What is the point of it anyway?

Recently, I cried. It has been awhile. It wasn't directly related to cancer either.

Three weeks ago, my husband was driving to a meeting for work when he thought he saw an injured squirrel dodging cars in the middle of North College Road. He soon realized the animal was not a squirrel but a kitten dragging his back leg behind him as cars and trucks maneuvered their way around him. My husband pulled to the side of the road, stepped out of his vehicle, unfurled his Superman cape, and grabbed this little creature pulling him to safety. 

After an hour or more, this long-haired, male beauty was diagnosed with a pelvic fracture. A shot of antibiotics, de-worming medication, and a pain-killer along with time to heal was the recommended treatment. Since my husband needed to return to work, he called me asking if I could come to the vet’s office and take our new family member home.

Over the next two weeks I changed his litter pan, fed, petted him--with the help of my youngest daughter--and monitored his recovery. Yup, just what I needed, another pet to add to my already full household of six cats and five dogs (all rescues). Those two weeks left me hours behind on cleaning my house and hours lost for homeschooling—although it could be argued my daughter learned a few things about patience, anatomy and veterinary medicine. During those days, we became better acquainted with several veterinarians. Three additional unplanned trips to an animal hospital in all. One because of a strange skin infection that appeared beside his tail. Two others because he was failing to urinate.

What first appeared to be a fractured pelvis became a life-threatening situation.

As the antibiotics started to wear off, I noticed the kitten was making frequent trips to his litter box. I watched and each time he squatted, nothing was coming out. I suspected he might have a bladder infection so off we went to the vet.

The veterinarian found the bladder full. She attempted to place a tube through his urethra and into the bladder to drain the urine. But, there was a problem. She could not insert the catheter. The urine had to be removed, so she decided to insert a needle into his bladder and drain as much urine as possible. The plan now was for me to take him home and return in the morning. With a new round of antibiotics, hopefully, there would be improvement.

There wasn’t.

Early the next day, my daughter and I returned and met with the vet that handled his case initially. She began by saying since the kitten was still unable to urinate, she wanted to try inserting a catheter herself hoping for better luck than the vet before her. After taking the kitten into a back room, she returned explaining she could not get the plastic tubing into his bladder. When she pressed on his bladder, a small amount of urine spilled onto the table. It was dark and bloody. The situation was critical. She decided a smaller catheter was needed, but she didn’t have one. The plan now was to find a vet that had a thinner catheter. She called a veterinarian who specializes in cats. Luckily, she had one the right size for a two pound kitten. Off my daughter and I went, taking the kitten to see her. In the waiting room, we sat hoping the doctor would appear with news that she successfully inserted the catheter and removed the unwanted urine.    

But, that was not to be the case.

The vet finally appeared and explained her diagnosis. She believed the kitten never had a pelvic fracture. In fact, she thought the kitten had damage to his urethra possibly from a bite from another animal. That explained the first sore that appeared on one side of the tail prompting one of our trips to the veterinarian. A day later, another puss filled sore appeared on the other side.To further complicate the situation, the damaged urethra was causing a blockage trapping urine inside his bladder. Surgery was the only option for any chance of survival for our kitten.

I asked how much this would cost guessing a cost of $500.00. She said that would be the low end. She also said, “You really don’t want to spend that amount of money on a kitten you just found who most likely will not survive surgery.”

It was bad. I couldn’t hold back the tears.

She explained, “If you turn the cat over to us, I will turn him into a girl. With a shortened urethra maybe I can get through the blockage and thread the tubing into his bladder. If he lives, you can have your cat back."

After relinquishing ownership of our sweet kitty, Jeff—named because he was found in front of Jeff Gordon Chevrolet—we left the hospital. Once we were in the car and I had control of my emotions, my twelve year old daughter asked, “What is the meaning of life?”

I thought for a few seconds, then gave my answer--one that I had decided on years ago. “It is to impart our knowledge to the next generation of people so they can have a better life than ours.”

