vital signs

We all know the importance of vital signs -- are you breathing, do you have a pulse, does your temperature register. Basically, be ye alive or dead? Yesterday, Robert added a new indicator, one that I think is important. For cats, it's Do you purr.

It's so easy to get distracted by quantitative measurements and scientific experiments. (Oooh -- if we add this chemical, what measurable effect will there be, and can we avoid killing the patient.) And yet, time after time, I've seen truly sick people who are happy to be alive, grateful to have some joy in their lives, while still being fully cognizant of dying.

I'm certainly not advocating for misery, illness, or negligence. Nor am I ignoring the set of human emotions that come with dying, including the rage and resistance. But I'd rather err on the side of a little more illness and a little more joy than vice versa, especially in an end of life situation.

I think with animals, it's even easier to go into quantitative mode. After all, animals have traditionally been the first experimental subjects of choice. And they can't speak for themselves -- they need human interpreters to act on their behalf. There are no medals for merely keeping an animal alive.

Quality of life has to enter into the equation alongside all the medical care, the medications, treatments, potions, and lotions. Otherwise, what's the point?

world's worst cat caretaker

OK, no one actually called me the world's worst cat caretaker, but I sure felt like that after I got off the phone last night, as gentle as my caller was. When Juliet was experiencing what I believed to be side effects from her new meds, I put in a call to the e-room. The person who answered the phone suggested that I call back, but apparently caught enough information from me that she passed a message on to the doc I saw on Tuesday.

Last night, some time after 8, the doc called back (wow, long day). She told me that there was no way the meds could have caused this reaction. (OK, I've heard that line before, and then looked up a med in the PDR, and found the reaction listed.) She told me that Juliet is very sick right now. We don't know if her cancer has spread. (Maybe she has information that I don't, but from my readings, this cancer doesn't metastisize easily, though it does some times.) She told me that Juliet's kidney disease has probably kicked up (ok, but then why is she eating so well) and that Juliet should be on Pepcid at least once a day (first I've heard that advice, but I'll ask about it). She told me that it's lethal for Juliet to have high blood pressure (agreed, but will a few days make a difference? Maybe, maybe not) and that when we recheck on Tuesday, the number will be high (maybe we should delay the recheck?). And she told me that I should put Juliet back on the meds (ok, can we talk about *my* quality of life? maybe that's not appropriate here).

She also admitted that there are a lot of cooks stirring the broth right now, something I've already talked to Dr. Randy about. On the other hand, when I got off the phone, I felt like the most ignorant, superstitious, unscientific, uncaring, cat tender on earth. And I felt torn.

It helps to realize that this doc is in emergency and critical care. She has to be aggressive. It's her job. She deals with sick and actively dying animals day in and day out and works hard to get them back on their feet quickly. She's got a broad knowledge of medicine, and I imagine that she's enormously successful at her job. Actually, I know she is because her clinic has a terrific reputation, and I've heard stories about the geographically closer one that make my skin crawl.

Yes, the blood pressure is a very high priority right now. But yes, I have a lot of trust in Randy, and he recommended stopping the meds until Friday, when we'll address this issue again. And yes, frankly, Juliet is dying anyways. It might happen next week, or next month, or she might be around longer. It might happen for any number of reasons -- cancer in her mouth, high blood pressure, kidney disease (probably less likely in the short term) or something we haven't thought about yet. This is a huge balancing game in terms of medicine and in terms of comfort, one with no easy answers. I'd like to prolong the inevitable as long as we can, but I also want Juliet (and ok, secondarily, me) to be comfortable and happy during this end game.

So I thanked the doc for her insights and wished her luck and she seemed relieved to get off the phone. And then I sat around for hours feeling guilty and inadequate, but also feeling like I'm ultimately doing the right thing.

Oh, and not only has Juliet not had any "incidents" since yesterday morning, but she's been eating ravenously and purring more. Doesn't mean that I'm right or the emergency doc is wrong, but it does mean that right now, at this moment, life is good.

my favorites!

We've had a couple of vet visits in the last few days. On Monday, Dr. Randy's staff made time for him to see Juliet. We decided that because she's, well, blind, a trip to the opthalmologist, as recommended by the e-room doctor, wouldn't yield much new information besides that she's blind. Juliet was duly examined, we asked questions and got some answers. Randy said there's a possibility she can get some of her sight back, but my guess is that's true only if we can control the blood pressure.

Randy's office doesn't yet have a blood pressure monitor, so we decided that I should go back to the e-room for a re-check. That happened yesterday. The number wasn't good, and suddenly, I was in consultation with the very capable chief of medical staff, who is also co-owner of the facility. Blood was drawn without incident, but at least one number has shifted for the worse in the last few weeks. The doc coached me on how to effectively use their services, and consulted with Randy and the on-site internist.

Because Juliet's blood pressure is still way too high, her blood pressure meds were switched to something that Randy later told me is a standard offering with minimal side effects. Except for Juliet. She got her first dose at 8 last night. At 5 this morning, after being awakened by a dreadful noise, I realized that she was -er- spewing from both ends. Poor kitty. I cleaned her up, cleaned up the places where she'd missed the designated receptacle (despite good effort), and thought about what to do.

I did call the e-room, but they suggested I call back at 8 when the original prescribing doctor would be in. So I surfed and found the medicine in question. Side effects usually set in within 6-8 hours of administration. (OK, so we were delayed by an hour; maybe this started a little before I woke up. There was certainly -er- evidence of such.) And amongst the side effects listed were the ones that my friend Mark used to crow about whenever he'd get a new medication -- "Nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea -- my favorites!!"

Dr. Randy's office opened at 8 this morning, so I faxed over a little writeup and eventually talked to Randy himself. We decided to stop the meds, let the blood pressure do its thing for a few days, and reconsult on Friday, when Juliet has her next appointment. (This is a test. Can we go vet-free for two whole days?)

Meanwhile, Juliet had two more incidents before I left for work (out of one end only, and more minor than the first bout). While I was gone, nothing else happened, thankfully. So now, I really am suspecting the new meds. I'm hoping they're out of her system and that nothing bad happens while we're figuring out our next steps. A friend has already warned me of even more dire things that happen to kitties with high blood pressure; I'll just have to hope that Juliet has met her quota at this point.

Miss thing is currently resting comfortably on a flannel-covered down comforter, under a small towel, with the gas fireplace blazing nearby. A good life for a good cat.

christmas morning

Last night, we spent our traditional Christmas Eve with our friend Cen. It was his party, at the home of his dear friends. The usual crew was there, people we don't see often but who are beginning to feel like extended family because they truly are part of Cen's family, and Cen is part of our family. Most people brought their usual pot luck offerings. I can't complain because it's all good, perhaps a little too good.

We spent a pleasant, though subdued evening together. I'm not sure why it was so quiet, perhaps because most of us only partially celebrate Christmas, if at all. I know that the latest development with Juliet was affecting me -- I was a little distracted with concern that Juliet would be ok in our absence. Robert and I made an early, for us, departure. And of course, Juliet was fine.

Today, Cen is coming here. There are no decorations, but there will be a good meal, which we partially prepared yesterday. I imagine we'll have some good conversation too; it's always a treat to get Cen by himself.

The kitty continues to do well. She's been tired, but I guess I would be too. She spent the first night in the bath room, probably afraid to stray too far from amenities, until I fetched her. Last night, we closed off the addition again so she'd be near by. She quickly came to bed and was there this morning. One trick she hasn't learned yet is how to navigate out from between us. So in the middle of the night, she pawed my chest and I was able to point her to the little stair case by the bed.

Yesterday, Juliet disappeared from the down stairs for a while. Robert went looking for her and found her in his bed room. When she came out, she navigated down the hall using her whiskers along the wall. One of the big warnings we got at the e-room was to keep her away from stairs (as part of the advice to keep her safe while she's adapting). One of the first things she learned to do was to go up and down the stair case. Our original plan was to shut her in the addition whenever we left the house. I don't think that will be necessary.

The 'f' is silent

Juliet went blind last evening.

It happened about that quickly, at least from my perspective. One minute she was happily toodling around the house. The next, she was suddenly paying attention to the front door, acting as if someone was on the other side. She hasn't noticed the door for months, at least.

Then she started to go upstairs, except that every other step or so, she paused and looked behind her as if the aliens truly had come and were hovering just over her, encouraging her to jump, jump up to their little saucer.

By this time, of course, I was intrigued and had started to follow her. When she got to the top of the stairs, she started slurking low to the ground the way cats do on unfamiliar territory. I looked into her eyes and her pupils were huge, with almost no green visible.

I immediately knew what was happening. A while back, I had a vet who loved kitties and used to comb Juliet's tail while she talked to me. When she moved away, I inherited a kidney specialist, someone who became a vet just to study kidney disease, who was widely read in the topic, and who was also a catastrophizer. He's the sort of guy to whom you could present a cat with a hang nail and the first thing he'd say would be: "You know, she'll be fine if we have to amputate; cats do really well with a missing limb." It was in this spirit that he had warned me to be vigilant about her pupils. Kidney disease can lead to very high blood pressure, and once it starts, you have about 24 hours to take action before blindness sets in. The clue is in the wildly dilated pupils.

So at 7pm, Robert had just come home, I had a cat who was going or had gone blind, the vet's office was closed (as it should have been). We called the emergency room. They were unhelpful and said they couldn't tell us anything without seeing the cat. We consulted. And by 8pm, we were in Waltham at the e-room.

They were very nice -- they gave us our own living room to sit in. We let Juliet out of her cage, and she slept on the couch between us.

We eventually saw a lovely vet who seemed to ask all the right questions. Juliet's blood pressure was indeed out of control -- 260 when it should have been 120. She has cataracts but not glaucoma. The vet said that her retinas probably detached (I hope that isn't painful) because of the high blood pressure. And she could barely perceive light, but was "legally blind." Of course, Robert and I immediately both said "Darn. She can't drive anymore."

