memorial day memories

i ran to the store to buy chicken so i can make more cat food for my furry family.  there was a bit of a jam at the light, by the end of our parking lot.  there's a decorative fountain there, as well as a flag pole and apparently an oft-overlooked memorial stone.  the commotion was a group of vets in uniform, laying a wreath at the memorial stone, saluting, and firing off a few rounds into the air.

i haven't thought about my grandfather in years.  he died august of 2001, weeks before the 9/11 attacks.  i remember sitting on our front stoop after 9/11, smoking a cigarette, and talking about how glad i was my grandfather died before 9/11 because it would have broken his heart.  grandpa didn't sit around talking about the action he'd seen fighting overseas in world war II; he didn't often bring out uniforms or medals and talk to me about them.  but he was an active member of his local VFW group, butehorn brothers post 4987, and was a commander for some years.  he was honored by the nassau county american legion as legionnaire of the year 1992-1993.  grandpa was active in his veterans groups and active in his home after the war, bethpage.  he regularly wrote for the local bethpage tribune; i often would page through the paper and find something written by him, or photos he took.

as a young girl, there were many times i'd see myself in that paper.  i didn't realize the importance of memorial day back then.  i remember sitting in my grandparent's den, where grandpa's computer was, and cutting up ribbons to be tied around telephone poles and trees to mark the route of the memorial day parades.  i was active in the local girl scouts, as a brownie and a junior girl scout, and loved marching in the parades.  i would volunteer to hold the american flag, not the girl scout flag or another flag, but the american flag.  i took pride in ensuring that i held it higher than the other flags carried by other girls, because i knew it was important that the american flag always be above other flags.  i would often meet my grandparents at the community park in bethpage where the parades always ended, and would stand with my grandfather, in his VFW hat with pins i didn't understand, as he and his fellow veterans laid wreaths on memorial plaques.  i remember seeing tears in my grandfather's eyes and knowing how important this was, but i didn't understand why.

after i moved away from bethpage, away from the girl scouts and the parades, i grew up.  i became an asshole teenager, was swallowed by my depression, engulfed in drug use, and the subject of an abusive relationship with a parental figure.  my stepfather was a vietnam vet.  he never spoke of his time in vietnam, only once when he got really drunk - he brought out photos of him and his fellow soldiers in vietnam.  he did tell me he lost his teeth over there, he was shot at least twice and had a piece of shrapnel he once invited me to feel under his skin - i think it was in his shoulder; memories of that time of my life are not sharp.  i remember how important it was in the house we rented for him to put up an american flag.  i remember when he added a POW/MIA flag.  i remember how during the summer, for weeks at a time, he would light candles under the flags in our yard.  i once asked him about it, when we were high and getting along.  he said he promised friends that didn't come home from vietnam that he'd remember them.

i remember being so angry at my stepfather; he was often mean to me, verbally and physically abusive.  he'd give me all the pot i wanted but i always ended up paying for it.  we had a tumultuous relationship - unlike the relationships he had with my mom and brother.  as i got older, i realized that he was probably doing the best he could with what he had been through.  does it excuse it?  no, of course not.  but it helps explain it.  my stepfather was a deeply wounded man, a product of his own dysfunctional upbringing and whatever horrors and hell he experienced during his years in vietnam.  and then, to know what he came home to, how the support for the war - and the returning troops - just wasn't there.

who knows what my grandfather and stepfather saw on their respective tours that affected them so deeply.  how many men they may have lost or left behind.  how many times they may have thought they were not going to make it home.  my grandfather came home after world war II a hero; my stepfather returned from vietnam a villain.  they both had their faults - my grandfather may have seemed like a larger-than-life hero when i was a small girl, but age brings wisdom (and family stories), and people's fault lines begin to show.  my stepfather may have seemed like a hurtful, spiteful dick who would turn on a dime and be a caring, supportive parent, but again - age brings wisdom, when people's fault lines become understood.

on memorial day, we often wander from barbecue to barbecue.  we may hang out by a pool or at the beach for the first time of the season.  we have a day off from work, we go to the malls to shop the sales or use the excuse to hit home depot and get some work done in the yard.  we use it as an excuse to have fun, drink too much, and see friends and family we haven't connected with since we all holed up for the long new york winter.  i was planning on laundry, cooking cat food, and some cross stitching.

