Oh the past, the past...

Before we go any further into my most recent brain meanderings, a little update on Chester's Journey. Our boy was asked to be one of the stars of the 2012 ACTSS calendar. This is the wonderful society that has assisted in financing Chester's (and many other fur kid's) chemo treatments. I'm not sure yet what month he will be but we took him to the photographer yesterday to do his "photo shoot". He was great...wanted to kill her toy horsie. I implore you to please purchase one (or five) of their calendars when it comes out. It has given us the gift of the boy's life and that has been so precious to us. These people, especially Dr. Stelfox, have been heroes! There is actually a story in the Examiner about Doc Stelfox and ACTSS this week. I have a few copies if anyone wants one. I'll let you know when the calendar comes out. Chester and his story will be in there. And let me tell you, he looks pretty danged handsome. Got a bath for the occassion and everything.

What I want to talk about today has had me thinking for some time. I've written various pieces over the years about this subject and I find it still confounds me...perhaps more than ever. It's..."The Past". I know so many people who are absolutely wigged out about the past...either their own or the distant past. I'm going to give you a number of examples that I want to look at. I have belonged or worked with several groups who are re enactors. I get that. It's fun to pretend. History is amazing. It is what has made us who we are. We can only know the tiniest fraction of what the distant past was like and what actually happened. Our ideas and theories are constantly being challenged and revised because a new piece of information comes about and forces us to re-examine everything we believed. I'm going to give you a couple of examples of that. The first is the idea that the general public has about Cleopatra, the last Egyptian Pharaoh, and one of only a very small number of known female Pharaohs. There is this myth about Cleopatra that has her as a great beauty and seductress. The Roman version of history (which, by the way, is always suspect) has her as thus. We do know she was quite young in our understanding of the word. We do know she had a penchant to be ruthless (it is believed she had her brother, a competetor for the throne killed). But the truth about Cleopatra is quite different than the portrayal given by Liz. She was hardly a great beauty and she was hardly a brainless bimbo. She was a brilliant statesman and leader who, like so many before and after, fell to Rome's greed.

Another more personal example is through my own research. In the eighties, when I first began teaching, there was a wide-spread belief that there was a time in prehistory that was ruled by matriarchal societies. They were believed to be peaceful, egalitarian societies that were eventually destroyed by violent patriarchal groups. The matriarchal societies worshipped a Mother Goddess and Her horned consort and it came to be known as the Old Religion. There was, of course a great deal of nonsense that was built up along with it but that's it in a very brief nutshell. Along came the nineties and researchers who set out to set the record straight. Much of the Mother Goddess idealism came from an anhropologist named Marija Gimbutas. She wrote such seminal texts as 'The Goddesses and Gods of Old Europe'. There were many who were enthralled by this information, including myself. This idea that our history went much further back than previously acknowledged. But there were certainly people who didn't agree with this theory and they wrote quite a lot of very well researched information which I felt was my obligation to pay attention to. And they were right. Ms. Gimbutas and many others had seemingly jumped pretty far between verifiable research and conclusion. When challenged, the claim of "I know it or I feel it" doesn't hold much water...not outside of the spiritual community anyway. And I like to think of myself as a very spiritual person with my feet very much rooted in science. So, as difficult as it was to rearrange a belovedly held belief, I had to adjust my thinking and teaching. At least, until further research could prove otherwise. And so for many years, through many courses and classes through many schools and institutes I have taught what was known about history. Not what was wished for or intuited, though my own intuition said there was more to it. I believe it is irresponsible to paint history with a pink paintbrush, as it were, to make things what one wishes it were. The same held true for the idea of the Great Witch Hunts that are a blight on western history. There is no denying that they took place. However, many wanted to claim this disgusting period as a sort of spiritual-political emblem. I cannot begin to count the number of women I have met over the years who would fall into a sort of deep melancholy over a remembered life where they were burned at the stake. It was written in countless books over the years, touted in dozens of movies, etc, that millions of women had been burned at the stake. The number of 9 million became the sort of stand by number. Research and evidence (in other words, solid proof) speaks otherwise. If one does even a small amount of research into the actual history of the Witch Hunts in Europe, one finds a much different, though equally disgusting, story. The Hunts varied wildly from country to country and were far fewer in number than reported by the Neo-Pagan community(by about 8.5 million conservatively). In Ireland, perhaps one or two witches were killed. In Scotland, vast numbers died. Witches were not burned in England. They were hung. They were indeed burned on the continent. The greatest persecutions happened along border regions and in small secular villages. The Church, which is often the demonized party in the whole mess, was more interested than not in having a confesson rather than the cost of a trial and execution. Often, if you confessed, you got off on some (admittedly harsh) bread and water pennance. Look at it this way: A dead witch could not pay a tithe to the church, now could he or she? A very large number of men (in Iceland it was more men than women) were killed. The myth that midwives were the target is pure silliness. If anything they are under-represented in the totals of the killings and were often found to be assisting the persecutors. And in America, witches were not burned, they were hanged, with the exception of Giles Corey who was crushed to death in Salem in 1692.