We put her on the floor and she started methodically exploring the room. Simultaneously, I thought, and the vet said, "she's like a Roomba." And they sent us home with a prescription to lower blood pressure with strict advice to follow up with our regular vet. Good care; glad they're there when we need them.

At home, we're able to close off the addition. We put her in the bathroom, where she has food, water, and litter. She spent most of the night on top of a sheep skin, which is on top of the heated floor, not a bad choice on her part. Around 5 or 6 this morning, I picked her up and put her between us in bed, where she felt secure, happy, and loved. She seems to know the bathroom at this point, and she's exploring the rest of the bedroom and study. We'll have to be very careful not to move things around as she's getting her bearings. We'll confine her to the addition when we're not here, at least in the beginning.

And Robert, rude boy that he is, said that now that she's both blind and deaf, we'll have to start finger-spelling into her paw.

Finally, she doesn't seem at all distressed by this change. She hasn't meowed in confusion or frustration once. I'm fine with it. But I do feel bad and perhaps a little anxious for her. I'm sure we'll all grow more comfortable with this latest change.

life's little victories, spelled P-H-E-W

There's a comic strip author who writes occasional one-cell comics called Life's Little Victories. I had one today -- wahoo! Getting on toward Christmas, there's always a tough balance between acquiring the freshest possible food for Christmas dinner and getting beat into a pulp by all the other last-minute grocery shoppers. I dread the crawl across the parking lot, the fight for the last shopping cart, the tussles over half-dead picked-over produce, and the unending lines to check out, complete with shoppers abandoning carts to go back and forth picking up last items.

Today, I had lunch at a restaurant that shares a parking lot with a grocery store. It was grim. Although there were loads of parking places around the side, everyone wanted to be close to the door (so they could make a getaway after shoplifting?). Cars were everywhere they weren't supposed to be and drivers were horribly aggressive.

That experience really helped me get into the mood. Yeah, Christmas!

I finally forced myself to venture out a little after 4, and... not bad. Drivers were politely yielding right of way. There were spaces in the parking lot, and carts readily available. The produce department was overloaded with fresh, sparkling produce and cheerful workers. They were out of only one item that I wanted, and that was non-essential. (But it's due in at 8am tomorrow morning if I want to go back.) The shelves were well-stocked. There were lots of shoppers, but it wasn't crowded. And when I slid into the checkout lane, I was second in line behind someone with a relatively small order.

Well done, Shaw's. I'm impressed. And I'm not nearly half as crabby as I should be at this point.

christmas is a comin', cat's still with us

So Christmas is two days away. I've made end-of-year donations, bought and wrapped presents, planned Christmas dinner, planned our contribution to Christmas-eve dinner, and will go food shopping today. I feel ... fine, though not terribly festive.

I just read a blog post in which the author said that as a child, he wished that everything could always stay as it was -- that he loved Christmas and felt warm and loved. As an adult, he gets very blue at this time of year and tries to crawl his way through it.

I'm rather the opposite. Through most of my childhood, I despised Christmas. The best part was the day after when the next ordeal was an entire year away.

Now as an adult, I get to create my own holiday and for myself, try to make the day itself as peaceful, loving, and calm as absolutely possible. Our usual pattern is to wake up, light a fire, have breakfast, open presents, clean up, and cook. This year, a dear friend will be joining us after the morning festivities. We'll have a nice dinner, laze about the fire, and be in bed at a reasonable hour. It is possible to have Christmas without chaos.

And the kitty is still with us, so she gets to celebrate Christmas, and we get to celebrate having her there. I think her tumor is getting a little bigger; I've recently caught her chewing gently on that side of her (otherwise empty) mouth and last night I thought I saw her chewing food on the good side of her mouth only.

On the other hand, we went to the vet yesterday, and he was delighted to see how alert she was. In fact, when he walked into the room, she was lying on her side purring really loudly. (It's ironic to have a cat who's both getting sicker and healthier at the same time.) I've rarely seen a cat purr even a little at the vet's. I told him she likes being there, and he said "All Riiight" and gave her a little noogie on her head, which just made her purr more.

Later, during catupuncture, he stuck a needle in and she nipped him (not hard -- just a warning that he'd better quit) and hissed, but then settled right in once all the needles were in. I get worried when she's too placid -- and it's heartening to see her express her opinion about things. Of course, we humans laughed and laughed, perhaps out of astonishment and also out of pleasure to see her so full of life.

We had a good discussion about pain. I asked if he thought she might be in pain. I don't think she is because she'd be really crabby. He also thinks she's pain-free right now and said that if she gets to that state, she'll be depressed, lethargic, and not want to eat. Good signs to watch out for. I reiterated that I don't want her to suffer. So far, I think the three of us are doing well at our respective jobs, and he's already demonstrated that he's willing to treat pain generously.

And the icky powder -- I continue to give it to her but in tiny quantities. Dr. Randy said that it's powerful stuff and to give her what I can.

Last night, she ate well, got lots of lap time with RP, and then slept with me all night. And we woke up to face another day together with much love and joy.

apb for heaven

"Where is heaven?" a recently widowed friend asked yesterday.
I thought, "wha huh? is it ok to ask that question? and besides, i thought it was up -- clouds and sky and so on"
She continued, "is it all around us? People keep saying my husband is here 'in spirit,' but if he is, does that mean that heaven is right here all around us in some other dimension we don't know about?"
I thought, "and if he is, how come everyone except my friend knows it -- don't you think she'd be the first, not the last, to know?"

make it work faster please

Juliet has often gotten close to the wood stove, but I've never before seen her this close. The other day, we returned from the vet, and the fire had died down. As I was starting it back up again, she climbed onto the stove's apron. When I went to touch her, I realized that her fur was too hot for prolonged contact. She eventually got down when she was more satisfied with the temperature.

last watch

In the earlier part of the 90s, I discovered Paul Monette's first two memoirs and practially inhaled them. By early 1995, I knew that his third memoir, Last Watch of the Night, had been published, but I was waiting, oh so patiently for it to come out in paperback.

Mark died in March of that year, and after visiting with him and his family, I (ok, it sounds weird now) flew off to San Diego for part of a business trip while waiting for the memorial service to happen. I knew I was supposed to read at the service, but the minister took forever to give me my passage.

One night after work, I went to the gay bookstore in San Diego and was wandering around when I saw Last Watch in hardcover. I decided to stop waiting and just buy it. When I returned to my hotel, I learned that a fax was waiting for me. It was my reading, and it was from Last Watch of the Night.

So, yes, I inhaled the third memoir, too. I can't remember if I've read it since, or if I've read excerpts. When my friend Ed died this fall, there was something about the scene at the cemetery that prompted me to pull the book back off the shelf.

It's a series of essays written when Monette had already buried two lovers and countless friends and was himself dying in fits and starts. The essays are full of anger, love, sentimentality, longing, and death. It's one of the best books about grieving I know of, though it's not a How To book, or even a How I Did It book. It does leave a lot of questions unanswered, kind of like my own experience.

This fall, I started in the middle, with the essay that describes visiting various grave sites of famous people, and then switches to the story of picking out the grave site for his first husband, which came with an extra side for him. (The second grave site has another space for a good friend.) In one of my favorite passages, Monette talks about taking his Sunday paper and continuing the tradition of lying in bed next to his partner and reading. He also talks about the hunger to be at the grave site in the beginning, the inability even to travel for fear of leaving the site for too long.

This probably doesn't sound like the most cheerful reading out there, but somehow, I derive great comfort from it, and perhaps feel a little less crazed from the reading and re-reading. I decided to read the whole book again, and as is typical with favorite books, it took on new meaning, or perhaps I took away new lessons.

There was the rage at society for doing nothing about AIDS; the irony of being mildly censored at a speech about censorship for the Library of Congress; the fury at the limitations caused by his own disease; the grief of losing two husbands; the loving relationship with his dogs; the delight in traveling; the love of antiquities; the letting go of physical possessions.

And finally, nearly at the end, the piece that I read at Mark's memorial service:

I see the difference now between mere baggage and what the heart possesses. Not that the latter is any less stolen goods -- the brimming of love and the joy of a comrade -- requiring every bit of a pirate's brazen stealth. And no less snatched in the end by the icy clutch of Death than all the baronies and all their rummage.

But the heart transformed in the process, no longer just a thing that ticks and no longer simply mortal, though half in shadow already. There's a cautionary tale in there as well, perhaps, involving a soul-deep self-delusion -- but not worth the caution anyway. Something lasts, firm as the pen in my hand. Jackals and buzzards cannot get at it. Its price doesn't translate into dollars. Saved as it is in the spending, till nothing's left in the vault. Invisible in the blinding shine of the setting sun, weightless as a mid-ocean breeze. To have greatly loved is to sail without ballast -- with neither chart nor cargo, not bound for the least of kingdoms. Nothing remains, except this being free.

further adventures of a sick kitty

Juliet's googly eye almost got better. But then it started looking worse, at first so little that I thought I was imagining things or that perhaps the healing was just slowing down. But yesterday, I was home sick, and things just didn't look right, so in we went to the vet.

And it turns out that it's not the advancing tumor, as I had feared, but a small case of conjunctivitis. We started her on what looks to be the veterinary equivalent of opthalmic neosporin and she's responding nicely.

While at the vet, we gave her an acupuncture treatment, this time with some twists. There's a technique called moxa, where you insert the needles and then heat them until just before they're uncomfortable. So you're delivering heat directly into the acupuncture points. Afterwards, Dr. Randy also gave J some aquapuncture, where he injected a liquid (containing vitamins, and perhaps other goodies) directly into a few of her less sensitive acupuncture points.
At the end, I had a totally relaxed kitty who purred and purred for a long time.

(Incidentally, I finally asked for a referral for moi and now have an appointment with a human acupuncturist; it's time to take the next step on some arthritic spots that I haven't quite been able to conquer using my traditional methods of exercises and braces.)