instead, i decided to write.  i haven't thought about my grandfather in so long, and i haven't thought about my stepfather in positive terms in a long time.  but both of them served their countries: when asked to leave their homes for combat overseas, they did not hesitate to do what they were being asked, even knowing that they may not come home.  this is what memorial day is about.  neither my grandfather nor my stepfather died in combat, but they both served their countries.  we have thousands of soldiers who have returned from service and suffer at the hands of a ridiculous veterans administration; suffering from PTSD and undiagnosed illnesses.  we have veterans who are still trying to determine the effects that agent orange may have had on them, and veterans who are still trying to figure out how to return to 'normal life' and reintegrate in society while seeing visions of the horrors they may have witnessed.  and we have veterans who come home less than whole, missing limbs or parts of themselves, parts of their souls.  or veterans who come home draped with an american flag.  veterans who are lost and never come home at all.

remember that.  i'm a big hippy pacifist, most of us know that.  i don't like violence, i don't like guns.  but i don't run this country and i don't run the world.  our armed forces protect us every day, whether it's the coast guard protecting our waterways and boaters, the national guard responding to devastating disasters within our borders, or the branches of the forces that are sent to protect our interests and people overseas.  they do what most of us can't - or won't - and the deserve at least a thought today, a thank you.

thank a serviceman or servicewoman.  check out charity navigator's listing of charities to support our troops.  or click on one of the links below to give back to the veterans who have given us so much.

***please leave a comment if you donate to support our troops and/or veterans - for every reader that donates, i will add $1 to my planned donation to the USO, up to $50***

happy memorial day.

wounded warrior project
USO
homes for our troops
disabled american veterans
veterans of foreign wars foundation
operation gratitude - write letters of thanks to servicemen/servicewomen

nsfw or anytime you don't want your eye makeup to run

i wish i could still think of witty, cute, or meaningful titles for my blog.

but i can't.

anyway, i know i'm still a bad blogger.  my only excuse is lack of time.  between my work at home gig and piercing, i'm working 55-60 hours a week.  and i'm still in school full time.

granted, it's online school.  but it's still a lot of work.  and last week i had two finals due.

i got my jellyfish filled in last week.  i think it looks pretty fucking sweet.  i know nicki wants to see it.

eee it's a jellyfish!

 that's when it was new and fresh.  now it's scaly and oozy.  so, you know.  that photo is better.

last week was also my birthday.  it was the same as any other day, except awesome husband came home from work early and we went to benihana.  and ate A LOT.

 

already full of hibachi deliciousness and sushi.  and ONE mai tai.  it was my birthday.

now the week before THAT (keep up now, we're talking march 7th and 8th) we had a bit of a thing happen here.

my oldest cat, taylor handsome aka papacat, always slept on the foot of our bed.  that wednesday morning he stretched and yowled and jumped down like normal to go get breakfast with awesome husband, just like every morning.

i slept lateish because it was going to be a busy afternoon/evening at work-at-home gig and my brother stopped in on his way to work to say goodbye to me and papacat.  papacat yowled and snuggled like he always did.

a little later that morning, i heard him jump off the bed - nothing strange.  all of the cats make a thud when they jump off the bed.  it has nothing to do with their size (i swear that jake is not fat) and more with the way the house is built.  i was in the kitchen so i peeked down the hallway to say hi as he came walking towards me.

what i saw was not good.  and is not easily described.  he was listing and stumbling.  a few steps and he's take a tumble.  he'd get back up and do it again.  i ran down the hallway to pick him up and he just looked at me.  no yowling or mewing or anything.

i took him back to the bedroom and put him on the bed.  taylor kind of hunched over and, after a minute, tried to take a few steps.  and tumbled headfirst.  i settled him back down and grabbed the phone to call the vet.  i tried to explain what was happening but i couldn't.  they told me to bring him down in about an hour.  i took my macbook pro into the bedroom and sat with him while we waited.  he just kind of looked at me still.  no sound.  i checked all his limbs, thinking maybe he hurt himself jumping.

he had done that once before - tweaked his hip.  you should have heard the noises he made when we manipulated it.  that hip injury earned taylor weeks of anti inflammatory medication and painkillers.  but this time, when i manipulated any of his legs, joints, feet - he just looked at me.  no sound.

i really started freaking out.

