In memoriam

OK, so this isn't an obituary per se, but this post is in memory of (and to process the death of) my cat Macho, who was put to sleep last Thursday. He was approximately 16 and a half years old.

This photo was taken more than likely in 2001, before he was officially my cat. In his prime, Macho was a swashbuckling manly cat. He had large forearm muscles and a flabby belly. When he would nap, he would become a humongous mound of orange fur. He was a bully. He was lazy. At one point, a vet put him on a diet so that he would lose weight. I think at his heaviest, he weighed 15 and a half or 16 pounds.

Macho was my dance partner, my music-study buddy, and my spokescat. (When both my cats were hungry, Macho would be the one to meow at me until I would get off my butt and feed them.)

If you've followed my blog for the past year or so, you're probably aware of the ongoing saga of health crises that Macho endured during that time. He would get sick, then he would get better, then worse, then better, then worse, etc. While I was processing everything, I felt like God told me that the way Macho would die was that his body would shut down. I kind of wanted him to die peacefully in his sleep.

This photo was taken 4 months ago. Toward the end, Macho was skin and bones. He had diarrhea (of and on, mostly on) for approximately a year and a half, which I had gotten used to, and which I thought was just a side effect from the food that the vets had prescribed. I had basically become his live-in nurse -- chasing after him to wipe his butt, catching him before he would pee or poop on my floor (but not always succeeding to catch him beforehand), and escorting him to the living room with me so that I could eat breakfast without him staring at the closed bathroom door and meowing nonstop like a senile maniac.

He had some issues (and I had considered putting him down almost every time he would pee on my bed), but I felt that he still had a lot of life left in him. He would still show up every time I would play my piano keyboard. He would hang out with me when I would practice my really loud, really primal-sounding voice drills. He would try to nudge my laptop out of my lap when I would type out a blog post. He would come find my lap and snuggle with me when I would hang out by myself and watch YouTube videos on my phone.

Last Monday night, I knew something was wrong when he didn't come find my lap. Instead, he ended up peeing in his own bed a couple of times. His hind legs were wet with pee, he was less vocal, and he seemed very uncomfortable.

The next day, I took him to the vet, and he got treated for a urinary tract infection. He weighed in at a mere 4 pounds, 13 ounces. When I brought him home, he had a chest and belly full of hydration fluids; considering the blueness of his cataract-eyes, I felt like my life had become a science-fiction movie (e.g., Dune). Heh.

But by Wednesday night, Macho looked like he was in a lot of pain, especially when he would walk. I noticed that he had been napping under my bed (which he hadn't done in a long time). I tried to groom his fur, but I couldn't seem to get rid of the large amount of dandruff near his hindquarters. For the zillionth time, I thought a vet was finally going to recommend putting him to sleep, so I snuggled with him and cried while I played the Gipsy Kings song "Amigo" on repeat on my phone.

On Thursday morning when I was about to leave to go to work, he was sprawled out weirdly on the floor by the litterbox. I dropped him off at the vet on my way to work. Then I got a call from the vet, who recommended a blood transfusion to treat Macho's anemia. He also said that Macho was deteriorating because he didn't respond well to a vital-signs test. In addition, Macho was treated for a low body temperature. The vet said that he was about to go out of town, so he referred me to an emergency clinic for the blood transfusion. He also showed me an X-ray of Macho's intestines; he explained that it was hard to tell with all the intestine-gas on the X-ray, but there seemed to be a large mass inside Macho that was possibly causing all his symptoms. The vet suggested that the emergency clinic do an ultrasound on Macho to get a better look at the mass (because my vet's ultrasound equipment wouldn't be effective enough for an official cancer diagnosis).

On the drive to the ER, Macho seemed very lifeless. I felt like God spoke to me and told me to let him go.