My point here is that history on a personal level is often not what it would seem. And an open mind has to be maintained. Recent evidence now is suggesting that indeed, human civilization goes back far further than we have imagined and there were indeed instances...faint traces...of matriarchal societies. Should I have followed my intuition in the first place and just kept on teaching based on guess work? Certainly not. Or on my emotional attachement? Absolutely not.
This, in a long winded way, brings me to my original point. I seem to be running into the idea an awful lot of the time lately, that somehow, if one could go back to the past or relive it, things would be a lot better. Or if things were like they were then..."In a simpler time", it would be great. Here's my take on "The Past"
For those who want to go back to (I'm going to go into a bit of ancient history squashing here) ancient Celtic times, Medieval times, Dark Ages, Renaissance ages, or even Victorian times, please sit and have a think about the following (I want to say here that yes, my profession is based on art and ideas taken form my study of history. It doesn't mean I want to live there). In pretty much any of those ages, me and everyone I know would have died of old age long ago. I actually would have died along with Twyla in childbirth. As would my sister in law. As would my brother. Both of my brothers would be dead, actually. And my sister, from complications after the birth of my niece. Any of you in Twyla's age group would certainly have at least one child by now or be considered unmarriageable. You would likely all be hungry (I don't know very many nobles) and you would be malnourished. The smells then would likely kill us now. If age and childbirth didn't kill us, war or disease would. You would work like a slave each and every day of the year and then you would suffer the indignity of dying of illness. Many of you would have watched at least one child succumb before their first year. If they lived beyond that, common childhood illness would take them before they were ten. Until the advent of penicillin in the early part of the last century, death could come from something as innocuous as a mosquito bite (Lord Carnarvon, who funded Howard Carter's career likely died of shaving an infected mosquito bite on the cheek) or a scratch in the garden. More people died of infection during WW1 than as a result of direct injury from weapons. Prince Albert, husband of Queen Victoria, died of Typhoid in his very early 40s. Even the monarch of the English Empire was not immune, though he likely had the wealth of the empire to save him.
Why would you want to live there? Then there are the modern mourners for the past, specifically their own. The term "back in the day" absolutely enrages me. Ask Twyla. Whenever someone utters the dreaded phrase, she almost cowers. And for a reason. I've listened for years to my sister grapple with her love-hate of The Past. To the point that, I hate most music from my own past. I feel like I am in the witch's torture chamber myself whenever I have to hear Culture Club banging out Karma Karma Karma yet again. Or Cindy Lauper or Madonna. It seems like I hear more of it now than when I was a teenager watching it on Video Hits after school. The thing is that I don't know anyone that had the time of their lives in the eighties. I don't. We had some fun but it was usually shit (especially in my family). I never heard anyone go "God, I wish the eighties would last forever!" We had Reagan. We had Ethiopia. We had the USSR. We had AIDS. We had to wear silly rubber bracelets to be cool (yeah, thanks aLOT for that one Madonna, you idiot).

