
So when she said "It's about the size of a babies head", my hand flew to my mouth and I shouted "Are you fucking kidding!?"
She thought that was funny. She probably doesn't have many cussing mouthy patients.
"Like, a baby-baby head, or like, a fetus-baby head?", we asked.
"Baby-baby." she replied.

Time and details kind of got weird and sometimes ffuzzy at that point. She started talking about it's complexities, that they were going to have to do surgery to take the cyst out (only 5-10% of cysts require removal [1]), and also take the ovary and the fallopian tube (1/3 of our reproductive system) and how they weren't necessarily sure what ovary it was attached to because when a female lies down the ovaries sort of tuck together towards the back.

"As long as you take the right one", we joked.
"I'll be sure to take the one with the baby head attached!", she joked back.
We were immensely happy that she had such a good sense of humor.
Good character and a sense of humor is what you want from the person who is going to slice into you with sharp instruments.

She immediately sent us for (more) blood work, this time to test for cancer markers (the CA125 marker, specifically, and one other we don't recall), and another ultrasound. This time with a focus on The Thing, because the The Thing wasn't a consideration in the first ultrasound. As an aside they did find two small fibroids, one measuring about 1cm in size. Which are just more small tumors, but completely normal. One thing I learned from research is that cysts in the reproductive organs are highly common, and the only time they become a problem is when they don't eventually pass through during a menstruation, in which case they turn into something like The Thing, and can become cancerous.

So that's that, essentially.

There will one of three surgical outcomes.
1) laparoscopy - that's the nice one. A couple of small cuts WITH LASERS (haha! fiber optic instruments, really, but still), and then they inflate the area so they can put a balloon around The Thing, and then extract it. This is the preferred method with the shortest amount of recovery time, and no overnight hospital stay.
2) laparotomy - this involves a larger linear cut. They'll "open us up", and extract it that way. Bigger cut. Overnight stay in the hospital. Bigger scar. Longer recovery. Less desired. (I'm only booking off ten days for recovery)
3) they make the first incision and see some crazy unexpected shit in there so they close it back up and reschedule the operation with a special specialist/surgeon.

We literally won't know which will happen until we wake up from surgery and see what happened. That sucks.

Aside from the general anxiety about going under for surgery, which was scheduled for the earliest date that fit both my work schedule, the recovery time required, and the surgeons schedule [September 7th]- it's our first time.
To cope with the uncertainty we've just been making jokes (it's our go-to mechanism) about how we never planned on using the ovaries anyway, and other such things. Sure, it's scary. But I have people to deal with that (see, that's a DID/MPD joke 😄)

To get a better idea of how big it is I took the dimensions provided by the last ultrasound and carved a model out of an overgrown zucchini because we had been having a difficult time envisioning it, like really putting context to The Thing.

Fun. Hey? That's roughly the size (it's a couple mm under, but you get the picture) illustrated in the photo. The coffee cup is to provide scale.

So, in addition to the unease about the surgery itself, there's also the risk of it being malignant (cancerous), which is more common with complex masses like The Thing. Guess we can't ever do anything the simple way.
When they handed us the pamphlet "So You Have An Ovarian Cyst" (just kidding, that's not what it's titled), we flipped through it on the back inside panel was the Warning Signs of Cancer of the Ovary.
Checking off the symptoms we have:
 bloating
 pelvic or abdominal pain
 back pain
 enlargement or swelling of the abdomen
 constipation
 feeling tired
         6 out of the 10. Not a great score, really.
13-21% of cysts that require surgical removal turn out to be cancerous [1]

The real concern at the moment is that that giant sack of crap will burst and flood our body will all sorts of madness. This has translated into augmenting our gym activities a bit, and taking a rest from running for while. Which is slightly miserable, but better than being poisoned by The Thing.