But, then I thought, “That can’t be the answer. That explanation comes from my own human perspective of life. How does it apply to kittens?

It doesn’t.

Living is dangerous. One minute you can be alive and the next minute you can be . . . well . . . dead.

So, what is the point?

Is the meaning of life as simple as to eat or be eaten with bits of joy spread throughout to keep us wanting to live? It could be that simple. Most people I think would not approve of such a simplistic view of the meaning of life. It doesn’t offer an eternal blissful existence after death. But, does it change the fact that our existing makes it necessary to eat and in fact sometimes to be eaten?

It doesn’t.

Modern society has changed how we interact with each other and other animals. Humans have also impacted how certain animals do not become food to their predators. Our kitten would have become food for another animal if a human had not intervened.

In our civilized society people still kill each other, not for food--at least not directly--but over hate or greed or because of an abnormal psychological disorder. People still become victims to horrible situations and horrific diseases. And, sweet kittens die. None of it makes sense.

Maybe, there are no answers to the question, “What is the meaning of life?”

I am okay with that. I have not found satisfying answers to these kinds of questions from a supernatural realm. It doesn’t bother me that some questions may never have answers. That doesn’t mean I don’t think people should quit searching for answers to difficult questions. Without the need to answer questions, how can diseases like cancer ever be cured or at least become survivable conditions? How can hate between people be stopped without asking, “How, why, or what can we do?”

The better question I offered to my daughter is not “what is the meaning of life?”, but “What gives life meaning?”

Again, coming from a my own human perspective since that is the only one I have, I think life has meaning because of the joy we experience as we live from one day to the next. Without joy, there is no purpose in our living. As long as we respect and value others' lives in the same way we want them to value and respect ours then everyone will be able to find their particular bits of joy and find what gives their life meaning. By humans helping humans have and find joy, life is meaningful. Simple rules to live by I think.

Several people tried to add time to Jeff’s life. They tried to help my family continue to experience the joy that a pet can bring. They also tried to prolong the joys experienced by a kitten that only a kitten knows.

Unfortunately, our little Jeff could not be saved. What started as my sadness for Jeff losing his life became sadness for my loss of him in my life. It then escalated into a myriad of emotions for me. I thought about how tired I am of worrying about the next bad news about my disease; tired of worrying about the impact that my disease has on my family financially; tired of worrying about my kids; tired of people dying before they should; tired of people not valuing another person’s life.

Make it stop!

With all of that profound emotion that lives deep within me pouring out, I eventually pushed it all back inside. I turned the key and started the engine of my van. My daughter and I went home.

Reflecting on this ordeal, I feel lucky for having found a bit of joy among all those worries. Joy does make life worth living. I have many joys. One visited me for 15 days. It came to me in the form of a little kitten. But then,

I lost it.

That is why I cried.

The Green Mile

Over a week ago, I began thinking about “the green mile”—not about the story line from the novel and the subsequent movie but about the meaning associated with those words.  “The green mile” seemed to be a good way to convey the fear I was feeling as I waited for the results of my brain MRI.      

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The Green Mile is a book by Stephen King which, in 1999, was made into a movie starring Tom Hanks. The story is about a man on death row convicted of murdering two girls. In both the book and the movie, a prison guard recounts the events of how this man impacted his life. In the end, the prisoner is forced to walk along a lime green floor which ended at the place of his execution. Hence “the green mile” can mean a person’s walk to their death--at least that is the way I think of it.

I am like any prisoner on death row forever at the mercy of their captor. In my case, it is cancer and not the judicial system that has sentenced me; I am not facing this death sentence for any crimes committed, but I am facing death’s permanence. I imagine the fear and despair of a person about to be executed must be similar to mine–at least initially –especially if they are innocent or in the case of victims held by evil people. With every scan, I have no idea if I will get a reprieve or find that my death date has been set.
I don’t think there is a word in the English language that explains adequately how I have felt throughout the last week and the first part of this week. My anxiety about this scan seemed greater than my prior experience with other scans. I am sure this was due to my belief that losing my ability to think or to recognize my family would be the cruelest way to succumb to this disease.

