INFJ Random Thoughts Thread - Blogs - Personality Cafe

BranchMonkey

INFJ Random Thoughts Thread

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by , 02-13-2018 at 11:43 AM (166 Views)
[QUOTE=BranchMonkey;40736946]The second to last interaction I had with Pickles was taking a whole lot of photos--which I cannot view or share (any) because Internet access disappeared on this old laptop and I had to reinstall Linux Mint 18.1 Mate.

The very last interaction I had with her was to let her have a treat I had stopped giving her over six months ago--it wasn't good for her but it was her favorite: some Crisco on my index finger. She grabbed on with her hands, ate it all fast, then licked other fingers and searched for some more, so I gave her seconds and said, "That's it, sweetie."

I never looked at her again, not when my husband put her in the cage that night, and I told him, "To deal with this my way I don't want to see her. I want to remember her happy," and he honored that, didn't draw my attention to his leaving with her for the drive to the vet.

On Saturday morning when I heard the front door close, I waited to be sure my husband hadn't forgot anything. I had him take a box with fleece in it, and told him not to take any water or food because Pickles wouldn't want or need it.

As soon as I was sure he was gone, with only 15 minutes to be ready for my ride, I opened up her cage, and removed everything: hammock, Hide-E-Ho, water and food crocks, her Igloo, the fleece covering pains, her potties, and what couldn't be cleaned I threw away.

I went to Shabbat service at a Messianic congregation, spent four hours start to finish (car ride there and back, talking to people before, to the Rabbi after).

And I was fine on Saturday, came home and focused on helping my husband set up the Double Critter Nation for Beezus and Zanona which means while he scrubbed the cage -- rolled it into the kitchen -- I spent nearly two hours with The Bobsey Twins, and man were they pistols! They didn't like the cage being gone, or my husband not being available as they enjoy climbing on both -- two jungle gyms, one human and one made of metal. Without either, I was the It Girl, and they tore me up, climbing on my head, diving down my shirt, running around my neck, licking my eyelashes, you name it, they claimed it.

I used peroxide, white vinegar, and later on, some pure aloe vera gel on rashes and other marks, and when the cage was finally clean enough for them, they got inside, but unlike all the times they loved to get into Pickle's part to explore, this time, their response was akin to, "What happened, something is wrong, we got space opening to the bottom, possible danger... and they stayed in the top, what was, until Saturday, their spot.

I skipped Pickles' at the vet, didn't I. (Rhetorical.)

I could tell it went well even before my husband said anything. He can't hide emotion, and I can't help picking it up even if he tried.

He said the vet and staff were "sensitive," and "We've found our vet." I told him I didn't want details right then so he didn't give me any.

Later, at night, I asked.

He said he kept his hand in the box on the ride to the vet and PIckles didn't try getting out of the box too much--sure sign of how old and ill she was as she would have jumped out and been in his lap if she could have made it.

When he got to the vet, he was given the option of having Pickles be anesthetized before being given the final injection, and he opted for that, and stayed with her the whole time.

While the vet team was getting things ready Pickles fell asleep inside his jacket. She felt no fear, no pain, and only when her heart rate was even did the vet administer the killing dose, and waited another 20 minutes, checking with the stethoscope before saying she was gone.

Someone put her body in a box with her name on it and some hearts around the border--my husband told me all this.

He drove out somewhere on the way home, not sure exactly where, and when he saw a spot that looked beautiful he found a boat near water and placed the box in the boat. He said that felt right to him.

I remember not saying or indicating anything but thinking, "Some wild animal will tear open the box and her body too... but that made him feel good so OK, she wasn't inside the body any longer, anyway..."

I slept all the next day except to get up and eat a bit, take some meds, do light stretching, apply heat to various muscles, give Beezus and Zanona some cereal and such.

Part of my sleeping so much was how sore I was from tearing apart Pickles' cage, then four hours of Shabbat service, and work I did after I got home, then being used as a jungle gym by the twins. But more, of course, had to do with Pickles.

It seemed off to see Beezus and Zanona in Pickles' part of the cage, but more off not to see Pickles.

For the past six months I have checked on her first thing every morning to make sure she was alive because that is how long ago she got the first, worst tumor, and when I started to seriously think of how I could go to another room or through 24 hours and she'd be gone.

I don't regret having her put to sleep. The vet confirmed it for us by telling my husband, "You don't want to wait until they lose bowel function; believe me, that's not something you want them to go through to see..."

I got angry and picked a fight with my husband so I could vent--last night.

I didn't know that's what I was doing until later. Until I finally cried after he said ugly things back to me; reaction to my starting shit.

I wasn't allowed to express anger growing up. If I did express it, I was threatened, had my legs switched, my mouth slapped, beat with whatever was handy, or threatened with everything from going back to foster care, being kept out of Heaven or "having my teeth knocked down my throat."

Funny thing is I was always the logical, calm, mature one. The sister everyone went to... heck, the one my mother went to, other relatives, even strangers for counsel, information, advice.

Anger?

I could only express it when I couldn't hold it inside any more, so when I did let go, I blew so bad rooms shut down. I mean everyone would go silent--men, women, tough or sensitive, dead quiet, shocked, scared...

My husband said this morning it was too late by the time he realized why I laid into him when he hit the door last night. "Anger coming out sideways," is what he said because that is what I call it, how I explain it when I say, "I'm sorry, you didn't deserve that."

Pickles was my companion for 29 months or so. I don't know "exactly" how old she was when I got her from the snake food bin: four weeks but she could have been as old as six weeks: Not pregnant, not isolated from the male babies capable of impregnating her, so four to six weeks old, and I had her just a week or so shy of 29 months (I am not the kind to backtrack and do the numbers game for which months had 30 or 31 days, and factor in a leap year if we had one).

I don't want Beezus and Zanona.

I stroke them, feed them, see to their needs, but I don't want them. I want Pickles back, the way she was before the big tumor hit.

It's childish, wishful thinking, no one needs to point that out.

I lost too much, too early in life: My own parents, brothers, sisters--and some didn't come home when I did, to a place that was no home, anyway.

I lost nieces and nephews too, given up for adoption. Then a cousin who was murdered, and later a cousin with whom I lived during my first foster care stint, someone I thought of as a brother--when he starved himself to death, bipolar and "self-medicating." drunk driving, killed two people on a motorcycle, taking out them, leaving their five year old twins and 17 year old son without parents... and leaving behind his own 14 year old daughter, two year old son and his wife when, over the course of four months he starved himself to death, unable to face all he'd done, taken--needing, perhaps, to give up his life to atone. I don't know, I cannot know all that went on inside his mind as he deliberately removed himself from this world.

I'm depressed. I recognize that.

I called a sister earlier, a Messianic sister, someone who calls me "Chosen," someone who loves me for being a Jew--not something I've ever experienced before, always the backward, alien...

She told me when she hung up for me to read from Scriptures, to feel God as though I were on his lap, his child as surely I am that, and as she put it, "You never had to be--like me--grafted in. You are the firstborn!"

I thanked her for praying; I thanked her for being my sister.

I hung up and asked Abba to read to me, and then I reached for the book, a Jewish book for children by Rabbi Sandy Eisenberg Sasso.

I read it aloud to my Abba... And I loved the little girl who was hurting and reading just what she needed to right then.

If I loved her that much as I always feel for those I call The Vulnerables, The Eternal One loves me -- and all those who hurt in this fallen world -- more than I or anyone can measure.

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