When I arrived, even though the ER staff knew we were coming, they were pretty defensive. (Kind of like the people at Kwik Kar when I had brought in my old car with 100,000+ miles for transmission service.) They were like, "Why are we supposed to do these treatments on this very old, very sick cat if the treatments might not even work?" The ER vet said that Macho was very dehydrated, and if they were to rehydrate him, his heart murmur could cause him to go into heart failure. She also explained that if Macho's intestinal mass turned out to be cancer, the ER clinic didn't have a specialist, so they would have to refer me to a clinic in a nearby suburb for treatment.

This sealed the deal for me. Since Macho had already been through so much vet-specialist runaround, I didn't want to put him through that again. I asked the vet if it would be inhumane to simply put him down. She said that no, it would be a very humane thing to do. Then the ER staff's tone changed from defensiveness to compassion.

They left me alone in the room with Macho -- whose bedding stank with pee, and who had stopped fighting us while we were handling him -- and I explained to him in my usual matter-of-fact way that the doctor was going to kill him. Then I started talking to him in the same tone of voice that I always use before bedtime: "Are you ready to go to sleep? Let's go to sleep. Let's go to bed." The vet came back into the room and matched my tone of voice while she administered the euthanasia medication. My little deteriorated Macho manly cat was gone. I guess you could say that he died peacefully in his sleep.

I kept his collar, and I showed it to Choochie when I came home without him. I explained to her that he won't be coming back. She's been adjusting to being the only cat in the "house," but I honestly don't think she misses him. (Would you miss someone who was twice your size and who would bully you whenever he felt like it?) She is currently purring and perching on my thigh while I type this.

I decided a long time ago that if Macho were the first to go, Choochie and I would be OK on our own.

"Your righteousness is like the great mountains; Your judgments are a great deep; O Lord, You preserve man and beast." (Psalm 36:6)

Recently, I've been thinking about how God has used Macho's life to teach me about grace. (When I say "grace" in this context, I mean the "unmerited favor" definition of the word.)

Macho wasn't always my cat. I met him when he was a kitten in January 2000. He belonged to a friend of mine who I ended up rooming with. When she moved to Europe as a missionary, she didn't want to pay the extra money to have him shipped to her, so Macho roomed with me and Choochie for several months.

Macho wasn't always nice to Choochie. I caught him trying to mount her (even though they were both fixed, and even though he was technically a guest in our home) I think a few times. I would pick him up and tell him to his face, "I love you as if you were my own cat, but if you hurt her, I will kill you." Eventually he stopped. Heh.

During his latter years, it was challenging for me to control my anger whenever Macho would do dumb things like eat my food without permission, sneak into the bathroom cabinet, poop on my kitchen floor, etc. When I would give him a talking-to, he would meow-talk back at me like a defiant teenager. As a pet owner, I had every right to drive Macho down to a veterinarian and have him put to sleep -- just out of anger, out of spite, out of wanting some peace and quiet in my home.

But I didn't. (That was grace.)

In my current job, I'm an editor. God has shown me that in my job, I'm learning how to serve people. I work behind the scenes to make sure that our clients' messages are communicated with as little distraction as possible. I don't always agree with our clients' messages, but I make sure their voice is communicated anyway. I try to make sure they look and sound as good as possible. (That's grace and good business.) And their messages help people connect with God. That needs to happen as effectively as possible. That's the most important part of my job right there.

In my church choir, I'm a leader. I've seen all kinds of people come and go from our group. I've seen all kinds of things happen behind the scenes. Not to be rude, but just to be honest about how I feel, I've seen all kinds of [bleep]holes be honored in all kinds of ways -- whether I felt they deserved it or not. Regardless of how I felt about them, they were still considered a part of the choir, a part of the family. (That's just grace.) I've learned that if God gave them a gifting, I don't have any business not honoring it. I need to honor who they are and who God created them to be, and I need to trust that they'll let God work on them -- just like God has been working on me. I mean, I've done plenty of stuff that could have gotten me kicked off the worship platform, but they've kept me there. (That's [bleep]ing good grace -- um, I mean, amazing grace.)

