Author: Suzanne Buchko

more catch up

I have catching up to do and no way to gracefully ease into it.

First, the cat. Muta is still with us; however, it is hard to really know how he is doing. I was waiting for some definitive answer. Some diagnosis and prognosis, but I don’t think I am going to get either.  

For about a week after our weekend in the hospital, he was about 80% his old self.  He wasn’t that keen on going outside but he jumped on the couch and my bed and sprawled out when he napped during the day.  He was on an appetite enhancer.  He ate the canned food that I had.  I gave it to him in small amounts—about a quarter of a large can at a time. He willingly ate it.  I think it was not enough to really satisfy him but he stopped throwing up. I imagined he was getting use to being fed 4 times a day; however, over the last weekend he began to throw up again. At least, once a day. On Monday, I went to a vet. She did a follow up blood test to see where his liver and pancreas related numbers were. I haven’t heard from her yet. She also did a bit of hydration for him and gave him a shot of a nausea suppressant.  She said to continue with the steroid until she got the blood work back. 

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muta update

Muta is spending the night at the hospital.  All the tests have been inconclusive and  there is  no exact diagnosis yet. His liver and spleen are enlarged although it is not clear whether it is for the same reason. Right now, the vet thinks that it is either lymphoma or a cholangiohepatitis.  Lymphoma would mean palliative care; the hepatitis might be controlled with medication. The mass the docs felt in his abdomen and the reason that we went for the ultrasound was his enlarged liver.  

For the night, Muta will get hydrated, something to encourage his appetite, an antibiotic in case it is a hepatitis infection that can be treated and something else I’ve forgotten.

We will see how he is tomorrow.

It has been a rough weekend and I don’t really hold out much hope for an easy outcome; however, we’ve experienced a good deal of kindness at the animal hospitals for which I am grateful.  The vet, Dr. Greg Krane, from PetMedic (Cambridge) who took care of Muta yesterday, made sure that Muta’s test results were sent to the ER this morning.  There is one test we were still waiting for and even though Greg told us the result would probably not be returned until tomorrow, he called the lab this evening in case the results would finished at the very end of the work day. Greg also called me twice during the day to find out how Muta was doing.  He urged me to ask him any questions and gave me complete, unvarnished answers.  The vet and staff at the ER were also kind and patient with both myself and Julia.  It was a long and hard day for her but I am proud of her patience and willingness to be present the whole day.

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muta

Sitting in an ER waiting room for Muta, the cat, to get an ultrasound on his belly. The ER is in Weymouth, about a half hour from our house and “half way to the Cape” according to Ed. There must be a thousand dogs here . . . okay, maybe 15. Muta would normally be making a lot of noise because of all those dogs. Today, he is sitting quietly in his crate. He hardly made any noise at all on the drive down in his crate. A sure sign he is feeling really awful.

And I am sad.

Muta is twelve years old. Other than the time when we moved five years ago and he stopped eating, and then last year’s puncture wound, he has been big and strong and healthy. He is the smartest cat that has ever been part of my family. He goes for walks with us and makes friends in every neighborhood we’ve lived in.  He is vocal and pushy at times.  He loves sleeping on our back porch in the warm weather and napping on the wide sill in the living room on sunny mornings.

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unexpected life

Begun on the 5th, finished on the 7th.

Sitting on my back porch, in some stillness. In my sight lines are some less than perfect pots of flowers and herbs that I’ve planted and babied in the blistering heat, a brilliant hydrangea in our back garden that is in full bloom, and the garden behind ours, long neglected yet still punctuated with blooming perennials that are too stubborn to recognize that they are no longer tended.

Yesterday was rather idyllic.  A summertime community picnic in Concord.  Hot dogs, Wilbur’s first, and hamburgers, sweet tea and strawberry shortcake.  And apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Firefighters set up a flat house with flames coming through windows and doors, all on hinges, and gave children the chance to aim a “real” fire hose and shoot water at the flames until the flames were defeated.  The line was too long for Wilbur to wait, for any of us to wait, but he loved watching other kids with the hose.  There was a playground with a sand pit for the pleasure of the littlest ones including Wilbur and his aunty Julia. There was a four piece band of what I thought of as old codgers playing blue grass and old rock standards.  Those codgers may have been younger than I am.  Best of all, we took a train to the picnic!  Wilbur’s current high interest topic is trains of all sorts and sizes, and so we met three stops on the transit line from Concord and took two little train rides to and from the picnic.  It was well worth it as everything about the train, especially moving, was fascinating to the little boy.  

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return

Happy Summer! (lots of this was written over the past 10 days)

Today’s longest day antics: A screening of flying lessons, the film by Sarah Waldron that Julia is in, late lunch with a friend, and horror movies tonight.