----------

I talked to Dr. Randy about wanting to keep Juliet around as long as I can while keeping her comfortable and happy. At times, it seems like a hard balance to achieve. He did say that I've done a good job so far of striking that balance, but I think that most recently, all compliments go to him.

For a little more than a year now, we've been adding treatments to her regimen, starting with regular hydration, that are perhaps slightly uncomfortable or a little unpleasant in the moment, but that are good for her in the long run. We've included twice-daily medications, and now goop in her eyes three times a day. She weathers all this with good humor, much grace, and perhaps some small understanding that we are acting with good intentions.

Yesterday, I was given an immune-boosting powder to add into the meds. Dr. R doesn't have the appropriate measuring devices yet, so told me that I'm on my own with it. I tried giving it to her twice with awful results. I'm at a bit of a loss of how to measure .3 ml of a thick liquid with 1/8 teaspoon of a powder and deliver the whole thing into a small cat. So I tried mixing it with water the first time and with water and the sticky liquid the second.

Apparently, it tastes putrid, at least to kitties, though it smells kind of nice to me. Then again, this link implies that humans also struggle with the taste.

The first time I gave it to her, she swallowed it, I left the room, and I came back to find little piles of wet yellow blobs and enormous amounts of white foam around the living room. The second time, she started foaming before I finished delivering the stuff. I quickly picked her up and held her over the sink for ten minutes while she gagged and foamed and basically spit up an entire evening's worth of medicine.

As if I wasn't feeling bad enough already, Robert said, "if she's a short-timer, why are you even bothering to give her that stuff?" He was right, of course. Sometimes I go in with the best intentions in the world, and I end up with a disaster anyways. And "But I meant well, and I'm so terribly sorry" just doesn't cut it.

This morning, she saw me coming and made every effort to avoid me. I just gave her the regular meds and left the powder out of the discussion. I have a call into the vet to get a week's worth put together into a more palatable form, if that's possible, and if we can't do it, well, we'll just drop it, alas.

and the diagnosis is...

The surgeon called today (on a Saturday) to let me know that the pathology report is in. Juliet has squamous cell carcinoma, a vicious and quick cancer that sometimes shows up on the skin but in this case is in the mouth. It doesn't metastisize much, which is probably why she's otherwise so healthy. But it does grow locally and makes it, well, impossible to go on living, basically.

Many treatments have been tried, with quite unimpressive results. I did find one report on the net of someone trying alternative treatments. It helped for at least a while, and I might pass it along to my vet, to whom I expect to be speaking in the next few days. But the surgeon said to expect Juliet to last a couple of weeks to maybe a couple of months, which frankly sounds like a stretch.

Our time together is short. We'll keep her as hot as she wants to be (today: time on the heated mattress pad in the sun, followed by hearth time in front of the wood stove, followed by snuggling up to Robert's side in their favorite chair). We'll love her a lot, and we'll be vigilant for any sign of suffering.

my starched white cap is about to be retired

The Kat is improving by leaps and bounds. Her googly eye is nearly normal -- there's a small bit of third lid still showing, but the swelling has gone down dramatically. There seems to be no tenderness left. She's started to rub the outside of her face on scratchy objects, right at the surgery site. She's lovey and full of purrs and is once again leading a happy life.

I realized that I've internalized her values around vanity and cleanliness. It used to be very important to her to be beautiful at all times. Now that she can perform very few grooming duties (because she's so arthritic), I've taken them on. I brush her a lot. If I spill medicine on her, I wash it off immediately. I'm vigilant about removing knots as gently as I can. And part of me was relieved that she didn't have to die looking like a shipwreck. (I'm somehow reminded of my friend who was recently wheeled into -- and out of -- surgery with lipstick perfectly intact.) I think I've cleaned up almost all the crud on her face from the surgery, and I feel better about that. Her coat once again shines and feels lush.

Today, Dr. Randy got to see her and was very pleased. He did admit that a lot of cats wouldn't have made it through what she's managed. She got acupuncture today, and we won't go back for another week. We'll cut back on the eye goo and the hydration, keep the meds the same, and she's off her kidney diet for now, until we have the biopsy results. Instead, she's eating something called "Coat Care." I first heard it as "Code Care" which made me think that it was for kitties who had come close to what in humans would be called coding. But it's a high-protein (bad for kidneys), super tasty, highly digestible food that kitties, even Juliet, can't resist. It should help her with her recovery, and perhaps it'll fatten her up a little too.

When the biopsy results come in, we'll have more of a sense of how long she'll last. If it looks like the cancer will take her swiftly, it won't matter if her kidneys take longer to kill her. If it looks like things will go more slowly, I would think about providing more of a balance between kidney food and tasty Coat Care. We'll see.

So the week is turning out well. I'm looking forward to sleeping well tonight and enjoying more kitty happiness tomorrow.

did you hire your competitors to market for you?

in the snicker-worthy department, I got one of those yule-time advertising emails for a lighting shop I once did business with. They were excited to tell me about their sale on fancy ceiling fixtures, announcing it with this headline:

Holiday Chandelier Blow Out Sale

I dunno, but the words "chandelier" and "blow out" juxtaposed don't do much to get me into the buying mood.

don't call me nurse ratched

(thank you imdb; i originally thought it was "Nurse Cratchit," as do many others in cyber space).

Juliet's saga continues with a bit of an upturn in the story.

I arrived at the vet's last evening, and Juliet was brought to me. She looked awful, and I thought she might be in a coma. She just laid in her roaster pan with heating pad on, breathing. Sometimes we are grateful just for breathing. I tried petting her very gently, and there was no response. I was told that the vet wanted to speak to me (gulp). We waited a long time, during which I kissed and stroked and just watched her. I wondered if this was the end and whether Robert could make it down Route 495 before closing time.

Dr. Randy came in and we had a long talk. I'm of the mind that we have the power to alleviate suffering. I was seeing what looked like misery with little quality of life, unless you count the pleasures of lying very still in a heated roaster pan, covered with a tiny, cat-sized blanket.

Randy said that he recommended giving her 5-7 more days. He said that the past 24 hours had shown us that we didn't have to put her down right away. And it would be fairest to her if we gave her more time, especially since the biopsy results could give us some guidance about next steps. Then he really got my attention by saying, "If you're questioning whether it's time, then it's not time. If it is time, there will be no question about it." I'm not sure if I was even questioning, but I was willing to take his advice on faith, especially since my solution was not making me very happy.

So, with some skepticism, I agreed to take her home. I also decided to postpone our trip to Costa Rica, which was supposed to start today ; I just didn't feel I could ask anyone else to take on the tasks of caring for her. (My niece later wrote and said "couldn't you come and leave Uncle Robert at home?") Randy gave her some steroids to reduce swelling and a magic potion of various drugs and vitamins to promote healing. He didn't even want me to put her in her carrier, but I eventually did because she looked like she might try to climb out of her pan.

I got home, opened the carrier, and ... she crept out, and then ran down the hallway. She was so fast that I couldn't keep up with her. Then she attached herself to the baseboard heater, which is really hot, and didn't move for a long time.

There followed a delightful evening. I put food in front of her; she ate. I put her next to Robert, and she climbed onto his lap for some petting, then jumped down on her own. She asked to be picked up so she could sit next to me for a while. I brushed her; she purred. She meowed a little (a not complainin' just sayin' kind of a meow). She ate some more.

I was very very brave and started putting goo on her googly eye instead of asking Robert to do it. I'm totally squeamish about eyes, and had up til that point managed to get other people to place the goo. In part, I was feeling guilty about waking up just so I could wake up Robert to put it in. So I tried and succeeded, and it's icky but not that bad.

Randy had suggested that I set up a little nursery for her in my bathroom. She refused to have anything to do with her roaster pan, even with the heat on, she wolfed down more food, and then she climbed into bed with me and stayed there all night. (aww...)

We awoke this morning and she purred with delight and washed my face a little. She wasn't at full strength yet, but what a pleasure to renew our morning ritual. Her googly eye is much better and she's continued eating, though she's not quite as starving as she was last night.

I faxed a one-page "overnight nurse's report" to the vet's office.

Today, she's gotten more brushing. I've also tried to clean her face a little; there's still some crud left over from the surgery and the bleeding. I had some business to transact, so was in my study most of the day. She's been on the bed, with the mattress pad turned up and the gas fireplace going. For a while, she was in full sun, too. I would say that despite my insistence on putting goo in her eye, she's had a good day filled with sun, heat, and love.

And sweetly, the surgeon called to check in with me; she had heard from Dr. R that I had decided not to travel. I gave her an update and she said that everyone in the office was concerned about Juliet. I think she was relieved to hear that things were going well. She commented that Juliet has gone beyond her ninth life and is now working on her twelfth or thirteenth.

We'll go back to the vet tomorrow for another assessment and next steps. Large blessings come in small furry packages.

i knew there was a chute around here somewhere

Good news but mostly bad. Juliet sailed through surgery, and yes, woke up on the other side. However, the surgeon said that the results aren't good. Even without a biopsy, the lump is cancerous and extensive. She didn't bother trying to remove even a part of the lump -- she just took a biopsy, knocked off some tooth calculus, and got out.

We know that the lump is growing and that eventually, it'll interfere with Juliet's ability to eat, if we let it go that far.

So I went to pick up the kitty, and swelling had set in, so J now has a googly eye that won't shut completely. And of course, she's very groggy and floppy from the anaesthesia. At home, I made her a fire and set her up in her roaster pan.

I settled in to make some calls. While on the phone, she started spitting blood, and when I looked at her, she reminded me of a vampire who had just fed; it looked like her whole lower mouth was full of blood. So, back to the surgeon we went. The surgeon said that she was getting her teeth tangled in the tumor, and after some discussion said that she has a habit of keeping her animals alive too long, but she'd be inclined to wait at least until tomorrow (which is now today).