he wanted to jump off the bed and do something, so i put him on the floor.  taylor walked in a couple of circles and tumbled again.  i put him right back on the bed and snuggled him.  when it was time to go to the vet, i put him in the carrier with no fight.  and taylor was ALWAYS a fighter when it came to those damn crates.  but no fight this time.

the vet checked all his limbs.  there was blood flowing to his feet because they were still warm and stuff, but he just didn't care if we poked at him.  he still hadn't meowed this entire time.  she checked his belly and back - everything seemed fine.  we decided to do some blood work to see if his kidneys had finally given up.  taylor made a couple of half assed yowls while he was back there, but they made me sadder because they weren't as hearty and loud and blood curdling as his usual yowls.  as i waited in the exam room with taylor, we just cuddled.

papacat and i resting in the vet's exam room.  just waiting.

as you can see, he was just lying on me.  taylor was very limp at this point.  when i would pick him up under his arms, he'd still stretch like always, but then he'd settle back down like this.

the vet came back in - his kidneys were actually functioning BETTER than the last time we'd done blood work in september.  there was nothing wrong with him that the blood work was showing.  the vet said she wanted to try giving him an anti inflammatory (just in case), an antibiotic in case he was fighting something off, and some fluids.  so he got a little mouthy about the injections, just a short 'mrow' to let us know he didn't love it, and we gave him some fluids.  i had her show me how to, just in case it helped and we would have to give them at home.  i put papacat and his saddlebags into the carrier and went home.

within hours, there was a noticeable difference - he was even less interested in anything around him.  he didn't want to pick his head up - i'd hold it up for him and he'd just let it drop back to his pillow.  taylor kept trying to get up and walk - i'd left him on the bed.  so i picked him up to see where he needed to go.  the answer is the litter box but we didn't quite make it.  i was so worried i didn't have time to get grossed out.  i cuddled him in a towel, put him back on the bed, cleaned up, and called the vet.  she said if i couldn't handle it, we could hospitalize him for the night, but it might take more than a couple of hours to see any positive change if anything positive was going to happen.  she suggested a more confining bed.

so i pulled out the bed purchased for jake that all the motherfucking cats hated, but was like a fuzzy three sided box.  i bundled taylor up in his towel and snuggled him in the box bed.  he settled right down.  he'd never slept in a bed in his life.  he always hated them.

i took good care of him.  he wouldn't eat.  he licked a bit of milk off my fingers.  he slept in that box bed next to my bed that night.  i woke up every couple of hours to check on him.

the next morning, things were no better.  i called the vet to make an appointment that night and had bed cuddles with him one more time.

 

sleepytimes papacat and me with no makeup on.

that's how i held him most of the day.  i put him in his bed on the floor while i took a shower and when i had to take pee breaks, but while i was working at home on the computer - i cuddled him.  i got the blanket my mom made that he usually slept on and swaddled him in that.  i made it like a sling almost and kept him with me the entire day.

awesome husband came home a bit early so he could shower and stuff in time to take us to the vet.  at 5:45, i snuggled taylor up and brought him to the car in his blanket.  i refused to put him in the crate for his last car ride.

and it was peaceful.  he was so sleepy and out of it already, he barely noticed when the vet gave him a mild sedative so the IV wouldn't be a problem.  i held taylor in his blanket until he was gone.  i whispered to him that he'd be happy and healthy soon.  i asked taylor to say hi to mom for me when he found her - because i know they'll be together again.

as soon as he passed, awesome husband stopped crying.  it took me a few more minutes, but we stayed with him until i composed myself and we walked out of the vet's office with an empty blanket.

rip papacat, taylor handsome.  9/7/1995-3/8/2012

a funny old thing

one day, i'll get back to writing funny posts. 

it's not that funny stuff doesn't happen in my life any longer.  it's not that my sense of humor is drastically different.  it's just that i think about things differently, i guess. 

i had an excellent day today.  i woke up way too early and started working, only for a couple of hours.  then i showered and got ready to spend the day with reverend bobdad because my half sisters were competing (cheerleaders).  rev bobdad picked me up and we went to my first ex-stepmother's house (rev bobdad's second ex-wife.  yup.  we're counting).  we then went to the high school where the competition was being held and who is sitting in the bleachers but my ex-stepmother's sort-of husband who also happens to be the biological father of my half sisters.

yea, i know.  it's near impossible to follow.

let's try this again.