How about the seventies. The ugliest clothing EVER conceived. Everything was in shades of A & W, fercrissakes. We had the USSR. We had Three Mile Island, Watergate, Vietnam, Kent State. Canadians were uber nerds. We had a plethora of stupid folk music. You couldn't pay me to go back there. I'd rather eat a bowl of lizards than have to pull brown polyester pants over pink polyester leotards ever again.
Then there is THE SIXTIES! Like every era, there were some good things. But like any era, I think the good things landed on more of a personal level in moments rather than over the decade. You can't point to a few good Beatles tunes and go "this was the decade to live in forever." Pass. The sixties treated women like garbage. JFK was blown away along with MLK & Bobby Kennedy. A lot of people cite the music as evidence that the sixties were the best. I cite all of the musicians that died of substance abuse, Janice and Jim. Every decade has had it's share of fabulous music. It is no secret how I feel about drugs and drug culture and the sixties seemed to be the real start of glorifying that whole mind set, the Victorians chasing the dragon not withstanding. There is nothing glorious about it in any way. I think that if most people could see how they behave when they are under the influence they would have some serious second thoughts about their decision making. Ask Amy Winehouse. I'm sure she thought that she looked pretty effing awesome in Serbia, when she looked like fool and now she's dead. A waste of youth and talent.

The Fifties, where most conservatives seem hell bent on reverting us to, were a post war backstep to roping women back into the house and consuming as much as possible. It was the beginning of turning the world into a fossil fuel guzzling plastic nightmare that is killing us today with consumer greed and corporate madness while painting a whitemeat Protestant-Christian version of what is acceptable in the bedroom, in the classroom, in the temple and in the marketplace.

I don't think I have to say much about the fourties other than Hitler or the Great Depression of the thirties.

The point here is that, yes, I have great memories from each and every decade in which I have lived. Cool stuff happened. There were good times. They were little islands of happy amidst a sea of not very good things going on in the world. Each of us had those. Should we revert back to that era because of it. No effing way. Our only hope is in the future and what we can make of it, whether it is filled with rennaissance clothing and lutes or drug free flower children singing...well, hopefully not folk music. Yuck! Or maybe it should just be something entirely new. Because the things that created all of that stuff were the harsh realities of those times. We have harsh realities now and they are far and beyond what any of those times could have ever imagined, save perhaps those swimming through the shit storm of WW2. We must create a Utopia that is for our time, the one that each and every one of us is living in right now. We haven't got a hope if all we can do is moon about back-in-the-day. It is useful to study the past and even honour those who lived in it that gave us the stepping stones to go beyond their mistakes. So far, all we seem to be doing is repeating them. Let's look at the past for what it really was. Let's look at it without all of the romantic silliness. Let's take what was wise and progressive and just let go of the rest. Because you can't drink, smoke or wish your way back to a few good times. You have to look straight ahead and plan for a whole different reality if there is going to be a future to look back on.

Whats on the Menu: Vietnamese Soup

Listening to: The Carolina Chocolate Drops

Reading: "Lords of Battle: The World of the Celtic Warrior" by Stephen Allen

Goals & Viewing: Cowboys and Aliens tonight! Yee Haw!

The Harvest Begins...