Yesterday, June 20, was our really longest day—up at 5 am to begin our ride to Jersey City for the Golden Door Film Festival, a stop at The Cloisters when we realized we were way too early to check into our hotel.  Loved The Cloisters. Hadn’t been there since before Cheshire was born. Finished the ride, found our hotel and some parking —Jersey City has not changed as much as I had imagined in the century since I was there —took naps, went to the opening night party for the festival, saw a bunch of very short and short films and fell into bed somewhere just before midnight.

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because it’s june, june, june, june . . .

I am a gardener.  

I’ve begun at least four memoir pieces with that sentence but honestly, I wondered if I would ever really feel like I was that declaration again.  At the blue Victorian that we moved to from Madison and in which we spent the Covid years, I cultivated a small vegetable patch that was shaded part of the day by the houses around it.  It is never a glorious garden but it gave us something to do that first summer of shut down and there were tomatoes and greens and peppers and a small pumpkin. 

Early on in my tenancy at our present house, I asked the landlord if I could garden.  The foundation planting was sparse and old. There must have been other shrubs and bushes at one time but what was left was four plants spread far apart and planted up close to the house.  

My landlord said I could do what I wanted to do and even volunteered a bit of help—his landscapers trimmed bushes that needed the trimming and even took the grass up when I decided on the shape of the front garden bed.  

I started planning the front bed while I was sick and unable to do much running around.  As I began the planning, I wondered if it made sense to invest in a garden that would take a few years to develop and cultivate in a rental house but I came to the idea that I have made three gardens, each in a house that I owned.  But that after planting and tending and loving those gardens, I sold the houses and left those gardens. And it wasn’t so much the beauty of the gardens that I was/am most attached to, it is the process of making a garden and making a garden in the front of this house that we live in would give me pleasure.  

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more letting go

I could ask how many times? How much more? Again?  Really?

A plastic box, book size, has been sitting on the kitchen floor for a few months.  I could use the excuse of a hard winter of feeling sick as an excuse for just leaving it there but it would be just that — an excuse. It was one of those boxes filled with what needed to be moved 18 months ago, what had some sentimental value, what did not find a home in the new house and what did not really warrant storing for another day. But to give it all away or to throw it all away felt sinful.

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back on the horse & adulting

After what feels likes way too long being homebound and cut off from social activities, I’m venturing to HILR today and my last two classes of the semester.  I would not even do this but I enjoyed the classes so much, the first three anyway, and want to catch up and also say good-bye for the summer.  I also have a rehearsal for a very short play that will be/should be part of next week’s Black Box presentation.  Yes, we are a bunch of old people doing plays for one another.  I’ve miss a solid two weeks of rehearsals and missing today would have consequences.  I know lines and been rehearsing with one other actor on zoom; however, the business of scenes is still lacking.  

And I am not completely better.  I am tired and rather weak. Especially my voice.

But willing to try.

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an old lesson, once again

I have spent a month sick, in one way or another—coughing, first and foremost. A chronic cough that I could not shake. From a flu.  It was not so bad as to not go about my daily round, but bad enough not to be able to do anything without cough drops and my water bottle to keep the eruptions at bay.

But they were not really kept at bay. I sat through classes and choir practices vainly attempting to hold back my coughing. I was not, however, feeling ill enough to do more than use home remedies and rest a little bit. Just a little bit.

Finally, I was too long coughing and thought something funky was going on with my eyes, I visited the doctor, had an x-ray taken and sent home with the usual rest and fluids instructions. Oh, and medication for conjunctivitis.

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the colander eclipse

We didn’t travel to the path of totality although such an ominous name appears to make travel obligatory. We didn’t see the umbra. What a cool word.  Feels good in the mouth speaking it. We didn’t see Venus or stars as one friend opined last week.

Muta, the cat, didn’t seem to notice at all.

About an hour before the light was altered by the moon on the east coast, I looked at the directions to make a pinhole camera. As friends from the west coast and midwest were posting pictures on Facebook, I saw a picture of the eclipse through someone’s colander. 

I grabbed our colander, my pin hole camera and some canvases and set up our viewing post in the backyard. Neighbors were going into the street to watch with their eclipse glasses. 

When Julia got out of The Ride van, I rushed her into the backyard. The sky was already darkening and shadows all over were deepening. The view in the colander was cooler than in the pinhole camera.

We attempted a selfie with the sun in the background.

Julia noticed that the whole eclipse took too long.  But we also noticed that the shadows were unusually deep and their darkness was rich. The yellow of our daffodils was like dark-yolked eggs and the light had a feeling of somewhere else, somewhere where filmmakers choose to make period movies. 

I admit to being unexcited by the celestial phenomena and never considered traveling anywhere to see it better than I could from my backyard, but its magic and light worked itself on me as we stood in the backyard looking through our colander. In another world, at another time, this would be holy.

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