But here's where we buried the lead just a little.
This afternoon I called to inquire as to the status of the blood work they took back on August 1st and it came back clear! Which, in and of itself, isn't a definitive "No cancer" - that'll be determined  when the cut the bugger up - but it's a happy hurdle for sure. *releases the balloons*

At the end of it, this tale is meant to raise a little awareness of:
a) of how easy it is to miss a cyst in a routine pelvic exam. It was literally undetected in June during a the pelvic exam. The doctor thought the pain was going to be an issue with the gallbladder.
b) how easy it is to dismiss symptoms as something else, or not necessarily take a slight increase in severity seriously because you're just used to living with it.
c) how you should never let someone tell you the symptoms you are experiencing are because YOU'RE FUCKING OLD.
d) how you should pay attention to your body. Get to know it. Intimately.
That 15 pound weight loss didn't really translate into a big increase in clothing size. We never would have taken anything seriously if it wasn't for how much we pay attention to our body.

Get to know your body, because if you can catch an issue in time then you could save your own life.

Thanks for reading!
____________________
[1]  Office of Women's Health, US Department of Health and Human Services https://www.womenshealth.gov/a-z-topics/ovarian-cysts
____________________

As an aside. If you made it this far. Here's one thing. And this is not to pick on any one person. It's literally been loads of people doing it.
When someone tells you about such a situation, the last things they may want to hear is: how you had a friend who had one and she's okay now, or how much they're going to beat this, or any other such thing. It minimizes the seriousness. It's a lot like saying so-and-so has depression too, and they are fine. Other people experiencing the same thing is not always a comfort to the person experiencing the thing. In this case, you know who hasn't said anything? People who know people who have died from something like this, or in the case of people with mental health issues, all the very negative statistics.
People DIE from ovarian cancer.
According to the American Cancer Society it's the fifth most popular way to die of cancer.
While we are no way panicking about the situation, we have to be realistic, not foolishly optimistic. Because the best preparation for anything, is preparation for everything.

Our Adventure Dog, May She RIP...

She was born on a farm in the country outside of a small town surrounded by other small towns in the the middle of nowhere in the Midwest of the United States. She was born of mixed breeds, Austrialian Shepherd, Keeshond, and Border Collie. She was gorgeous.
She was chosen because when we knelt to pet the puppies  in the litter they all ran away. But she stayed. She rolled over on her back for a belly scratch. She was ours immediately.

We named her Keesha. Her full name was Keeshandra, but at one point she was named "Keeshandra Sky 'da Bomb' Anderville" as named by one of two roommates who wanted her to have an amalgamation of her and the other roommate's last name. Everybody loved Keesha immediately, and it would be the same through her entire long life. She had a wonderful, gentle, yet protective disposition...and she was a bit batty sometimes and not at all graceful. You couldn't not fall in love with her.

Keesha started off life a princess among cats. About 16 to be exact. They, of course, were Mother's cats. It was just a year after high school graduation when we got her. We had moved up North, a few hundred miles away from where we had been evicted and left with no place to go, for what would be one of many forays in adult life involving living with Mother.
Sometimes it was as if Keesha thought she was a cat, crawling into your lap, as a full grown dog, rubbing her head and pressing her body against you in the way that cats do.

She got all the love and attention she wanted as she chased ducks across the yard and dug holes in the middle of potted plants. Later when we'd moved across the road to a derelict old farm house, she spent hours running in the fields, often bringing back something dead to bestow proudly on the doorstep, much to terror of the roommate who had only experienced city pets.
In the snow she'd dive, coming up for air, covered in powder. Nothing kept her sitting down, she wanted to be everywhere at once.

Alas, she was to move away from the vast fields where she spent her days running and playing, just under a year after she came to live near them. In a little two door Honda Civic, with her two human "mommies" and as much of their belongings as possible...and two cats...she headed west.

When she got there she had to live in an apartment, but it wasn't all bad because despite the rules she got let out to run free in the complex and have all sorts of new adventures. She didn't adapt to the potty training though, which took her almost four years to figure out. Nor did she ever take to a leash. If she was going for a walk, SHE was walking YOU.

She made many dog friends, some she went camping with near mountains and big lakes, swimming for the first time, running everywhere, her tongue hanging out in sheer happiness.