She consulted with Dr. Randy and the two of them decided that Dr. Randy and staff could provide kitty day care yesterday afternoon and today. So off we went, and on the way, Matt, the wonder vet tech called and suggested that I might want to sit with her for a while. We got there around 4 and stayed til 9 (an hour past closing time).

Much of the time, I sat with one arm extended the length of Juliet's body. I tried to be fully present and think hard about what she'd want, realizing that she was still under the influence of groggy drugs. Matt and Dr. Randy dropped in a few times, but mostly, it was just the two of us. It reminded me of Mark's last day when I climbed into bed with him and just held him, and tried to make sure that his wishes were represented. It reminded me of so many hospital and hospice vigils I've sat. Ironic, isn't it, that all the human deaths that have touched me have worked to prepare me for Juliet's end time.

During our time together, Juliet seemed to get more comfortable, and she stopped chewing and bleeding. Dr. Randy and I decided that it's not time to put her down quite yet. I'm wondering whether the swelling will recede and if she'll be comfortable beyond today. We'll see.

Last night, we gave her more wood stove time, then brought her to bed. I kept the mattress heating pad on as long as I could stand it and woke both humans up several times to lubricate her still-googly eye. I'll drop her off chez vet this am, then return this afternoon and we'll decide on next steps.

If, before surgery we knew what we know now, we wouldn't have done the surgery. On the other hand, we worked with the information we had at the time, and together made the best decision we knew how to make, with Juliet's best interests at heart. I continue to be astonished by the caring care she's getting and that's washing over me as a side effect. Onward.

what a long strange trip

Robert and his coworker Dawn had a business trip last week to the world headquarters of their company -- Glenwood Springs CO, between Aspen and Vail. I somewhat resented that his return travel day was Saturday, leaving us just Sunday together before the week started up again. But I was trying to be a grownup about the whole thing.

Apparently, on the way out, things went smoothly until Denver. The plane took off for Aspen, then turned around and the passengers were told that no planes were landing at Aspen. Robert's boss (and brother), who was standing at the Aspen airport at the time, reported that plenty of planes were landing there, and that skies were clear and visibility good.

They considered renting a car, but were told that the mountain pass was in whiteout conditions and chains were required, and the two travelers were just too tired to make the drive by that point.

The next morning, they set out again, got all the way to Aspen. Dawn (who's had some flight training) reports looking down and completely agreeing with the pilot who said it was unsafe to land. So back to Denver they went.

And finally, after getting advice from the airline (there's no way we'll find a flight for you), they crammed into a van, rode to Glenwood Springs, and arrived perhaps 18 hours after their scheduled time. This late arrival of course pushed the meeting into overdrive, so they were run ragged over the next couple of days.

When they tried to return to Denver, they discovered that in canceling the third leg of the journey, someone had managed to cancel legs four through six too. And maybe the plane from Aspen to Denver wasn't flying either -- things got a little unclear. All I know is that I received a series of calls updating me on new arrival times. Back they got into a van to travel the icy roads to Denver with a driver who was on a hand-held cell phone the whole time.

They arrived in Boston at midnight and I picked them up; we finally got to bed at 2 am. And yesterday, in the snow, I got to drive the two of them up to New Hampshire to retrieve their cars (they'd started their journey at an entirely different airport). When I returned home, I went back to bed for a nap so that I could keep my eyes open until bed time.

And now it's Monday. I'm counting on my day off tomorrow for a little recovery.

climbing rungs, feeling closer to a chute

A few weeks ago, Juliet and I went to meet the kitty dental surgeon, a confident and capable-seeming woman. She told me that her nineteen-year-old kitty "went to heaven with pearly white teeth" because she was putting her own kitty under twice a year for teeth cleaning.

She was very gentle with Juliet, but still, J showed her displeasure by walking to a corner of the examination table and hissing at all of us. Quite understandable.

I was pleased that the doc kept telling me that she has a special place in her heart for old kitties, and she kept sneaking in little pats on Juliet's head. And the doc says she will take the risk if I will. So we've scheduled surgery for next Tuesday, with a bunch of prophylactic preparations to make before then.

Sidenote 1: In the small world department, I mentioned all this to a dear friend who immediately knew the name of the doc because they're neighbors. Somehow that makes me feel better, perhaps because of the warmth with which the discovery was made.

Sidenote 2: The vet techs I know have all responded positively to the doc's name. They like her personally and she has a good reputation. Given the number of vets one of these techs does not like, I feel that I have gotten a high recommendation, not to mention the one from Dr. Randy.


Juliet contines to do well, and even to improve in tiny bits. Her jumping is more sure, her appetite is good, her affection level is high. She usually hates sitting in my lap, but the other night (ok, in the absence of Robert), she stayed on my lap for over an hour. Most days when I wake up, I'm subjected to a face washing. In short, I feel my connection to Juliet deepen, and I am heartened to see her act with such vigor and joy.

Our visits to Dr. Randy continue. I am convinced that much of the slow, steady improvement I'm seeing is due to his care. And so, on Tuesday at our last visit, it was a real blow when R felt her cheek and said that the lump has gotten larger. He looked inside her mouth and told me that pretty soon, the lump will get in the way of her ability to eat.

Earlier, I was wrestling with the decision to have the surgery, but now it's pretty clear we have to do it -- that she's likely strong enough to get through the surgery, and we can't let this lump take over her mouth. On the other hand, the fact that the lump is growing makes me wonder if we can get the whole thing, if it's spread, if it's all pointless.

Last night, over dinner, a friend asked how Juliet is doing. I told a brief version of this story, and my friend immediately replied "Are you ready to say goodbye to her?" Of course not, but I will let go if need be.

whacked

A friend recently wrote email with the subject line "I got whacked." She did not mean that she was starring in her own personal version of a mafia movie. It turns out she was laid off from her job, one that only weeks before she'd been talking about retiring from, in order to escape from the "dysfunction" there. She sounds happy and is making many last-minute fall escapes to the cape. We're having lunch in a few days so that I can hear about how bad it really was and what happened behind the scenes.

And in my very own drama, I got whacked too, but in a third sense. I've just received a hair cut that is perhaps the most precise and technically accurate hair cut I've ever seen while at the same time being the most unbecoming one I've ever had to wear. It's a brush cut (my hair stands straight up), making me look like a fat boy with military aspirations. I might do well in a dyke biker bar, not that I'm frequenting those places much these days. Some gay boys might give me a second look, but only from behind, and only if I'm wearing something loose that doesn't show off my -er- curves. I'm all jowl and double-chin with none of the elegant swoosh I'm used to sporting. Ugh.

This all happened because my usual hair cutter sprained her ankle, so I went to her associate, someone who's given me great haircuts in the past. She started by taking way too much of a snip off the middle of the top of my head, and I realized I was basically stuck for at least two weeks, maybe three. I could wear a bandana for a couple of weeks, or maybe a hat, but it would probably be best if I just wore a paper bag with holes cut out for my eyes. I'm mortified and embarassed and can't wait for it all to grow out and get shaggy again. Get well soon, Tish!

-- liz

as slow as molasses in january

Several recent events, some recorded here, some not, some obvious, some not, have served to tenderize my heart. At times, I've felt like my heart was in shreds; other times, it's felt wide open and receptive; sometimes, I've felt both at once. It's been a painful time, but also a hopeful time, one in which I can perceive healing ahead.

I've felt my connection with a few people deepening, including a few I'm already close to or have been close to in the past. As I say, my heart is wide open and ready, making it possible to relate more tenderly and kindly than I might ordinarily be capable of.

At the same time, I'm noticing movement deep within. You know that stuff you're supposed to be frightened of that develops inside your water heater? I feel like there's a layer of it inside of me -- old grief, shame, sadness, disappointment. It's well-settled and I've probably built up protective barriers around it, further ensuring its longevity.

I live with it always and usually don't notice it. It is only when it starts to move -- oh so achingly slowly -- that I realize it's there. My mother used to call me "slow as molasses in january" and perhaps I am. But at least I am in motion, making tiny amounts of progress.

I am grateful for the healing that's come and the healing that is to come. I am grateful for my friends who choose to stick with me through thick and thin. I am grateful for the love I am able to give and the love I am able to receive.

more kitty news, climbing to the next rung

I just received the lab results for Juliet's blood draw, yes, at 4:30 on a Saturday afternoon, hours after the vet clinic closed. Except for one test, it appears that she's managed to remain stable since May. She continues to have signs of kidney disease and anemia and perhaps a little hypo-thyroidism, but nothing seems to be screamingly out of control, and very little seems to have changed in six months.

This is especially heartening because I've been cheating on her strict diet a little bit in an effort to make food more attractive to her. The age-old question -- is it better to die of starvation with two nearly intact kidneys? Or risk aggravating the kidney disease while helping her maintain her weight? I talked this decision over with Dr. Randy before acting on it, and he was supportive. So I wasn't cheating in secret.

Anyways, all this means that we haven't slid down a chute yet. Instead, we get to climb the ladder, perhaps by just one rung, and set up an appointment with the veterinarian dental surgeon. She could, of course, look at me as if I had three heads, but we'll see.

Meanwhile, the cat has been super affectionate, as have we. She's going through a phase where she purrs loudly, enough so that I can hear her across a room. And sometimes she starts purring just because she's in the same room with one of us. These are sweet days, indeed.

medical news -- cat

Juliet and I went to see Dr. Randy today. The infection seems to be at bay for now, but the lump is not. Randy seems fairly certain she has cancer. He does not think it has spread beyond the lumpish area -- he doesn't think it's in her lymph nodes. And he doesn't think it's grown significantly in the last week.