We've just spent the morning in the potato and raspberry gardens pulling about a month and a half worth of thistles. Needless to say, I am hurtin'. I requested that I have enough clear weather this morning just for that job and I was much obliged to receive it. And it was a helluva job. With all of the rain, pretty much constant with a very few scortching, hot, muggy days here and there, the garden has suffered from my not weeding. I personally like the rain and overall I'm not that concerned with having it overcast or even marginally cool. I don't do well in the heat, usually ending up with a headache and little desire to do anything useful. I have been dismayed to hear all of the complaining and whining about the rain. How quickly it slips from people's minds how dry it has been. How the lakes and waterways have been literally disappearing. How many gardens didn't grow at all last year but the grasshoppers did. And they made short work of what was left. I personally am grateful for all the moisture replenishing what has been lost. We are not suffering from record shattering heatwaves, massive wildfires or killing drought and dustbowl type storms here right now. I've not seen it this green and lush for a long, long time. The frogs are in ecstasy and there is a bumper crop of them. I'm not saying that there aren't drawbacks to all the rain. But overall, the pros far outweigh the cons at this point. I know, I know. Mosquitoes. A tablespoon of applecider vinegar every day (put it in your tea or just straight up) and a blend of lavender-eucalyptus and teatree (20 drops of each) in 1 cup of water spritzed on is very helpful. At the farmer's market, Twyla and I just apply lavender oil neat and we really aren't terribly bothered. Apply the same to bites and the itch is gone.

So the potato patch isn't perfect but it isn't a sea of thistles. We harvested raspberries and rhubarb today and the saskatoons should be ready within a day or two, though keeping those hooligan waxwings off them is almost impossible. The rotters dig their beaks in, take one bite and leave the rest to rot. It makes me furious! Take what you want but eat what you take.

Onto the news. We've had a bear messing around the area. Twyla and I stumbled upon him while walking to get mail a few weeks ago. We had been seeing something monkeying around near the greenhouses for awhile and thought it might be a bear, but you sort of go "naaaahh". It would seem that our ursine friend has been stampeding the livestock of our neighbours or at least something is. We did call the fish cops to see if it could be dealt with before some gun happy jackass decides to just kill it or us (something we do not want to happen) but Officer Unhelpful basically treated me like I was some imbecile female type in heels and a beehive, wearing a party dress to do the dishes. I was told to visit their website to learn how to deal with a bear if confronted. I was told that humans and bears have been living beside each other for hundreds of years. I was told that when he was in Calgary he would get hundreds and hundreds of calls every year because people had bears in their yards ( at this point I wondered if he'd been posted in Calgary in 1898 maybe). I was told that people live with bears every day in Jasper and Banff (I didn't bother pointing out that they also have the garbage cans that lock and rangers who deal with encounters). After the marathon condescending lecture, I asked him at what point the bear would be considered enough of a problem to be dealt with. He said "Well, if the bear is trying to come into your house or if he's trying to get into your car while you're in it, then we would consider that a big problem and 'we'd' come out and get it." Upon hearing this, Twyla wondered, well what if the bear is just sitting on your doorstep and not actually trying to get in the house. Is that a problem? Or how about if the bear is trying to get into your car but you are not in it, is that a problem? Or what about the kids on bikes that ride up and down the road. If the bear tries to get up on their bikes with them, is that a problem?

It was so stupid that if I wasn't so pissed I would have laughed at the arrogance of the guy.
Anyhow, the bear is still apparently out there and we all just take a few precautions when we go out.

I finally got Twyla's grad pictures back. The strike delayed everything, but they are here and they're awesome. They turned out really well, but holy expensive, Batman! Yeesh!

Chester is doing great. He had his check up this past Monday and the doc is absolutely astonished at how well he's doing. He has a silky fluffy coat now and looks nothing like he looked before chemo. He used to look like, I don't know...a small sasquatch or something. Now he looks a little like a small bear. All the other critters are doing fine too, though little Poppyseed the gerbil finally crossed the Rainbow Bridge after an extremely extended life...for a gerbil. May he find the sweetest seeds and the greenest grass to play in.

The rest of the past month has been spent on the new website and putting it all together. You can finally actually visit the site at

www.theraggedrose.com

It's a work in progress as we haven't got the catalogue set up yet. The Etsy store is where you will be directed for product until the site is all done and has the bugs worked out. We've just set up a Facebook page. We'd appreciate a "like" if you get the chance to go there. Have a look and let us know what you think. There is also a blog for The Ragged Rose that you can link to on the site. We're having a lot of fun with designs, especially the clothing and bags. We just finished a new bag last night actually. We'll be putting it up sometime today.

