Uninvited Conditions

There's always an event that marks when something significant began in one's life.  I reflect back to an early spring morning walk, in 2008, with my dogs and husband, when I found Pierre, an abandon kitten in the woods, the moment that signifies the beginning of a complicated deterioration of my ability to walk.  We were coming around the bend where ponds and forest collide and a slice of suburban nature still rich with wildlife surrounded us, when our serene walk was halted.  Suddenly, we heard a scream--a cat like howl--from the dense bush.  A sound familiar to our loyal companions, Lola and Bella, who were in position to pounce onto whatever was lurking in the there, protect us, or just ready for a good chase.  "Back off both of you," I yell at my dogs seeing a kitten resting on the ground.  "David, don't let them near him!" I shout. I quickly give my husband the other leash because I was already feeling off balance--my ankle giving in with sudden weight shifts.  "Do you see him?" he asks.  Deep in the brush where rattle snakes are known to hangout, I reply, "Yes, but he's just laying here, it's as if he wanted us to hear him."  I scooped up the barely a pound kitten and placed him over my left shoulder, my right hand holding his body close to my chest.  He did not stir from my shoulder on the 2 mile walk back home, obviously weak from not eating.

We named him Pierre later that evening, much more fitting then the taunting he would receive from the uninvited condition I would soon learn he had.  Pierre went head first into the bowl of soft cat food and ate til he was satisfied.  Just as I picked him up his body convulsed--curled up into a ball as if his own balance was threatened.  He began salivating uncontrollably and the seizure lasted several minutes.  I placed him on the ground to allow him to steady himself and for me to recover from what I had just witnessed.  I called the vet immediately and got him in the following day to get his shots and discuss what happened.  The vet ran blood tests and suggested I put him on a medication to stop the small seizures; of course, we would have to monitor his liver because the medication would have complications on the rest of his organs. 

This was deja vu all over again, for me--hearing about a neurological disease to describe Pierre's life made me think of my own experience with physicians dolling out life threatening words. I hear myself asking the vet what an Italian mother would ask, "What if I just keep feeding him? He seems to just love tuna."  This was not going to cure him the vet tells me.  Oh, but intuitively I knew it would; it worked when my mother said to me "you need to eat!"

I saw myself in Pierre, fighting to ward off the words that provoked an uninvited condition.  Angry, I wanted to hurl them back at the tosser.  They were not welcomed into our life and I would use my strength to fight for him now.  I saw the caution light go off if I started pumping him up with medications that either treated him, caused him problems with his organs or take his life.  The vet gave me the prescription and the name of a cat neurologist and sent me home with that "good luck" smile her face.  A face gesture that does not sit well with me.

I decided to handle Pierre more homeopathically and I'm glad I did.  His bobbed head corrected itself with time, he had less and less moments of feeling off balanced.  Our  "Crooked Kitty" as my niece would call him is today healthier than ever and almost a year has passed without any issues.  I decided to see another vet in the same practice and he said Pierre will just simply have "dizzy days" from time to time.  So, this is the final diagnosis--dizzy days.  Heck, a dizzy day now in then was certainly in the cards for all us--I continue to have them myself!  So, when he seems a little off from time to time, we just say, "Pierre is having a dizzy day," and we just know not to pick him up because it upsets his system.  By the end of the evening or the next day, Pierre is feeling himself again.   My cat has become symbolic of m own healing, as I know, too, with time, I'll feel myself again.

I remind myself of Pierre's steady journey to health when I hear comments that relate to my current condition about my legs and feet, or being confined to a wheelchair, or those uninvited feelings that play havoc on my faith.  For instance, I asked inquisitively, a tech (knowing she has followed my case) as I pass her in the hallway one afternoon following surgery, "What do you think about all this?" pointing to my ankle encased in the ex-fix (metal rod cage), "We thought you would be around for awhile," she says, with a smile on her face. My daughter pushing me in my chair from behind me asks, "What does she mean by that?"  I wanted further clarification, too, but didn't want to push the obvious by what she meant--I would discuss it later with my daughter as to my own interpretation.

My faith in God, keeps me inspired-- open to what's around me and protects me from the uninvited.  The uninvited tires me, thoughtless words tossed at me without the consideration of interpretation; it always amazes me when someone might say "it could be worse". Is this to say worse than death?  Okay, then, yes, I am thankful.  Oh, how the uninvited works to reconstruct, transform, affect my emotions just when I'm feeling energized by the day. 

Pierre's continued growth and development allowed me to look deep into the bushes of life, that there is a greater interpretation, and we can push away those uninvited conditions that we choose not to accept.  I didn't rescue Pierre that early spring morning day, he rescued me.