He did seem a little more open to the idea of surgery. He took blood (she didn't even feel the gigantic needle going in -- I was astonished -- all she knew was that she was being held in a funny position). We'll evaluate how her kidneys are doing and whether there's anything else we should be worried about. If it looks like she's fairly stable and reasonably healthy, I'll go see a veterinarian oral surgeon he knows for a second opinion. He's apparently taught the surgeon how to use acupuncture to minimize the amount of drugs needed. If we proceed with surgery, we'll at least get a biopsy so that we know what we're dealing with, and Dr R thinks that the whole lump might even be removed.

Given my fears about what would happen this afternoon, I'm relieved for now. A few minutes ago, I got to bring my kitty home for more sun baths and head rubs and opportunities to walk across my pillow while I'm trying to sleep.

On the other hand, it seems like the height of arrogance (mine, not anyone else's) to think that we can pull this off. Is it even possible to put a twenty year old cat under full anaesthesia? Can we actually surgically remove the cancer? And can she even recover from surgery, if we decide to proceed? Is it worth it? Or will it cause more suffering than it relieves?

On yet another hand (how many have we used so far?), what if surgery buys her six more months? A year? She's a cat with a lot of life and fight, piss and vinegar, left in her. Being a health proxy for a human is easy -- you typically get to talk things out with the other person, understand their wishes and limitations, and act on their behalf when they can't speak for themselves. But being a health proxy for a cat is much harder. You have to guess and you can't let your own selfishness get in the way.

Tomorrow, I'll learn whether all these questions are moot or whether we proceed to the next rung in the ladder.

two living angels

When Mark was sick, two living angels came into our lives. Ten years later, I am still grateful to both of them.

Tracy showed up in the hospital room one day. I immediately liked her. She was a fabric designer and had worked with Mark on a few of his projects. He clearly liked her a lot. She was one of the first people to figure out that he was HIV-infected, at a funeral, I think she told me, when he was weeping far harder than she would have expected.

Tracy was on her second marriage. Apparently, she and her first husband had a volatile relationship, fueled by alcohol. They had a horrific fight one night, pretty much made up, and went out to dinner on their motorcycle. They had a drink or two, and on the way home, he was driving when they were in an accident. They were both rushed to the hospital where she lay on a stretcher listening to her husband die. I don't think she was allowed to see him one last time. She blamed herself for months until she remembered that she had told him that she loved him the day before the accident.

When we discussed what to do with Mark, given that his partner was not ready until it was way too late, his mother could barely manage to visit him in the hospital, and his sister said there was no way he was coming home to her, Tracy said "I'll take him." And so Mark went to live with Tracy and her husband for his last six weeks. He got to live in a house that he could have designed, himself. He entertained visitors, planned his funeral, and slept in a giant poofy bed that reminded him of a huge marshmallow. He basked in the Arizona warmth and could sit by the pool during the day. I am deeply grateful to Tracy for providing such a perfect environment and a loving place to experience hospice.


My other angel was more personal. On one visit, I asked Mark if he wanted me to call any friends to let them know that he was in the hospital. Yes, he wanted me to call Nancy, an old friend whom he had written to the previous Christmas. He assured me that his letter contained the news that he had AIDS, so I wouldn't be surprising her.

I dutifully called and started to tell her the latest news, only to discover that he hadn't disclosed his status to her, but she'd suspected that he was sick. They'd been out of close touch for a long time but deeply cared about each other. I later discovered there'd been a rift that neither knew how to repair.

Nancy said "you know, when you get home from the hospital, you're not going to have anyone to talk to. Call me. I don't care what time -- you can wake me up -- and talk to me about your day." I was a little surprised and a little hesitant, but I took her up on the offer. In the evenings, I'd stumble into his sister's house, where I was staying, be fed something (thanks to the sister), give her an update, and stumble off to bed. I'd pick up the phone, use my calling card, and call Nancy in Texas. She'd let me ramble on and on, reassure me, and tell me that I was Mark's angel. In some sense, though, she was Mark's angel -- she helped give me the strength to go back the next day and the day after that.


There's so much cruelty and even carelessness -- lack of attention -- in this world. How reassuring to know that angels are here too, sharing the earth with the rest of us. Today I am deeply grateful to my angels and to all angels who walk amongst us.

at a kitty cross roads

We have another challenge with the cat that I've been having trouble writing about. Last Friday, Dr Randy discovered a lump on her cheek. It's a little hard to detect, but he has a way of greeting Juliet that led him to discover it immediately. And once you notice it, you can't not feel it.

It's hard looking into J's mouth with all those sharp teeth flashing around, but Dr R discovered an infection behind the lump, near a tooth. So she's on antibiotics -- banana-flavored of all things -- yum.

Neither of the two possibilities we've discussed so far are attractive. It could be a tumor, and a fairly fast growing one at that, given that Dr. R didn't notice it two weeks earlier. As easy as it will be to make decisions in that eventuality, I'm not looking forward to my heart's reaction.

The other possibility is a rotten tooth. In a younger cat, this problem would be easy to resolve -- you'd put the animal under, pull the tooth, clean everything out, and wake her up. The danger with Juliet is that she might not wake up. For years (five? seven?) we've considered her too old to put under anaesthesia.

After giving it some thought, if it's not a tumor, I'd like to be a little aggressive with treatment and see if there are some alternatives to putting her all the way under to get the tooth out. I'll know more this Friday at our follow-up.

trip the light fantastic

Several neighbors have advanced the season for decorating their yards. This year, I'm seeing a lot more Halloween decor -- orange pumpkin lights, cardboard cutouts of arching black cats, a big blow-up arch that says "Trick-or-treaters beware", another blowup and internally lit vampire, little country-esque signs that say "Trick or treat," and so on.

Kitty-corner from me, there's a young Indian couple. They've never shown the slightest interest in American holidays. This year, I noticed lights in their yard and thought ho-hum, more Halloween stuff. But on closer inspection, I see that there's a net of white lights covering their front door, their bushes are covered with colored lights, few if any of which are orange, and there are several red-and-white striped candy-cane lights planted firmly in the yard.

Yes, these two get the Mockingbird Lane prize for starting the Christmas season early. Of course, it'll be interesting to see how late they extend the season -- will those lights still be up at the end of January?

Update from 11/2: A friend reminds me that it's Diwali, the Indian festival of lights. Still, the huge candy cane lights threw me off.

isn't the rule "no white after labor day"?

It's been a grey, cloudy day, and I just got home from running some errands. The wood stove is getting started, the cat is staring hopefully into the stove's window. We just looked outside and...

It's snowing!!! Some years, snow happens before Halloween. It never sticks around, even if it accumulates a bit. It's probably time to go have some tea and get warmed up, myself.

Side effects

I was talking to a friend today about how loved ones' deaths have affected me. There have been some quirky things, which is what got me thinking about the subject.

When Mark died, I stopped wanting to see movies. I lost my tolerance for gratuitous violence (except, oddly, in John Waters' Suburban Mom, which was just silly). I also got annoyed at the typical plot formula in which the woman is punished -- either she loses the job and gets the man, or she gets the job but has to suffer the loss of the man. And those are the movies you're supposed to feel good about afterwards. Yuck. For a while, I could just watch documentaries and mockumentaries (thank you, Christopher Guest). Pretty much, though, I've given up on movies and only go at the extreme urging of a friend. Oddly, I can watch all sorts of live theater. Go figure.

I also stopped wanting to make phone calls. I'm getting better, ten years later, and I can call Robert easily. But it's hard to call friends (I'm putting off making a phone call right now), and it's especially hard to call workers whom I think I'll need to call multiple times. I just hate it. I'd much rather use email.

I can be very shy and withdrawn around people. But I can also be shockingly direct. Sometimes I feel like life and time are so short that I might as well get right to the point and make small talk afterwards, the exact opposite of how most people operate.

Mark was an architect and loved design. I feel unusally moved by beauty and elegance, both man-made and in nature. There are a few spots on my regular driving routes where, regardless of weather or light, I feel deeply moved. The same is true in Provincetown and at the beach there, a special place that Mark and I enjoyed together. When Robert and I walked into the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (aka SF/Moma), I nearly cried and said "I feel like I'm experiencing this for two." (Robert, bless him, understood.)

There is much I have learned, too, though I'm not always able to put it to good or obvious use. I've learned about loving and being loved. I've learned about making mistakes, acknowledging them, and moving on quickly. I've learned about how strong most humans' life force is -- the yearning to keep living beyond what we think we can tolerate. I've learned about good humor, generosity, kindness, and graciousness, not all from the dying or surviving, but those people have reinforced the lessons (ok, I'm a slow learner).

A friend wrote recently to say that she didn't know how to "repay" me for mere kindness. For me, all she has to do is keep passing the gift on to anyone, not necessarily me, when she is ready, when she has energy. That gift is so small and so very big at the same time. OK, time to pick up the phone.

goodbye to ed

Last night, Robert and I attended visiting hours at the funeral home. I had a lovely, heart-warming chat with Ed's widow, Jane. She is the epitome of graciousness. I greeted Ed's brother, their parents, and Jane's parents, then spoke with Jane's aunt for a while and then we went home.

Today was the service. I arrived early for the funeral-before-the-funeral, a quiet gathering time where you can sit in a room with the casket, talk quietly to others gathered there, then say a few prayers before the casket is brought to the church.

Then the service -- an hour and a half long, but lovely, inclusive, and loving. The minister was masterful at weaving together the readings and conveying how much he cared for Ed. Ed's brother, Art, who has been keeping people informed about Ed through a blog, spoke. It was a gorgeous speech. There was a professional singer with a lovely voice who led us in much music, surprisingly joyous. I'm so grateful that Jane has the community of that church and the comfort of the minister to help guide her through this hard time.

And I went to the cemetery. There were some prayers, and it was all over. Except that we didn't leave for a long time. The casket was under a tent and Jane and Sarah were there. The rest of us were outside the tent looking in. Sarah started to wail, wanting her daddy. Jane patiently explained what was happening -- I could swear I heard Sarah say she wanted to be in the big hole under the casket. After a long while, Jane's sister brought over a bouquet of flowers and asked if Sarah wanted to put them on the casket for her father. Sarah laid the flowers down, and then took the ribbon from the bouquet to keep. And eventually Sarah drifted off to get hugs from beloved relatives and to go play.