Now, there are actually a few golden leaves peeking through the green on the trees. The apples on the tree grow daily. I always begin to look forward to Fall at this time of the year. It is more than my favourite season. It is in me. It is me. Perhaps that sounds a bit odd, but so many things pull at my heart in Autumn...haunted Samhain nights, Harvest feasts and bonfires, frosty mornings and shivery kisses and walking hand in hand through the rattling grass, cloaks trailing behind as the harvest moon hangs low in the sky. Perhaps those days are not lost but awaiting resurrection. Perhaps.

Enjoy the rain and the wet earth and the glory of the green. Light a fire on the hearth and pull on a sweater if need be. Things are changing and strange days may be ahead for all of us.

What's on the menu: Turkey soup and rhubarb cobbler

Listening to: the wind

Reading: New Charles DeLint ... a compilation of Newford stories

Viewing: Beastly tonight

Goals: Hah! Little of everything.

Chester's Journey and other updates...

Well, the boy has gone through his fourth chemo treatment, so he only has one left. The picture is him on Monday after we returned from the vet. He's still pretty sedated here and his needle booboo is still wrapped. He isn't completely bald now on his head. He's sprouting some kind of wild boar fur that is very prickly at the top. This is what he does when he's sedated. Lays in front of his warm wooby (his heater) and holds his puck in his mouth. He's hanging in there pretty well and is in complete remission. I don't want to think about anything further than that. I'm just happy to have him here to hog the bed. He's a master at that.
I think everyone is a little snow weary now, but I'm not minding it that much. This whole journey with Chester has taught me to just let the days pass slowly as they will and not wish for the future to come too quickly. Because it will. There are things in the future that I'm not all that anxious for. I do look forward to getting my hands into the soil again. The herbs and weedy ways are stirring and calling and I'm afraid I must heed the call. We made a really nice rose-geranium lip balm yesterday. I find we're going through the stuff like crazy, it's so dry. I'm feeling a little mummified, actually. We also did a batch of offering incense made with 1000 year old tobacco that we grew here, sage and patchouli. It will be for sale through the Etsy store or you can call us and we'll hook you up.
I have found myself a little nostalgic the last little while. Probably most parents do when they realize that their child is about to graduate. It's such a life passsage. We have to send in the sizes for Twyla's cap and gown this week and do all of the arranging for the whole thing. Then, shortly thereafter she will turn 18. I was telling her that the day we brought her home, I said to Brad, we'd better be careful because she will turn 18 tomorrow. I think we have been careful. I think she's turned out to be a human being that I am proud of. I know intellectually that the day she turns 18 she won't be this other person. She still has a long road of school ahead of her, but it's a milestone. Like, we accomplished something. If you know Twyla, you know we did.
I've just had the worst gawdawful migraines for about three weeks now. It's like torture when they cluster and really takes any enjoyment out of life altogether. It hasn't stopped me noticing that we have entered a time of extreme weather that is only going to escalate. It's not like there were no warnings. Now the piper has come to be paid. I would offer advice but I don't really think people are interested in listening. They either give the "Oh, there's been extreme weather before" song and dance to which I just shrug and say "whatever" because I can't be bothered to argue with them or they figure scientists/government/ignoring it will fix it or they belong to the extreme right and live in a constant state of denial about anything remotely sensible.
I just want to say, pay attention.
So there you have it. Please check out the Etsy store. We really appreciate the support:
www.etsy.com/shop/AutumnDomoslai
Hang in there. Spring is coming. If you listen carefully, you will hear Her stirring, even when it snows...
What's on the menu: Maybe meatpie
Listening to: Bellowhead
Reading: Entangled Minds
Goals: Clean the studio and making more incense
Viewing: Ghost Hunters International