After her mommies weren't friends anymore and she moved to a new place with her two cat friends she had to say goodbye to them because the her new "daddy" didn't like them. She got a new sister, a horrible beagle mixed breed named Dolly who would be mean to her all the time and hit her with her front leg, which had a metal bar implanted in it. She was a spoiled dog who didn't take kindly to her new housemates. But at least she got to go to dog parks, swim in the streams there, and play Frisbee. She had endless love and energy for playing catch.

It wasn't long before she had to say goodbye to the big green mountains and lakes she loved, and go on another long road trip to a new home. She and Dolly moved East and she became a Chicago dog. She finally got a big backyard to play in and all sorts of new smells to experience.

She may have thought her big adventures were over, but it wasn't before long that her human mommy packed her up and took her away from her new family. Which was fine with her, because she didn't like them anyway, and loved adventure.

Unfortunately she had to live in a kennel for a couple of months before moving west again. Her human mommy packed up all of the things she could fit into a Ford Bronco II and they set off for something new. This time there were mountains to explore again, but these were more brown than green, and sadly there were no lakes. But there sure were adventures!

In the span of a year she got to live with a whole new set of people, tattooed and pierced people, and a little person.
And then just a few months after she had arrived, she got to move to Florida for awhile that included adventures sleeping in the Bronco II at a muggy Louisiana gas station, and then again in Kansas at a cold snowy rest-stop after it had been decided they should return to the mountains.
And then she lived in an old pool house in a bad part of town where her yard was a filled in swimming pool full of dirt. It wasn't the greatest of places and she wasn't allowed to go for walks, but at least she still had her human Mommy, and her mommy's tattooed friend, Body Piercer, to keep her company.
One night, while her human mommy and her roommate were trying to skip out on the rent in the middle of the night, to move to a better safer neighborhood, she almost got taken as collateral by an angry land lady! Luckily she was saved from being separated from the people who loved her, and she went to live in a new place...but that wouldn't last long...

Her human mommy went a little extra "crazy"...and she was stuck in one room with her for many many long days, and then was asked to move out. Having no place to go at the drop of a hat, it was back to the Bronco II for a few nights of sleep while things got figured out. But it was pretty cool, because she got to sleep at a park with a great view of the mountains, and got to run and play way more than she had been able to. And she got a new human daddy. The best human daddy a dog could ask for.

So she was packed up again, this time with a trailer hooked to the Bronco II, and they all headed east towards the Midwest to live with her human grandma, where she would spend the remaining years of her long life, in various different homes in the same city. She got to go on rides into the country ,and long walks in parks where she would play fetch and catch Frisbees and chase squirrels.

Her human mommy moved away after a few years and couldn't take her with because it was a whole other country; and her human daddy moved away too. She was left with her human grandma and grandpa, who loved her very much, and got a new giant yard for her to play in and took her to the lake every weekend from Memorial Day Weekend to Labor Day Weekend. She would jump around in excitement the minute she saw the coolers and suitcases emerge from closets, knowing that it was her favorite time of year. Her human mommy would visit, sometimes not so often, but in the last few years of her life she lived in the same house again, and went on lake trips with her...and then, one day, her family had to make a really hard decision involving her...

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

She lived to be 17 years old. Her birthday had just passed. Last summer we had talked to Mother about what might have to be done, because she couldn't hold her bowels anymore (turns out she had been eating all of the cherry tomatoes from the plants in the garden and they were causing her to have accidents) and had started to lose her eyesight and her hearing, and we wanted a summer at the lake to be the last thing she remembered. But because she was still really active at the end of last summer, and despite her deteriorating senses she still managed catch toys, her "eternal rest" was postponed.

She made it through the winter, and this Spring had still been taking nightly walks. But then about three weeks ago it became apparent that she couldn't see or hear almost anything anymore, she stopped playing fetch, she no longer pulled on the leash during walks, she stopped eating and lost half of her body weight. She no longer enjoyed the things she had enjoyed her whole life and each day you could see the deterioration.