Here are a few synonyms for fear:  angst, anxiety, concern, dread, jitters, panic, uneasiness, worry, aversion, agitation, consternation, disquietude, discomposure, faintheartedness, foreboding, presentiment, distress, fright, qualm, trepidation, timidity, chicken heartedness, apprehension.

I feel and have felt all of those words. None, though, are powerful enough to explain my emotions completely. The fear can be paralyzing preventing even the most mundane activity from occurring.

Certainly others not on death row facing a death not associated with old age have also had these same emotions. If you can imagine how the recent men beheaded by the terrorist group called Isis, the holocaust victims, people sacrificed to their gods, young men and women in war, and most recently the woman in Oregon, Brittney Maynard, who plans to take her own life under the “death with dignity” law of that state feel or felt then you have some idea of how I feel.

Physically my breathing seemed shallow; my shoulder and neck muscles were tense; my appetite diminished; my emotions were fragile. I am involved in a game of Russian Roulette. The gun is pointed at me. When the trigger is pulled, will this be the shot fired releasing the bullet within the chamber or will the chamber be empty?

I nearly had myself 100% convinced my breast cancer had spread to my brain. I played the audio over and over in my mind of how I would respond if one of my doctors or nurses called with news of brain metastasis. Somehow, I felt thinking this way would make it easier to cope if it were true. Isn’t there a saying “hope for the best, prepare for the worst”.  I may seem like a negative Nellie, but there is always a bit of optimism hidden in my thoughts somewhere. So, some moments I played the other audio in my head. The one where I receive fabulous news that my life can continue on the same course it has been for another 3 months until the next scan.

My nerves were so on edge about the impending phone call I decided to put my phone on silent. I thought not hearing the phone ring would protect me from the full-force of any horrific news. I felt a sense of control by being able to get the news on my terms when I was ready to handle it. I thought I would be able to listen to the voicemail and figure whether it was good or bad news based on the message received. If I was told to call to discuss the results, I would know it was bad. If a good message was left, my fears would be relieved without having talked to anyone.

For two days, I left my phone on silent. Every so often I would pick up my phone and look for my missed phone calls and voice messages. Monday, in late afternoon, a missed phone call appeared. My heart raced. I clicked the unlock button and viewed the call. It was my husband. I took a few deep breaths to relieve my panic. The hours moved on and no phone call came about my MRI. I was convinced it must be bad news. In my experience, bad news always comes late in the day when a doctor has no more patients to see, and he/she sits down at their desk and starts returning or making phone calls.

This whole week I grieved because of the things I have not finished. I haven’t written the letters to my loved ones I want to write (I am finding those so hard to begin) or finished little projects around the house. Most importantly, my youngest is only 11 –still too young to lose her mother.

On Tuesday, phone still on silent, I went outside with my daughter to practice tennis, leaving the phone on the counter. Once finished with our fun, I walked in the house and passed the phone several times. When I finally had the courage to look at my phone, I saw that a new voicemail message appeared on the screen. My daughter retreated to the back porch sparring herself of any bad news I might hear.

“Can I do this?” I said to myself. “I have to”.

I accessed my voice mail. My nurse practitioner began to speak with not such an enthusiastic tone in her voice.  I listened.

Then I hear . . .

“Lisa, I am looking at your scan right now. It appears to be clean”, the nurse practitioner said.

Good news CAN come late!

I paced the floor and listened to the rest of her words.

I retrieved my daughter from the back porch. “Good news”, I screamed. We hugged and jumped up and down for probably 10 minutes.

I am not dying today, and I am not dying tomorrow. I am walking “the green mile”, but it is a long walk for now.