We stayed a while longer. As I was driving off, I saw that finally, everyone had left the tent area except for Jane, who was able to have a few last moments alone with Ed.

I feel bruised and battered. Such a sad sad day.

Lastly, the cat is here in her usual position, purring and occasionally laying her head on my arm. She is 99-44/100% love; the rest is black fur.

so glad to be home

We went to NY yesterday and returned today. The memorial dinner was a huge success. My great uncle's neighbor, Jenny, held court, telling jokes, showing off how she navigates the curbs when she goes out, reassuring us that her new neighbors are kind and attentive, telling us that her nephews constantly fret about her and threaten to put her in an assisted living center, but she's not going (she's only 94), and doling out hot stock tips. We had some good memories about my great uncle and heard great stories.

But my family. My god. It's best not to look for validation from my mother, cause it just ain't coming. Last time I talked to her on the phone, well, that's not really what happened. She talked to me, I said uh-huh uh-huh, and when she ran out of things to say, she needed to go. Didn't even get to cut me off after asking how I was because she never asked. Last night, she made weird little unfunny and irrelevant interjections into conversations, cornered Robert and me after he returned to the apartment and talked to us, then finally, at 11:30, asked if we wanted to see the layout of her new place. I declined out of exhaustion, and we made our way to bed.

And this morning, my uncle snapped at me. He usually does when we come to visit, but today was over something particularly weird. My aunt had asked me to pour water into glasses for breakfast and said we didn't need a pitcher on the table. Just as I was about to fill the glasses, my uncle came into the kitchen and laid me out in lavender for not using a pitcher. When I repeated what my aunt had said, he yelled at me for not considering the man of the house and what *he* wanted. I apologized profusely, but felt intensely resentful over it all. I'm not making this up even though it sounds fairly incredible. I think my uncle likes the *idea* of having guests and being surrounded by family, but he's terribly resentful and unpleasant when we're there.

Oh, and this was an unusually low-stress (low snappage) visit, too.

If I was wavering in the least about going to NY for Thanksgiving, I've stopped. Good; that's settled.

and now a little light music...

Yom Kippur. Not fond of it, avoid it, but plenty of my friends observe it. This year, I attended a professional dinner the night that YK ended. The woman to my left announced that she was starving because she'd been fasting all day. The man to my right had been away from work that day because he went to temple. And what did they order? On one side, shrimp, and on the other, a bacon cheeseburger.

hey let's not and say we did

The founder of the company for which I work is quite young: this spring he celebrated his tenth reunion from high school. He makes our vp of engineering, ten years out of college, look like a seasoned veteran. Anyways, the founder, ES, has a couple of friends who started a new web site, called Hey Let's Go. It's supposed to be one of those places where you can hook up with friends and friends-of-friends, figure out something to do (there's a calendar of events and they seem to sponsor, or at least schedule, parties) and then everyone can go do it. It looks great if you're urban, single, bored, and like to go out with others but you don't know where to go or whom to go with. As a sign of the target audience, there are discussion boards, including a bunch for recent college graduates.

ES sent mail to the company (or maybe just to the local office), encouraging us all to sign up and give feedback to the people who started the site. Being a good doobie, I checked it out. I started laughing when I got to the profile part. You're supposed to fill in your birth date (which I didn't do). To help, they've provided a default date, in 1982. Yup -- that's after I was supposed to graduate from college, after I'd been in the work force for several years. In fact, I probably could have gone to college, done a quick master's degree, gotten married, waited a bit, and had children older than the default birth date for this site. What a hoot.

Somehow, I think I'm not part of the target demographic for the adventure. I sent some polite feedback to someone who contacted me, seemingly within seconds of my signing up, and wished him luck.

performance, discussions...

I laughed a lot during last night's performance but didn't cry. The story was poignant, though. PB-R is a performance artist who has developed a character named Johnny Hobson, a young gay man from a small Texas town. We've seen PB-R in several earlier pieces; last night's was a continuation of the story. Johnny confronts a bewildering world full of inconsiderate slobs, uncomprehending family, and basic cruelty. Somehow, with great dignity, he always finds a way to take care of himself; the message is redemptive. Good material for last night.

Also, the piece ran for two hours and I could have taken more. I wonder how a solo performer can maintain high energy for so long; most of the solo pieces I see are 75 minutes long and the performer is drained at the end. At the end of his piece, PB-R looked like he could have done a second performance.

Over dinner, I had a long talk with Robert about his current job. He talked about how unhappy he and others in the company are, and it seems to boil down to a couple of difficult, unpleasant folks in a remote office. Robert's been humming this tune for months, but he finally sang the words last night. I coached R on the sorts of things he might say to his boss (who is also his brother) to start down the path of effecting change. It's clear that he wants to be there, but not under the current circumstances. We'll see.

And today, we're headed to NY for a brief visit. My great uncle Sam, who died at 99, would have been 102 or 103 yesterday. He lived for perhaps half a century in a small apartment building with two apartments per floor. His neighbor for most of that time became a close friend of Sam's and of the rest of the family. She likes to host a birthday dinner for Sam every year, and this year, my mother kindly asked if it could be on a Saturday so that Robert and I could attend. I'm looking forward to an evening of rememberance and laughter.

And then tomorrow, we zoom back to Boston to see a performer I've wanted to see for years, Savion Glovier, a tap dancer who will be performing to classical music.

Monday is a work day, and also visiting hours for Ed. Tuesday is the funeral. Last night I sent information about Ed to Jane's and my former coworkers. I expect that some of them will want to express their condolences to Jane, or at least have the option.

quiet contemplation

My friend Ed died this morning, apparently at peace and surrounded by loving family. Those who've cared for him have set a high bar for the level of care we all deserve at this time in our lives. His caretakers are true heroes, every last one of them.

It's been a sad, slow day. It's raining a lot, for something like the eighth day in a row. In fact, the rain started about the time that Ed started on his final decline. I didn't do much today. I did go for a swim, but didn't speed along as much as I would have liked. I took my cat to the vet and felt cheered by the good folks there, full of hope and help and dreams and joy. The cat is next to me now, sitting under a lamp, purring her heart out. I am so grateful for her company.

I found myself moving through all sorts of emotions today. I sat for a while with my sadness about Ed and those loved ones he's left behind. Then it turned inward for a while -- it gave me access to other sadness that lives within but that doesn't get out much. I felt such disappointment for Ed, for all those dreams that he doesn't get to live out, and for Ed and Jane -- what about all their dreams? I felt pissed off for a while -- sometimes just driving in Massachusetts helps get that emotion out.

Tonight, we're seeing a favorite performer, Paul Bonin Rodriguez. I'm hoping that his latest piece will bring on both tears and laughter -- I could use a little, maybe a lot, of both.

sounds in the night

4:45 am. I am sleeping soundly, a rare restful sleep. For once, the cat has not been spending the night traveling back and forth across my pillow, deciding whether 'tis better to sleep on the left or nobler to sleep on the right. Ah, peace.

Thump.

I wake immediately and peer into the darkness. Juliet is on the floor, on her side, head up, but not moving much. She sees me looking at her and meows, but I can't tell if she's humiliated or hurt.

She has not had a seizure. She has fallen. It's unclear whether she started on the bed and fell off, or whether she decided to jump and couldn't make it. I direct her toward the tiny stairs leading up to the bed, and she makes it up fine. Of course, she's back to sleep again long before I am.

good days, news is sadder

I swapped my days off at the beginning of this week.

Yesterday, I was home. I wrote to a friend, opining about a board of directors that he's on and that I'm on the periphery of. (I help with strategy, but don't attend board meetings. I think the board is in a transition period from operational to strategic, and it's done well at moving away from most operational issues, but hasn't quite figured out the strategy part yet.) I went swimming, managing to get in a mile. Then I went to visit a friend at his office to do a needle exchange (I got clean needles; I offered him a dirty cat, but he refused my end of the bargain.) But I also got some great hugs -- at that tiny place (ten employees?) I know three guys.

On to Bolton to pick up cat food and get a tour from Matt the fabulous vet tech -- what a magnificent place. And then to Waltham to visit a friend who was in the hospital last week. Dang. She now knows that it is ok to call me from her hospital bed and let me know where she is. Or to put me on her mom's "call list." Fortunately, she's doing much better. Then home (and to my friend's great amusement) to make dinner for the hubster. One year, two and a half weeks, and counting.

And today, work. People seemed relaxed from the long weekend. I used a specification (this is the first job I've had where people write them!) to write about a new feature, using our new style. It felt good to do some original writing. I started to receive some reviews for a long paper (short manual?) that I agonized over, not for writing reasons, but for technical ones. And I worked with the two other writers to solve problems they were encountering. Good, solid, productive day.

Late today, there was news that my friend E is actively dying. They're saying "hours, not days." I hope he is comfortable during this time. He is certainly surrounded by people who love him.

and one more...

i couldn't resist posting this one additional picture -- Juliet's Giant Head.

cold and wet sunday

Saturday night, the weather turned. We'd been celebrating cool nights and perfect days. I kept thinking of my friend E, that it would be a lovely time of year to have some time outside on the back deck, contemplating the last nice days of the year.

But the rains moved in, and we've had a spell of wet which is looking to last through the week. With the rain came a cold front.

So, on Sunday, we put the heated mattress pad and the flannel sheets on the bed. We lit the gas stove in the bedroom (at least while we were upstairs), then had a big long fire in the wood stove downstairs. I dressed for the occasion in sweat pants. The cat alternated between her roaster pan (a souvenir from the place she boards -- the sides make her feel comfy, but I must say she's just so gosh-darned cute in that thing) and the hearth. It's hard to imagine that it would be pleasant to curl up on a slab of brick, but apparently with enough heat, anything's comfortable.