So it was decided that she should be given her final rest. She had the most amazing life almost any dog could have had - this story was but mere highlights of her many adventures - and lived longer than most pets, and it would have been cruel to let her continue to be in more pain, starving until she couldn't move anymore at all, just because it was going to be hard as humans to let go of her.

We took her into the vet yesterday. The scale read 20 pounds as they weighed her one final time. We were left to say our final private goodbyes before the vet came in to explain what would take place. Mother paid extra so Keesha could have a morphine shot before the euthanizing shot because it's a more relaxing way to go.

We cradled her head in our hands and held our face against hers, tears streaming, and whispered in her ear, telling her that she was the best dog ever, and that everybody loves her, and that it'll be okay.
Even before they had inserted the needle her eyes looked so tired, and before the full shot of morphine was injected she was gone, her head heavy against our hands.
It was probably one of the hardest experiences we've had over the last few years, and unlike any we can recall.

We've never had to put down a pet before, not as adults. As kids, growing up on a farm, those kinds of things got handled differently, or the pets died of natural causes because farm life is much closer to the life an animal lives in nature, and in nature animals don't live as long as house pets...especially those mother cares for. (Mother says the secret is water, plentiful water, as much as they want.)

Keesha was Our Adventure Dog. She was a constant loving and patient road companion. She was one tough hippie broad of a dog with the disposition of an angel.
She will be cremated and returned to her family. We have requested that some of her ashes be sprinkled at the lake she spend so many summers playing at.
And some of the ashes we want, so we can take small amounts on our travels, so she can keep having adventures, and forever be Our Adventure Dog.

 

RIP, sweet angel dog. <3

The Most Amazing Mental Health Debate: Madness, Incorporated

Probably the most interesting debate on mental health you'll watch this month, maybe even this year...maybe ever.



Please note: if this video is missing, please find it here: http://iai.tv/video/madness-incorporated# - it may require that you sign up for a [free] account.

Let's Talk About Suicide, Baby

This was going to be an issue that we let slide into the pile with so many other things we would have liked to write about this summer (there's been so much), but sometimes there are some people who write some things that crawl into this brain and gnaw at the edges. To eradicate it, is to write. To cleanse the mind...

Mental illnesses, like true chronic depression, is not reserved for the successful, or the talented...nor is it reserved for the poor or disenfranchised.
Mental illness is often due to chemical imbalances of the brain, among many other factors.
(Causes of Depression http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/depression/basics/causes/con-20032977)
Those chemical imbalances know no income level, or social status, or level of talent.

To spread a blanket over suicide and claim it to be selfish, or claim it to be for certain people who deserve it (whether it be because they lived a great life they couldn't handle, or a shitty one, or because they were an icon, or a nobody) is presuming you know the life or support structure, or health, or the mind, of the person who has committed it (or attempted it). You assume a lot the minute you judge someone for making a decision about their life, just because they weren't thinking about you (or the people so many claim loved them), or because their life was a certain way, or worse, because you feel the experience you had with the same mindset/illness is somehow the same for everybody else.

Perhaps the person doesn't have a support system, or if they do, that support system doesn't take their issues seriously, because...you know...depression so bad that they can't imagine a way out other than to kill themselves, is selfish, "all in their head", not real, their fault...
It's not true, (even if you think it is) but often there is nobody in that support system that has ever truly experienced severe depression. In these cases, it's true that nobody understands.
But luckily there are countless people in the world that do. They aren't always easy to find, but if you can't be supportive, you can help find people who are. You can help. You can't help by being judgmental or selfish, you can help, by helping, by listening. Watching for the signs. Understanding the illness.

Depression is not simply about being sad, or being unhappy with your life, or being "bored". 
While those things contribute to overall depression, it's much more.
(Symptoms: http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/depression/basics/symptoms/con-20032977)

Another problem that is growing increasingly common for mental health disorders and issues is the prevalence of them (the terms) being depreciated in meaning by people who pretend for attention, or people who joke (for attention), or people who insert the term that describes very real symptoms as a verb, to sound relevant or make their report "pop" (such as in the media), or people who are simply uneducated and inexperienced with real mental health issues. Or people who are ignorant and hateful.

