At about 4 o'clock this morning, I heard a cat crying. This isn't unusual since I have four cats and I'm used to their cries. They cry when they first come in from outdoors and they jump on my lap to tell me about their exciting adventures. I know the difference between the meow that means they are about to throw up in my shoe and the one that means they are bragging about bringing me the insect/mouse they have killed (or at least captured alive before letting it loose in my house). There is the, "I'm bored so you'd better entertain me before I find a way to entertain myself" cry and the "How could you leave me on this side of the door when it's warm and cozy in there with you" cry.
But this was a new cry. I got up and opened the door to let in whichever cat was lonely, but no one waited there. And the meowing continued. I stepped out on the porch to call, "Here, kitty, kitty," but not one furry soul came running. And I still heard meowing. Having been woken from a sound sleep, I was stumbling around with my eyes half-open and my brain on auto-pilot trying to locate the sad kitty. I looked up on the roof, since I have a skylight and cats have been known to stand over the open skylight and cry through the screen to get my attention, but the skylight was closed and no cats were on the roof. I also checked the air conditioning unit sticking out from my upstairs window because one particular cat, PJ, has the unfortunate habit of jumping six feet from a second floor porch railing onto the AC unit (without a safety net) to peer in the window and freak me out with her glowing yellow eyes. She is a black cat, so all you see in the darkness is those eyes. No PJ on the AC.
I walked back into the house, ready to stumble off to bed and try to sleep through the noise, when I noticed the cries were louder in one area. I looked up at the skylight and felt my heart jump in my chest. I was no longer semi-conscious. I was fully awake. There, framed in the moonlight, was my precious PJ, the sweetest cat I've ever met, sprawled like one of those stuffed cats you see on the rear windows of cars, trapped between the skylight glass and the screen. The space had to be about three inches thick. PJ's mother had climbed onto the screen once or twice, but her weight had always caused the screen to fall and she had safely landed on the table below. The skylight is set up to automatically close when it starts to rain or if anything bumps it, like a branch from a tree. PJ must have climbed onto the screen to let me know she wanted in and caused the window to close, not realizing it was closing until it was too late to crawl out.
I'm not sure whose face showed more panic, hers or mine, but I know my cries were louder. I grabbed one of the pins in the screen to try to pop it out, then stopped because I was worried she would get hurt when she fell if she couldn't get her feet under her in time. Deciding to use the remote to open the window instead, I pushed the button, then watched as it slowly, slowly lifted off of her. Luckily, the screen had some give in it, so she wasn't crushed, just scared and miserable. She scampered off the screen onto the solid roof, but as I turned to run to the door to let her in, I saw her stick her head back between the window and screen to look at me. I guess she didn't spend quite enough time trapped in there to learn her lesson.
I've been feeling a little like PJ trapped in that skylight lately. I recently found out that I have to have major abdominal surgery again in October. This will be my fourth time in five years. My choices are either have the surgery with all its pain and long recovery or risk waiting until it is a dangerous emergency that could involve more extensive surgery and an even longer recovery. Some choice. I keep hoping for another option, but unlike PJ's predicament, there is no one who will come along and push a magic button and give me a way out no matter how long or hard I howl.
At least I can prepare this time. Last time, it was emergency surgery and I had to spend ten days in the hospital with hairy legs and toenails that were only half covered in polish. Do you know how embarrassing that is when nurses are putting socks on you every day? Plus, I was due for a shower when I was rushed to the hospital, so in desperation, I washed my hair in the sink in Intensive Care.
You would think that I would enjoy a long recovery on the couch, a time of feeling no guilt about laundry or dishes or other household chores. After all, three of my favorite things are writing, reading, and watching movies which are couch-based activities. Unfortunately, general anesthesia and pain medication have a way of clouding your brain for weeks, if not months, after surgery and I always find it hard to concentrate on anything while recovering. My level of concentration just barely rises to watching re-runs of Everybody Loves Raymond episodes that I have seen countless times before. My family has also seen them countless times before which makes my recovery almost as painful for them as it is for me.
Speaking of my family, they are fantastic about taking care of me while in the hospital and once I am home. They buy groceries, attempting to find little treats that will appeal to me, they cook and clean, they change my sheets and help me walk to the bathroom, and they put up with the Raymond re-runs without too much complaint. The only time the ball was dropped was when my husband showed up in my hospital room with a big platter of strong-smelling Italian takeout at a time when I had just spent several days vomiting and was lying with a tube running up my nose and into my stomach. But considering everything else he puts up with and does for me, it was a minor misstep.
One of my family members is with me round-the-clock for those first few weeks and that is a blessing. I realize this next statement shows just what a small, petty person I am, but it is also incredibly hard to lie on the couch, bored and in pain, and watch the family members who aren't on duty get ready for lunch with friends or to go to a movie or even to run to the store, all clean and shiny and wearing real clothes instead of the pajamas or drawstring pants I'm stuck in, with their legs shaved and their toes perfectly painted because they can bend over to accomplish the job. Given the choice between going through the recovery myself or watching one of my loved ones suffer through it, it's a no-brainer---I would choose the surgery for myself and the healthy, fun times for them---but even knowing that, I'll admit to getting cranky around week three on the couch and maybe, just maybe putting on another episode of Raymond out of spite instead of a genuine desire to watch Marie get her way once again.
Well, I'm sure I'll have plenty more thoughts to share with you about this over the next couple of weeks, including sharing some of the "you just gotta laugh" moments from my previous adventures in the hospital, so I'll end this for now. Besides, PJ just jumped on the AC unit again and I have to go save her. Maybe there's a lesson in that for me--she could have spent the day playing it safe, napping, and being fussed over, but she shook off her bad experience and leapt right back into the action. I should be recovered enough by January to at least bunny-hop, if not leap. Maybe my recovery period spent watching my family living life and having fun will go quicker if I plan big things for myself to do post-recovery. Bungie jumping? Sky diving? Maybe not, but a trip to someplace warm where I can lay on a chaise on the beach and watch the waves roll in isn't out of the question. I can always pack my portable DVD player and my Raymond discs, just in case.