Frost will be here soon, then some Indian summer, then more fall.

My career in marketing

A few weeks ago, Juliet had a regularly scheduled appointment for cat-upuncture. I received a call saying that I needed to reschedule the appointment, and I needed to contact the vet directly on his cell phone. Huh.

It turns out that the acupunturist, who traveled around to different clinics, has started his own practice, one where he can integrate conventional medical care and complementary and alternative care. It's not too much further down the road than the original clinic, and Juliet can have the vet I had always hoped for.

Oh, and my favorite vet tech of all times, Matt, is there.

We went for our first appointment last Friday, and I asked if there was anything I could do to help. (I was feeling a little overwhelmed thinking about what it takes to start a new practice -- all the stuff you need, the organizing, the envelope stuffing.) So I was expecting to pitch in in some menial way. However, I was asked to write a press release.

Uh sure. Back at home, I quickly googled for, what else, "How to write a press release," got a few tips, and after a couple of drafts back and forth, we came up with the following:

* * * * * * * * *
PRESS RELEASE
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

Contact:
Randy Caviness, DVM
Integrative Animal Health Center
556 Main Street, Route 117, Bolton MA
phone: (978) 779-2955
email: altvetdoc@comcast.net

Integrative Animal Health Center opens in Bolton MA
Bolton, MA. Oct 4, 2005.

Randy Caviness, DVM, proudly announces the opening of the Integrative Animal Health Center, in Bolton, MA. The Center provides complete conventional and alternative medical treatments to promote animal health.

In celebration of the opening, Integrative Animal Health Center is sponsoring an Open House on Sunday November 6, 1-3pm. The Open House will feature an opportunity to get a behind-the-scenes tour of the new facility and to meet the staff, including reiki practioner and animal massage therapists. There will be give-aways and opportunities to win introductory reiki, massage, acupuncture, or chiropractic treatments for your pet.

Dr. Randy Caviness, founder of the Center, and a practicing veterinarian for the past 12 years, graduated from Tufts School of Veterinary Medicine in 1993. He is also certified in veterinary acupuncture and chiropractic. Dr. Caviness says, "I'm excited to open the first clinic in this area that provides complete conventional veterinary care, integrated with alternative and complementary treatments. I take a practical approach to preventive, chronic, and disease care, drawing on many traditions to find the ideal treatment for each animal."

The Center offers annual checkups, vaccinations, preventive care, surgery, x-ray, dentistry, and help with prescriptions. The staff promises prompt feedback on lab results. The Center also offers acupuncture, chiropractic, nutritional consultations, massage therapy, and Chinese herb treatments.

Client Liz Augustine of Maynard says, "Dr. Caviness has treated my elderly cat with care and compassion. Through a combination of acupuncture, traditional medical care, and practical advice, he is helping my cat age gracefully. For the first time, she is happy and relaxed when she visits the vet."

The Center is a refreshingly bright, airy and comfortable place for animals and humans. It offers convenient appointment hours including some evenings and Saturday mornings. They are located at 556 Main Street in Bolton on Route 117, two doors west of the intersection with Interstate 495. For more information, call (978) 779-2955.

# # #

horrid, sad news

Late last spring, I learned that E, the husband of my old friend J, was diagnosed with leukemia back in March. E has managed to fight off several recurrences, including at least one close encounter with his own mortality. A few weeks ago, there was much celebration because E went home to J and his kindergarten-aged daughter, mostly to gather strength and increase his numbers in preparation for a stem-cell transplant. The doctors have been doing regular tests to measure his progress. As late as last Friday, his tests showed that he was sailing free and clear.

Yesterday (Sunday) he awoke with a sharp pain in his shoulders, and after some agonizing hours and some calls to the doctors, they decided he'd pulled a muscle. This morning, he went in for testing just to be sure, and it looks like the disease is back in full force. The doctors feel that they've run out of options for E and are now saying that at the outside, he has just a few more weeks.

I offer up my hopes for peace, comfort, and love on this next part of E's journey.

westward, ho, to Montague

Robert and I consider our home dance to be in Jamaica Plain south of Boston, about a 50-minute drive away. It's odd -- there's a twice-weekly dance within 15 minutes of our house. I'm sure it's very nice, but the dance in JP is gender-role free, we've known some of the other dancers for years, and it's one of our most important communities. So we go a few times a month and always have a great time.

Last night, we drove less than half an hour more in the other direction, to the charming ville of Montague MA in the Pioneer Valley (western MA to those of us who live in the east, but I bet those who live in the Berkshires think of it as central Mass). There's been a monthly gender-role-free dance in Northampton for a while, but this year, they moved to the Grange building in Montague. They also moved up the hours to 7-10 for noise-ordinance reasons. The earlier hours combined with the new location and a free evening made us say "let's check this out."

Before the dance, we headed to the Montague Mill (home of the Montague Book Mill -- "books you don't need in a place you can't find") for a light bite to eat at Lady Killigrew's. We of course ran into contra dancers there -- about six of them in three different groups, one from Boston. Food and conversation were both great.

Back at the dance, we entered a tiny hall containing ten dancers and a caller who said her brain was fuzzy because she was coming down with a bad cold. Uh-oh. First thought -- it's a good thing we came; otherwise there would be eight dancers. Second thought -- thank goodness the band contained one of our own, Jared P, who plays one of my favorite instruments, hammer dulcimer. At least the music would be good.

Well, it turned out that the whole evening was fantastic. At one point, I counted about 40 dancers. The caller did well and provided some fun and challenging dances. Beginners came up to speed quickly. Someone new to me said this was one of the warmest, most welcoming dance groups she's encountered. And of course, we ran into all sorts of people we know from dance camps further west and dance visits to Boston. In fact, a favorite dance partner showed up -- he dropped out of dancing for medical reasons a few years back to the great dismay of many of his fans. But he came last night. We knew at least half the attendees, not bad for showing up at a new dance.

And the drive home wasn't too bad, though I realize that's easy for me to say since I wasn't driving. But it felt quick, not endless.

Bottom line, I can imagine making a habit of this dance quite happily.

celebrating a short life, IMO DEP

Last weekend, more than 25 of us gathered at the Pentlarge family "camp" in Maine to honor Daniel and to unveil his grave stone. Some had known him for his entire life, others since his late teens, and still others had known him just briefly. The weekend was an emotional jumble -- lots of funny stories, some tears, some unstructured time, some planned activities.

Breakfasts were long rambling affairs held in the "new" kitchen (there's an "old," now unused kitchen which serves as storage and entry hall). They segued into snacks and lunch, with food on the table constantly. Our one dinner together was held on the two porches, one screened, one not. A family dog provided immense relief as she toodled about the property, unaware of sadness or remembrance.

People were lovely, loving, irritating, strange, delightful, and charming, sometimes all in one package.

I spent some time in company, and some by myself by the boat house watching dragon flies in the bright sun. A few people wandered down and spent time with me there.

The stone itself is beautiful, still in its natural shape, with reddish highlights (which Daniel also had), and with beautiful, appropriate words inscribed on it. Thanks to D's sisters and to Graham for their part in articulating a permanent rememberance. The stone sits in the woods about half-way down the driveway, alongside the graves of Daniel's sister and mother.

All together, it was a typical weekend at the camp, one which Daniel would have greatly enjoyed, I think. Perhaps he did enjoy it from wherever he is.

The celebration continued on Tuesday night with an English dance in Daniel's honor. I was feeling under the weather, and Robert and I stayed just for the first half and two more dances. (Graham called, but only in the latter half, so I was unable to experience the full pleasure of an evening of his dances.) G spoke a bit about how much joy dance brought to Daniel, and I remembered how broadly he smiled whenever he danced. A good memory, one to replace, or at least reside next to, some of the more horrific images I've had.

a little levity

Understandably, there has been a lot of sadness about Daniel in the last few days, especially on friends' blogs. Here's a little nugget that brings a smile to my face every time I think of it.

For years, Daniel wanted to find a house that was as grand and lovely as the house he grew up in, in Worcester. He went to many open houses, driving Graham crazy with the search. He got very excited one day to find a reasonably-priced place advertised as having "crown molding." He made an appointment and off he went. But the place was a little less grand than he'd been hoping for. He sniffed derisively at the realtor and said "You can't possibly be serious calling this 'crown molding.' Why, I'd barely accept your calling it 'tiara molding,' but it certainly doesn't merit the name, 'crown.'" Alas, the realtor was humor-impaired, and I don't think Daniel stayed long or dealt with her again.

DEP, 1958 -- 2004

Today was the anniversary of Daniel's death. We lit candles for him last night and tonight. This weekend, we'll attend the unveiling of his grave stone at his family's "camp" in Maine. I'm feeling mostly quiet and thoughtful but wanted to note the passing of this important anniversary.

lucky refugee

At our much delayed breakfast on Saturday morning, I happened to mention a dance buddy named D, and in the same breath mentioned that he lives in New Orleans. We both looked up and gasped and then immediately wondered how he was faring.

Sl0w-forward a few hours to the first contra dance of the season, also on Saturday. There, across the hall was D. I went up to see how he was doing and he said he was looking for a place to stay. I happily offered him a spare bed at our house and he came home with us.

The next day, we all went out to brunch, then to an exhibit that a friend helped curate, Hope and Healing: Painting in Italy in a Time of Plague, 1500-1800. I figured a little hope and healing were in order. We met up with friends there, all went out for middle eastern food, and then home to fresh corn, salad, and bed. D took off the following morning for the next part of his adventure.

Next stop: a camp in Malibu Hills in California for two weeks.

His story was pretty simple and relatively happy. He had been planning to ride out the storm at home but friends called and convinced him to move in with them. So he spent a week in a trailer, I think, with two people, 12 dogs, a few other assorted pets. For the first few days, he stayed glued to the TV. Eventually, he was allowed to go home for a few hours and check on his place, which is fine. He threw out food, took the first plane out of town, and landed in Boston. Somehow, he found his way to the dance (not necessarily easy) and thought he'd quietly mention to a few folks that he was looking for a place to stay.