A good example of a depreciated mental illness going the way of depression, is schizophrenia. Over the last year or so there has been an increase in media personalities using schizophrenia as a verb to describe something random, or disordered; just like people saying they are depressed, when they are simply sad, this distorts the true meaning of the word. This devalues the seriousness of the issue, reduces the likelihood of people dealing with real symptoms to be taken seriously, or feel that they'll be taken seriously.

You don't have to agree, of course. But many mental illnesses, including real depression, have very real symptoms - physiological and psychological. Sometimes symptoms people have become skilled at hiding for periods of time. Sometimes signs and symptoms that are obvious - but in a world where people are increasingly concerned with self, they go unnoticed, or become demonized.

And just because you've experienced some sort of depression, and were able to overcome it, doesn't mean everybody can. You can't expect people to be as strong as you, but you can encourage them to be strong. Belittling people, making them a victim of your ignorance, is not a display of strength.

Mental illness is illness.

[BUT...don't forget: 'A Message To Your Diagnosis' http://just-call-me-frank.blogspot.com/2012/05/message-to-your-diagnosis.html]

Bottom line...

• You would no more tell a person's family grieving the death of someone who suffered from cancer that because you had cancer and got chemo and beat the cancer, that their family member should have been able to.
• You would no more walk around saying "Man, I'm feeling so cancerous today".
• You would no more tell a person with Ebola that because you had the flu pretty bad once you know exactly how they feel.

The one thing that does not help is making people who, sadly, are a victim of the chemicals in their brain, feel like they are victim of your hate, your ignorance, your scorn...your bullying.

You calling people who commit suicide selfish (or weak) is not going to stop them from taking their life, if anything, they want to stop hearing how their mental health issues are just them being needy, or wanting attention, or being weak.
People who think about committing suicide, or commit suicide, see no way out of their situation...of the hell in their brain.
You boarding up the door is not going to help them, talking about it openly and compassionately just might.

Notes on Coping and Support via Mayo Clinic: http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/depression/basics/coping-support/con-20032977

The Countdown

Classes start in eleven days.
ELEVEN DAYS.

Meanwhile, painting "season" is coming to a close, there just won't be time (plus we'll have to deal with harvesting and preserving the garden!). Guess this means summer is coming to a close. <sad face>

{Meanwhile, check out the new website and domain for paintings at: www.graphicallyfrank.com}

The anticipation and anxiety have been churning up madness, and we've been doing the best balancing act possible. It feels like this brain is being crushed by the skull, all too often it feels a struggle to grasp a single line of thought and pull it out of the cloud. With only two semesters left before graduation it's the final countdown. The class load is heavier, the topics more focused...but for the forensic science class (yay!) and the class related to problems in political science. By the looks of the books for the POLSCI class, the problem being tackled this semester in the environment and energy in political policy. So...get ready to read a bunch of crap about that.

The mix of classes is really exciting this semester, and there are 12 books to plow through - some really interesting ones, like Smarter Than You Think by Clive Thompson, The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains by Nicholas Carr, Connecting Social Problems and Popular Culture: Why Media is Not the Answer by Karen Sternheimer, and Pop Culture Freaks: Identity, Mass Media, and Society by Dustin Kidd (don't worry, those links take you to Goodreads, not Amazon).

Oh, and there's another really cool nutritional study coming up that we'll be taking part in, which requires strict diet (set and provided by the scientists), heavy monitoring and staying at the facility (while still allowing for work and classes) twice, for eleven days at a time. Why would we do that, you ask?! It's going to cover just about all the remaining tuition costs for Fall semester, so, really...it's just logical. Plus it'll be a savings on
a) gas ($90 dollars for each eleven day stay)
b) groceries
c) alcohol
d) time (80+ minutes of travel a day).
It would almost be stupid not to do it. It would be. It would be totally stupid to pass it up just because of the inconvenience of not sleeping at home (and having all meals and liquids dictated by strangers).
But, we can have visitors. :-)

It feels like the summer went too fast and we didn't do enough writing. It's unfortunate because there were a lot of events some of us would have liked to cover, if only to keep our writing in check, because it feels like this semester is going to be heavy in essay writing, since there is only ONE actual textbook for one of the six classes, the others are destined to be springboards to further research and writing. Having not written all summer, suddenly it's hard to remember how to write anything, let alone in the style of essay, despite having written a stack of them last semester.
Surely just the most average of the anxiety creeping into the space between skull and skin.