And that's just a taste of how God feels about us. Jesus didn't kick Judas Iscariot out of His twelve-disciples group, even though Judas stole money from Him and later betrayed Him to the authorities for some money. I mean, God didn't kick me out of His family when I attempted suicide nearly 16 years ago or when I cussed Him out (at least, I think I cussed Him out; that time of my life was kind of an angry blur) while I was working through some serious emotional healing about 4 or 5 years ago.

I adopted Macho into my family. (Or maybe you could say that he adopted me.) Although he gave me plenty of reason to, I didn't kick him out of my home, out of my family, out of my life. I gladly let him stick around (with plenty of discipline, etc.), and I wish that he could have stuck around even longer. I prayed for a very long time that Macho would live to be at least 30 years old, but I'm confident that he died in the manner that was best for him (and me). When God comforted me shortly after Macho's death, He showed me that he passed away at the exact time that was best.

For the first couple of days after Macho's death, I could still hear him (in my mind) meowing at me in my apartment, and I was still waiting for him to trot around the corner and demand my attention. Oh, don't worry, little Macho -- you still have my attention.

Even though I had many months to mentally prepare for Macho's death, I still miss him. I miss my lap-cat. I miss singing to him, loving on him, and taking care of him. But I have to admit -- after his death, it has been very nice to not be woken up at 3:30 every morning just to feed him. It has been very nice to not suddenly feel moisture on the bottom of my sock and realize that I've just stepped on yet another carpet-puddle of pee. It has been very nice to be able to feed Choochie in the bedroom instead of the bathroom (due to separate diets, which I had to strictly monitor). Choochie and I have been enjoying peace and quiet in our home. But I still miss Macho, and I'm probably going to grieve the loss of my cat for a lot longer than I thought I would.

I miss my fluffy, humongous, little meowing buddy, but I am so thankful for the years that I had with him.

De-matting

Sometimes when your pet goes through changes, you learn to accept them without thinking that perhaps you need to make some changes yourself. I mean, my cats are family. We live with one another, so we get used to one another and don't always question things that should be questioned.

When Macho came home from the vet after his surgery earlier this year, he had limited grooming abilities (because of his cone of shame), so I would clean little places in his fur that he couldn't clean for himself (like in his neck around his cone, sort of like ring around the collar).

Months later, after the cone came off and he had significantly healed, I finally noticed that he had developed little mats in his fur. Apparently, he had almost stopped grooming himself altogether (except in the places where he instinctively cleans after he uses the litterbox). I didn't realize right away that I have to groom him now.

 

So, I bought a comb/brush designed for shorthaired cats, and I gently yet firmly went to work. I ended up removing several months' worth of mats. He looks so much better now.

I'm not exactly sure why Macho stopped grooming himself as much as he used to, but maybe it's because he's getting older and skinnier. One reason why I became a cat lady in the first place was because shorthaired cats are self-cleaning and self-grooming, so I'm not used to having to do this type of maintenance for him. But I've added it to our home routine, and I'll do my best to keep him de-matted from now on. (And I think he likes the extra attention.)

Spiritually speaking, I think God has to keep me de-matted as well.

"When you have crossed the Jordan into the land of Canaan, then you shall drive out all the inhabitants of the land from before you, destroy all their engraved stones, destroy all their molded images, and demolish all their high places; you shall dispossess the inhabitants of the land and dwell in it, for I have given you the land to possess." (Numbers 33:51b-53)

"But whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in Me to stumble, it would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck, and he were thrown into the sea." (Mark 9:42)

Preachers talk all the time about how just like the Israelites had a Promised Land (Canaan) waiting for them, we Christians also have a (metaphorical) promised land to go to. All the Israelites had to do was get rid of the people (and the giants) who lived in the Promised Land and claim the territory that was rightfully theirs. Likewise, all we Christians have to do is get rid of the demons (and the iniquities) that have followed us around all our lives and claim the lives that God wants us to live.