He is so lucky -- he has the inner and financial resources to have escaped, his house did not incur any damage, his mom, who lives nearby, is fine. He just needs to worry about when there will be enough resources (food, electricity, and so on) to make it reasonable to go home. And he needs to worry about his job. Apparently, he's employed at least through the end of the month, and on Monday, he was able to reach his boss' voice mail. I expect that he'll have a job at some point. This is not to say that there's been no trauma; I expect there has been at least some. Perhaps time at the camp will also offer some hope and healing.

Yow. Much gratitude is in order.

hateful technology

With all the news items about computer worms and viruses, I've been careful in recent years to maintain an active subscription to an anti-virus program, Norton Antivirus. A few days ago, my subscription expired, so I decided to upgrade to the latest version and to sign up for two more years.

I usually breeze through these processes; I figure they were designed for the general public, and I know a thing or two about computers. So it's usually not that hard.

9:30 am. Discovered that for some reason, my computer has not recorded a subscription number. I have a serial number, a product number, an activation number, and a few other numbers, but not the right number. I start the long procedure; the short procedure is only for people with a subscription number.

9:45 am. Finish answering questions, submit my credit card information, supersize the subscription (to two years), and start to download.

10:00 am. Lose the download, start again. Find the first download. Start running the program I've just acquired and realize that that was just the program that you run so that you can actually download the software. OK, so I wait for the download.

10:30 am. Finish running the installation program. Multiple reboots later, program is finally starting to download the files needed to run the anti-virus software. (Our wireless system does not come back right away after a reboot. It takes several shutdowns and restarts before we have true internet access. Of course, during this delicate installation procedure, it's essential to have internet access, so I've stopped and started the internet connection multiple times.)

10:45 am. See an error message, go to the web site (helpfully pointed to by the error message) and realize that this is a known problem. A very well-known problem. Start to follow the procedures to resolve the problem.

11:00 am. Robert senses my building frustrating and gently suggests that perhaps he could work on the problem.

11:30 am. I run out of the house to get an errand done by noon when the place I'm going closes. Run a second errand, then come back for breakfast.

12:45 pm. We've eaten, read the paper, washed the dishes. Robert is working on the problem.

1 pm. I go upstairs to check on things, start back-seat driving, and immediately retreat.

1:30 pm. I check back in. I complain that a web browser, Firefox, that I installed at the behest of my some customer support organization always takes over email. Robert is currently struggling with it because when he clicks a web link, Firefox pops to the front but can't show the content of the web page. So he copies the web link from Firefox to the browser that works, Internet Explorer. This is getting old. He decides to remove Firefox so that Internet Explorer can once again display web pages.

2:00 pm. With Firefox off the system, we still can't get IE to display pages automatically. So Robert installs Netscape. I'm back to square one with browsers, except that I'm now using a different unwanted browser.

3:00 pm. I come back to see how things are going. Robert has by now checked internet chat rooms and has found other frustrated computer users experiencing the same problem.

3:30 pm. I realize I should stop checking in because it just makes me cross. Robert has printed out pages of instructions.

5:30 pm. Robert comes downstairs looking slightly pale. It has occurred to him to look at system log files. He's also finished the set of "suggested fixes" and finally, on the last step, done what we could have easily done in the beginning -- remove the software, reinstall, and reboot. That was the whole solution.

I wonder what happens in households where the residents don't have a combined 50 years in the computer industry, where they don't have degrees in computer science, and where they even need help learning how to use the internet. At least I won't be dealing with this for another two years.

staying toasty

As part of preparing for the coming winter, I called a wood person at the tail end of August for a delivery. I met the person when he helped work on the addition to our house. I'm glad I called (and that he called back) because I have a tendancy to put these things off. Then September 1 or 15 rolls around and no one has wood to sell or it gets expensive. But if you call too early, you're in the back yard stacking when it's too beastly hot to move and the mosquitos and other biters are feasting.

My timing was also good because even though gas prices had gone up a lot when I called, Katrina had not yet hit. Apparently, there's now price-gouging in the wood lot as the price of oil and gas soar post-storm.

John (the wood man) has a pickup truck that he says holds half a cord, so we'll get three deliveries in all. The first two came last night. It's beautiful wood -- quite dry -- and I think his truck holds a very generous half cord. Our neighbor pitched in, so now we have the first two thirds stacked already, with the last bit to come this evening. And our neighbor ordered some too. John will also bring some kindling by from his day job -- kiln-dried ends of 2x4s and 2x6s.

The thing is that we have electric heat, which I've never minded, but I never feel like the house gets warm into its bones. The wood stove takes care of that, and it's fun to watch the cat curl up first right next to the fire, then move half way across the living room, then back again. Given the speed at which fall is coming (it was 45 degrees last night), I think we'll be nice and toasty this winter.

postcards from daniel

The first anniversary of Daniel's death is coming up in a few weeks, and lately, there have been many reminders of him, which have felt as if they were sent by him.

A few weeks ago in the Berkshires, we heard a newish (21st century) piece commissioned and played by a trio. The piece was For Daniel, by Joan Tower, written in memory of Ms. Tower's nephew, who died after a long illness which involved breathing difficulties. The piece was filled with love and rage, and for a new piece on first hearing, was surprisingly accessible (which means I didn't squirm in my seat from pain induced by listening).

We recently had dinner with a friend who dated Daniel near the end of his life. A few words were spoken in DEP's memory.

On Saturday, we saw a play where one of the main characters was costumed much as Daniel dressed. At the opening of the second act, the actor's straw boater was lying on the stage -- just what Daniel would have worn, especially on such a fine night.

And last week, I received a phone call from Daniel's sister, inviting us to the unveiling of Daniel's tomb stone. Last year, when I was not invited to his burial, I felt such pain, but perhaps a little relief too. The burial happened on a rainy day, the day before Robert's and my wedding, and the logistics would have been difficult. (I still would have gone had I been invited.) So with the closing of the first circle of seasons, I'm honored to be asked to attend this part of the ceremony.

Daniel is very much with us these days. We will not forget.

fall is coming, work is interesting.

Ah, gorgeous days, cool and cold nights. In the Berkshires last weekend, I noticed the leaves were starting to change, but it might not be obvious to the casual observer or to those in denial about the end of summer. Last night, when I got up to -er- facilitate, I noticed that my feet were cold, and that was after several hours of snuggling under the down comforter and wool blanket with a cat wrapped around my head. Air's crisp, we're all more comfortable, and I'm back down to one shower a day.

I've been at my job for nearly a year now, a year of this part-time experiment. I'm working on my third boss, and have gone from being a department of less than one to being part of a department of two (spread across three people), with two contractors and a possible new hire in the next few months. It's been a fun ride so far.

Right now, I'm working on infrastructure, in an area that's interested me for years -- information architecture. My former boss encouraged me to go to conferences and learn as much as I could, and now I'm trying to put all that knowledge to use. (A special hiya to KAH.)

My current project goes something like this. Right now, we have developed all sorts of deliverables (in lots of different formats, I might add) -- user manuals, online help, white papers, training materials, and so on. You can imagine that our directory structures are organized by each deliverable, with subdirectories and files underneath. You might also imagine that if we're writing about the same subject over and over again, there might be a fair amount of overlap. Right now, because of different formats and organization, there's no way to reuse the overlapping material.

Well, wouldn't it be cool if we took all the little subjects we talk about and put them into one common directory structure so that when we want to include information about that subject into another deliverable, we could either plagiarize or at least have a darned good starting point?

That's the point of my project -- to figure out how to organize all our topics so that people can find the information in the directory soup.

I started out on my own, and immediately ran into problems -- do you organize by the people doing the work? By area of the product? By subject? There are so many interconnections -- of course there's no one obvious solution.

But there is an obvious path to the solution -- ask other people to help. I wrote down about 100 subjects that we document, each one on its own little card. And I've been asking people to sort them into groups and subgroups. The results have been interesting and are almost all in. I'm hoping to have some preliminary recommendations next week.

At the same time, I've taken a subject (called "locales") and found all extended discussions of it in all our documentation -- about 25 pages worth. I've done an analysis of the types of information, and am now trying to write a set of draft topics related to this one subject. For example, I found nine places where we define "locale". That's a lot of overlap. Of course, some of the descriptions aren't very accurate or are obsolete. I've written a draft of the definitive definition for locales, suitable for inclusion in all nine of these places. Once our structure is in place, when the central definition changes, the text in each deliverable will be automatically updated, too. Next, I'll be working on "how to create a locale," and then "deleting" and "modifying." Pretty straightforward stuff, but an incredibly complicated web to unravel.

Imagine doing that for all 100 or so subjects. The good news is that I've figured out a way to move over to this centralized system in an evolutionary way. This strategy will allow us to continue to write new documentation even as we're switching over to our new centralized system -- we won't have to stop all work, convert, and then resume work.

I of course worry about the responsibility -- once the new structure is in place, it will be hard to change, though not impossible. So it's important to get it right, or "good enough," as we like to say, the first time. I dream about sorting cards, though not obsessively. And in waking life, after each person goes through the card set, I shuffle the cards to get them ready for the next person, and now my colleagues accuse me of playing card games.

This is interesting work, though, and I never dreamed I'd get to work on this kind of project at this company. I'm crossing my fingers that all these good ideas end up in a workable implementation.

P.S. After posting this, I checked work email to find a note sent to the entire company saying that an employee's email is down; to reach him, call his mobile phone, and he'll send email to all employees when he is once again reachable via email. At a larger company, this type of message would be (select one) inappropriate, annoying, worthy of sending a reply asking for more caution when using the email system. At this company, the message is useful to at least half the employees, maybe more. I love working in a small company.