i have sisters.  twin sisters that are 15.  they were born when my dad was married to my first ex-stepmother, so they were my half sisters.  when they were 4 my first stepmother became my first EX-stepmother when she divorced my dad and quickly married her masseuse.  then when my half sisters were 8 we found out they WERE NOT my dad's children, but they were biologically the masseuse's children.  for all intents and purposes, though, they are my sisters.  we have the same dad ('dad' and 'sperm donor' are two different things), we have the same last name (i hyphenated), and they are - and will always be - my sisters.  there has been a lot of bad blood between their biological father and our rev bobdad (among other people).  the biological father-slash-masseuse is still legally married to my first ex-stepmother, but they no longer live in the same household.  my rev bobdad sees my sisters twice a week for dinner, and the biological father sees them a couple of times a month. 

if you're following, good for you.  i should write a book.

so we walk into the gym and there sits biological father-slash-asshole.  but he did save seats for ALL of us (my rev bobdad included) so that was something.  awkward, but something.

he did look me in the eye for a nanosecond when he said hello to me.  he did not look my rev bobdad in the eye.

then my rev bobdad went to get a drink, and brought back a bottle of water for each of us - including biological father-slash-asshole.  which was nice.  but they didn't, like, interact.

so we all watched my sisters perform.  and high school cheerleading competitions are a little bit like 'bring it on'.  but with no espn reporters.  and less people.  and blaque isn't there.

but, you know.  other than that, pretty much the same.

my sister's school didn't place, sadly.  but my rev bobdad, sisters, and i were all going to our favorite steakhouse afterward, so it would be okay.  right?

wrong. as soon as biological father-slash-asshole got wind of my rev bobdad doing something with the girls, he got all biological-parenty and was like, i'm taking the girls out.

so we let him have his fun and went back to first ex-stepmother's house to watch television and have a snack.  and my rev bobdad fixed her motion sensor light.  and bought stuff to recaulk one of the bathroom tubs.  and bought a new clothes hanging rod thingy for one of my sister's closets.

anyway.

then they came home and we hung out for a bit and then we went to our steakhouse.  and had some steak and some fun conversation.  i remember when they were younger and were almost afraid of me.  now we talk like adults.  i love them.

we also talked a bit about the whole situation.  about how they used to think it was normal to have two dads.  they call rev bobdad 'dad' or 'daddy' and biological father-slash-asshole 'papa'.  one of my sisters told me that when first ex-stepmother (their mother, follow along please) told her that papa was their biological father, and daddy was their dad, she didn't get it.  but that was years ago.  we get it now.

i really wanted to ask what they got.  my rev bobdad was no saint, let me tell you.  he drank himself out of his first marriage (to my mom) and couldn't keep his pants on.  but faith can do strange things to a man and after he was saved (he's a born again christian.  charismatic christian.  whatever you want to call it) rev bobdad was a bit of a new man.  he has 27 years sober and is a great dad to those girls.  he was a drunken fool to me, and mostly just a fool to my brother.  but a man lives and learns (so does a woman for that matter).  i really wanted to ask my sisters if they got that, while my rev bobdad was married to first ex-stepmother, she fucked her masseuse and got pregnant with them.

like, really wanted to know if they understood that.

which is wrong.  i mean, number 1: they're 15.  number 2: you can't know your own mother's a liar.  children need to be able to love and trust their parents.  if you are told your parent is wrong or bad, it can destroy you.

blood is not always thicker than water.  my aunt proved that to me in a negative way, and my sisters prove it to me time and time again in a positive way.  i am in no way related to them - we share no blood.  they are nothing to me.

but they are my sisters.  we talked a bit about that - how blood relatives aren't always the best.  i told them how their mother - who is nothing to me, relation-wise - was more supportive to me during my mother's passing than my aunt - who is a blood relation, my mother's sister - was.  they mentioned about wanting to take their biological father-slash-asshole's name because it matches their nationalities, and i told them my last name is italian even though i'm irish, english, german, and scottish because i took my husband's last name.  names don't mean anything either.  it's not the people who share your name or your blood who are your family - it's the people who love and support you.

i think they understand it.  i think they know what their mother did, and how my rev bobdad, awesome husband, my brother, and i are NOTHING to them - nothing.  we only share a name because my father's last name is still on the birth certificates.  i think they understand more than anyone gives them credit for.  and i think they are the strongest girls i know for it.