So, eleven days and our schedule changes again (schedules are sort of a linchpin in our mental health)...we'll stay positive until proven otherwise.

As always, thanks for reading even though you probably had something better to do.

Picking Up The Chips - Mental Health Month 2014

Alternative Title: On Understanding

The thing about mental illness is that even when you have good days, good months, good years, there always exists somewhere in you the fear of the if, or the when, it might or will all crumble again.

Just as a quick brief, the mental health issues that grace “my” diagnosis rap sheet, severe depression, social anxiety disorder, manic depression (bipolar disorder) and schizophrenia, are mostly misdiagnosis' - depending on who you ask, I suppose.

It took several years of being a pharmaceutical guinea pig, over and over, before coming to terms with the “problem” in this brain. It is fractured, and was at a very very young age. It is fractured into different people; different people with different feelings, different wants and desires, different interests, different memories. Different entities, sometimes at odds, wanting different lives. They are more cohesive now, the memories, than they have ever been. But that took both understanding, and time. While it is not always easy, we have learned to communicate with each other in order to try to live a more stable existence than we had in the past, separated, fragmented, and dangerous to one another.

It probably sounds strange, it probably sounds...who knows, maybe dumb or unbelievable to you. Who knows. It's not really like it's portrayed in movies either.
Just as there isn't anybody who knows how your mind works, or has not had the experiences you've had, or seen the things you have, neither have you of anybody else's.

What most people call multiple personality disorder is actually known as dissociative identity disorder, and is not a personality disorder, rather a dissociative disorder. Everybody at some time experiences a little dissociation. Those who have a history of trauma and abuse experience more severe forms, occasionally for some, often for others life disrupting in nature. People with dissociative identity disorder may be considered fractured by some, but they are not broken. It is simply the function of a protective brain at a young age of development.

There have been several times throughout the lives shared in this body where, seemingly unexpectedly, the strives that had been made to remain at the top, to stay mentally healthy, were dashed. Looking back on each time, the signs were all there, despite being blind to them at the time. It is the err of the human, really. Hindsight is always the teacher, as long as you pay attention in class.

Four years ago this past June was the last time it happened, and it months of a downward spiral followed. The only clear memory of the moment it all tipped over the edge and the months of madness ensued, was the end of September 2010. We moved out of the house we owned in the city where we lived at the time, renting it out (which ended up being a disaster twice over) and moving closer to the more urban part of the center of the city. The house was too big, and having no car, despite being very close to the center of the city, it felt isolating.

It required several trips with a moving van, taken during the day. Most of the people we knew at the time were at work, so it had to be done alone. Back and forth across town, up and down the elevator of the building we moved into, box after box of books, kitchen supplies, small furniture. For whatever reason we were frustrated, sad, angry – not uncommon for us, actually. It was hard on our back, which was riddled with a plethora of issues because of a bad car accident six years before involving a semi-truck. We had just ended a two year relationship a few weeks back, a relief really, but a change none-the-less. We were moving to a new area, a hipper more urban part of the city with a nightlife right out the front door. We should have been more excited.

Pulling one of the final boxes from the van, a large wooden case of poker chips fell out and spilled all over the alley next to the apartment building. Crying, kneeling in the dirty alley, we grabbed at the chips, which just seemed to keep multiplying. Like all the pieces we were picking up on the ground, we broke. Exhausted, sobbing, we sat in the dirt, head in hands. We hit the breaking point.