Some preachers go into specific details about which of the iniquities (such as pride, lust, etc.) are symbolized by certain Promised-Land inhabitants (such as Jebusites, Perizzites, etc.) in the Bible. I'm not sure if I agree with such specific iniquity/people identification, but I certainly believe that certain iniquities, sins, tendencies, issues, etc., will follow you around wherever you go -- unless you get rid of them once and for all, or at least submit them to God and have Him take care of them for you. (I've noticed that sometimes I'll think He's gotten rid of something, only for that something to show up again years later, and He'll take care of it at a different level, or perhaps more thoroughly the second time around.)

For example, I feel like in some ways, I'm in my own promised land(s). In other words, I feel like I've finally found my life's calling and am beginning to walk in it. And I know for sure that one of my "giants" is neglect. If I turn to somebody for assistance, and if I feel neglected or ignored, I will have to battle through some significant emotional turmoil. I'll probably have to work through some bitterness, I'll have to go through a forgiveness process, and I'll more than likely do either a lot of crying on God's shoulder or a lot of cussing in private. In other words, if you want to make me stumble, don't put a gun to my head and force me to watch porn all day. Just make me feel neglected or ignored. Then you'll have to answer to my Father while all hell breaks loose inside my head and He helps me pick up the pieces.

So, it's important for me to stay vigilant and make sure my giants aren't about to kick the crap out of me -- again. It's important for me to stay on top of them until all of them are driven out of my promised land.

Speaking of making people stumble, one of my recent web-browsing/research obsessions has been the mass-suicide that happened in Jonestown, Guyana, in 1978. More than 900 people literally "drank the Kool-Aid," a poisonous concoction that killed almost every member of a communist/religious cult. (The people who escaped this tragedy explained that it wasn't really a mass-suicide; it was a massacre.) This was a truly terrible thing that happened, and it wasn't the result of something that happened overnight. This was the result of decades of a sick man named Jim Jones winning the trust of his followers, controlling his followers, imprisoning his followers. He physically, sexually, psychologically, and spiritually abused his people who worshiped him and believed he was God. When they would try to leave his commune/church, he would guilt-trip them into staying, or he would punish them, or the cult members would report one another. It escalated when a Congressman investigated the cult and got killed in the process.

When you watch the interviews of the people who survived, you can see the grief in their faces, and you can sense the hopelessness in their souls. Now that their heaven-on-earth has been destroyed, now that their family has been murdered, now that their community is dead, and now that their God is dethroned, where can they go? What can they believe in?

It's a question that's important to answer for yourself. When someone else spoon-feeds you their own answers and tells you what to believe, that's a red flag.

Researching this 1978 tragedy has reminded me a lot of how I grew up. No, my family wasn't a cult, but it was run very similarly to one. The people in charge were abusive sickos. They oppressed the little people around them, and if you had a head on your shoulders and the guts to speak up and say, "What you're doing is wrong," you'd get openly punished. If you tried to leave, you'd be either guilt-tripped or forced into staying. And you'd be forced to believe the nonsensical doctrines that they'd force down your throat. The longer you stayed, the worse it would get.

God knew this. He knew I needed to leave my family, and He tried to warn me in 1998. I didn't obey His warning, and I stayed. It got worse. I pulled through it with God's help, but He warned me again in 2011. This time, I listened, wrestled with the reality of what needed to happen, and I finally left. I got better. (I shudder to think how much worse it would have gotten if I had never left.)

I can barely begin to tell you how much better my life is without my ex-family, the brood of vipers, the abusers, the sickos who would have done goodness-knows-what to me in the long run. It's nice to be able to make my own decisions. It's awesome to not be in the prison of a Jezebel spirit (a very controlling spirit, like the kind that was strong enough to freak out Elijah when he hid in the wilderness in the Bible). It's exhilarating to not be suffocated by fear.

