The One Where I Call God A Bad Word

I have been MIA for a while, it appears, although I must admit I didn’t realize I last wrote in August. Since my last written purge, Buddy healed and re-opened his wound, which led to surgery to close it for good. My children all got colds, and let me tell you, getting snot on your back when a cat sneezes is no pleasant adventure. Chasing them around with a kleenex is not really an option. Also during my absence, a friend found a 12-y-o cat abandoned for at least 3 weeks in a rental house, no food or water, nearly dead, and of course I was the first person he thought to call. $190 and a round of i.v. fluids later, I had a very sick, very weak doorstop for two weeks. She finally started improving, and eventually went to a nice lady in a nearby town.

My life is one giant saga of life and death, and frankly, I have grown weary. I started Thursday by calling God a Giant Tool, basically, and while I am not stupid enough to allow my arrogance to rule me, I am not all THAT penitent. Yet. He responded by not so much being angry, but by reminding me He’s paying attention. MY problem with that is that I can pay attention to a child in the street, but if I don’t go get it, I am a huge idiot. I kinda wish He’d do more than pay attention. I want Him to intervene.

To be fair, I have no idea how often He steps in to avert disaster in my little puny life. I do know that if it’s a LOT, I should probably curl up in the closet and order my groceries from Amazon for the duration, cuz the stuff that gets through is awfully painful, and I can’t imagine how much more I can take. This time, it’s one of my dumpster babies. It was a year ago that I lost Leo and Max to FIP, a very nasty virus for which there is neither vaccine nor cure. It’s a wasting disease, and another of my children has it. She must be put to sleep, and I just cannot bear it. Little Elsa walks me to the door in the mornings and begs me not to leave her. She stands up on me and mews a little mute squeak, then watches sadly as I close the door between us.

Not once, but 3 times after the diagnosis Thursday, I had the words “God’s Plan” spoken to me. The first was the vet. They never break the religion barrier, but this one did this one time. She reminded me that we don’t know what God’s plan was for Elsa, but that Elsa has had a good life with me, short as it has been.  Cyndi said basically the same thing. She hurts almost as much as I do when I lose a baby, and she is quick to remind me that they have love and shelter and safety with me that they wouldn’t have gotten from living under a dumpster. The third was from a bookmark I had bought myself months ago, inscribed with a verse from Jeremiah: “For I know the plans I have made for you…”

Honestly, I am tired of plans that include me putting my babies to death.

The only way I can stay sane is to remember that they aren’t mine to begin with. They are His, and if He chooses to give them to me for a short while or decades, I should be grateful for what I get. That’s hard to swallow tonight. I know it’s true. I do. It’s just that I am so tired of being strong and taking care of things by myself, with very little support structure. I told one of my “friends” about Elsa tonight, and he said, “Is that called catanasia?” Mr. Sensitive for the Win! That made me really draw in and decide not to tell anybody else. I have Cyndi. I have 10 other babies who all seem to want to be in my arms at once. I have benny to help me sleep.

And I have jury duty in 8 hours.

Yeah, God. AWESOME week You put together for me there. Goooooo, GOD!

I guess I should sleep on a rubber sheet tonight, huh? You know, to avoid the lightning strikes?

Later…