After that day everything changed fast. It took several months to scratch our way back to being mentally healthy, days, nights, screaming and sobbing on the apartment floor, sobbing on the living room floor, breathing in the dirty carpet fibers. Sometimes drunk, sometimes sober - punctuated by days and nights of stupid unwise decisions. We lost some great friends (and not so great ones). We lost a good job. We lost our mind. We looked totally together on the outside, save the weekend night when we would wander around the neighborhood, the grocery store, the video store, drinking white wine from a back metal water bottle. The paranoid in us closed the blinds, which stayed closed for months on end. We shut ourselves in, and shut everyone else out, save a few specific people, new friends who were helping us through this, who meant the world to us. We had managed to come out of the fog. It took vanquishing our core, sending her away; she is never allowed back again, she was the weak link, as far as many of us were concerned.

A year later, October 2011, we were on the move again, this time going back to the states, new boyfriend from England in tow. Even though the relationship involved mutual sacrifices, his love for us, all of us, was a giant Band-Aid. We met James through social media. He had read our blog, he knew all the dirty vile things we were capable of. He knew how our brain was fractured. He started following our Twitter account and we became friends. We never thought we could be truly loved by another person again.

He knew that a relationship with us was never going to be easy. Some of us loathed him. Eight months later, we married so we could continue being together in the States. It may not be “perfect”, sometimes he doesn’t feel as loved as he deserves to, sometimes, some of us, feel caged, but at some point in life it becomes clear that no relationships are ever easy, they all take work, and commitment.

Four years later, we live in a small town with James, in a house bought after the sale of the house we owned in Canada, that took over a year to find, and many struggles to get through. We are not social with the people in the town. From our many experiences, a product of moving nearly twenty times as an adult, people are temporary. We still don’t like leaving the house very often, but we have to, occasionally it causes anxiety, but there are ways to deal with that. However, we still try to travel, because life is short, and living a life being a slave to anxieties and fears, is no way to live.

We have a good paying part time job in a city nearby with people that are nice, and have just finished the first two semesters of university (with exemplary grades), upon returning to secondary education after a five years. There is only one year left to go and we will have a second degree (one in culinary arts, one in communications). It will have taken almost twelve years to finish the degree we started in 2003. Physically we’ll be pushing 36 years old when graduation comes, but the achievement will be worth it.

In our spare time we paint, and garden, and read, and spend a lot of time on social media where we have met some amazing people. Despite still experiencing mental health issues from time to time, we have learned how to manage them fairly well, and have had a really good couple of years. We will have been off of all medications for four years this June, and hope never to go back to them.

But…

Always lingering is the fear, it suddenly pops back in the head when things feel like they are going extra well. On the 40 minute commute to work or school. The falls that led to the gamut of diagnoses’…the final fall that lead to this place. Will there be another? Will there be another relapse?

It does no good worrying about it, some might say. But all of the times we have come out of it, stronger, we have pushed forward, forgotten about it, thinking arrogantly that we will never be “sick” again…and then hairline cracks form, we refuse to recognize them. Then they spread, and they weaken the vessel. Then life gives us a small bump, and suddenly we are picking up the chips in the dirt, with tear-stained cheeks.

It’s mental health month. Another month to bring awareness to something people are already aware of; but awareness means nothing without understanding, just as you can no more understand the life of a bird by simply being aware of its existence.

You probably know someone with a mental health issue. You may have one yourself. You may develop one in the future. So please remember: the mental illness is not the person; it is a burdensome accessory people are yoked with. People with mental illness get a bad rap in the media, beneath feigned concern, as if they need that extra struggle of harsh judgment because their brain works differently. Many of the people who deal with mental health issues have been through hell and back, they fight to come out on top, to be employable, to have normal relationships, to be productive…sometimes over and over again. Even if they don’t, even if their struggle seems too great to be able to manage employment, manage “normal”, they just need support and encouragement. People are capable of overcoming so much, if only they believe in themselves, and have the support from people they care about.

Next time you are quick to judge, take a step back from yourself, and put yourself in their shoes, and see how you like being judged because of the footwear you didn't choose. This month, do more than be aware. Try to understand.