Sure, I still have plenty of issues to work through (as the Israelites did after they were freed from bondage in Egypt and spent some time wandering around in the wilderness), but God has been helping me through it. And I've gotten to know Him as my Family during the process.

"For it is not an enemy who reproaches me; then I could bear it. Nor is it one who hates me who has exalted himself against me; then I could hide from him. But it was you, a man my equal, my companion and my acquaintance. We took sweet counsel together, and walked to the house of God in the throng." (Psalm 55:12-14)

Recently, an ex-relative called me and left me a voicemail. They explained that they know how I feel and that I should contact my ex-mother who now has dementia before she forgets who I am.

Let's examine all the crap in the previous paragraph, shall we?

- Someone whom I have avoided on purpose for the past 5 years violated my boundary in the middle of a workday... because they think I'm unemployed? because they think I'm still in the family, and that I'll drop everything to wait on them hand and foot? because they don't respect me as a human being?

- This person doesn't "know" how I "feel." This is the same person who denied any abuse when I left the family and who told me that I was abusing myself. They don't know what my life is like. They don't know what it's like to rip yourself away forever from people who were precious to you. They don't know what it's like to consider the cost of building a tower (like it says to do in Luke 14:28-29) and STILL find the tower to be way more expensive than you thought it would be. If this person "knew" how I "felt," they would respect the fact that I don't want anything to do with them anymore.

- I'm sorry to hear that my ex-mother has dementia, but I wouldn't be sorry if she were to forget who I am. Not to be insensitive, but her forgetting about me would make me happy. I've mentioned this before on my blog, but my grandfather had dementia temporarily. I liked him better that way because he was suddenly interested in getting to know me (because he didn't know me), he forgot that he treated my other family members better than he had treated me, and he was a lot nicer. In the case of my ex-mother -- again, not to be insensitive -- I think perhaps her dementia might be a simple case of reaping what she has sown. All those lies that she invented over the years, all that deception that she wove, all that manipulation that she practiced, all those sicko thoughts that she entertained -- I'm sorry to say this, but I think maybe she had it coming to her. May her golden years be more peaceful than her early years.

 

Meanwhile, I recently discovered that my cat Choochie has also gone through some physical changes. Her bloodwork earlier this year indicated that her adorable little thyroid is back to normal, so she has gained some weight. Her stocky little self has also been shedding a lot of fur. I don't know if maybe neglecting to groom oneself is just an elderly cat thing, but I've had to start grooming Choochie on a regular basis, too. I've found fewer mats in her fur than I found on Macho's fur, but I did find enough of Choochie's fur to construct a brand-new kitten. Heh.

Years ago, God taught me that the way to get free and stay free from depression was to pour out my heart to Him (like it says to do in Psalm 62:8). Pour the bad stuff out of my heart; let Him pour good stuff into my heart.

Patsy Clairmont talks/writes about how important it is to stay current with your emotions. She says that emotions are like rubber bands. If you let a bunch of them get tangled up over time, you will end up with a mess that is hard to untangle. But if you stay current with them and keep untangling them one at a time -- if you keep examining each one of your emotions as soon as you can tell that it's there -- you won't end up with a mess.

I want my Father to keep combing out my mats, metaphorically speaking. I want Him to help me keep my heart, my soul, my life clean. That's not to say that I'll never stumble ever again, and that's certainly not to say that He'll punish me if I do. I grew up in an abusive family, and I didn't know it was abusive until I was in my 30s. Things that I believed were OK for most of my life... well, it turns out that they weren't OK at all. I've gone through some major internal rewiring.

My spiritual and emotional health is extremely important to me, because I want to stay sane, and because I don't want any of my iniquity-crap to follow me into my promised land. The last thing I would want to do is hurt somebody because of my issues. I want to be more like Jesus, I want to learn from my Father, and I want the Holy Spirit to cover the process, every step of the way.