Chester and Stuff

I figured it was high time to wish everyone a Happy New Year. When people start calling and wondering when the blog is coming it is time to make time. That is literally the truth though. I just have not had the time. I don't have time this morning really, but I love you all that much!
Chester had his third chemo on Monday. They upped his dosage a bit since he did fairly well with the much lower dosage last time. He is certainly feeling it and I live by the beeping of the alarm which goes off constantly to remind me it's time to administer one medication or another. He has almost no hair now. Everyone keeps mistaking him for a Chinese crested...without the crest. I call him my little chupocabra. It's like mange gone wild. Thing is he is still so cute. He knows he's getting some special treatment too. His mama didn't raise no idiot! He spends most days between puck chasing and harassing Kippy, sleeping in front of his heater on the couch or curled up on my lap demanding massages. If I don't comply he sits up with his nose touching mine, both paws on my chest to tell me "now, Mama". How could we not try to save him? I've had some interesting conversations with people about how much we are spending on his treatment. We are well beyone $3000.00 now. Some think its crass to talk about money, but here's the thing. He's my little boy. And it's just money. My sister was being a little snarky because we haven't bought a new washing machine yet. But this is the life of someone in my family. Who the hell cares about a washing machine. When I cross over I will not be taking some stupid machine with me. I do believe that this little fur person will be my companion there as he is here. I'm a great believer in that story that goes:
A man and his dog die in an accident. They find themselves on the long road up to the pearly gates where some angelic wise-guy type sits at a podium with a big book. He looks up the man's name and says with a smile "Ah, just go on in, my friend!" the man and his dog start toward the opening gates. The guy at the podium calls out, "now, just hold on there a second, Mate. There are no dogs allowed here. They don't have a soul."
The man stops short. He looks at the gleaming towers and golden light just beyond the gates. Then he looks down at his friend. They stare into each others eyes for a long moment. The man turns around and starts heading back down the road. The guy at the gate calls back to him, "What are you doing!?!? Are you refusing eternity within!?!?"
The man turns back and says,, "Well, I just can't leave my friend behind. I'd rather just wander the roads with him if it's all the same to you."
The guy at the gates looks at him and strikes his name from the book. "Don't bother coming back here." he says.
The man replies "Don't worry."
So the man and his dog head off down the dirt road. After a while they come to a rickety fence and a gate with the paint peeling. They figure, what do we have to lose? He opens the gate and they head up the long path that runs through woods and fields. The sun is warm and he takes off his jacket. Soon they come to a little log cabin. It looks like nobody has been around in a long time. They knock and the door creaks open. The dog sticks his nose in and gives a sniff. They enter into the cabin and the man calls out "Hello...?"
No answer. They walk around slowly. There is a great stone hearth where a fire is neatly laid and ready to be lit. There is a table with a place setting and a bowl beside the chair on the floor. Some bread and cheese are set on a sideboard. Down a hallway is a room with a bed, covered in a patchwork quilt that looks much like a quilt the man's mother made him when he was a boy. The man decides, well, we'll just stay the night here and if someone comes back, I can do some work to pay my way. They return to the table and have a bite to eat. As the sun sets and the crickets begin to chirp, they wander out to the porch where the man sits in a rocking chair. The dog curls up at his feet. The air is warm and the stars come out one by one. Pretty soon, they see a figure approaching from up the path. As he draws near, they see he is a bit ragged and pretty old. He calls a greeting. The man thinks, Oh dear. Now we'll have to leave. Maybe we can just stay the night. It sure is peaceful here. As the old man draws near the dog sits up and his tail thumps twice on the wooden floor of the porch.
"Hello there" the old fellow says. "It's a long road...I'm wondering if I might spend the night and beg a bite to eat."
The man smiles, a bit relieved. Another vagabond on the road. He welcomes the man into the cabin and gives him food. Then, when the old fellow has eaten his fill, he guides him to the room with the bed.
"Oh no", the elder protests, "I can't take your bed!"
The man laughs and says "This is no more my bed than it is yours. You take the bed. I don't mind sleeping under the stars."
So thus they spend the night. In the morning, the man awakens to the golden sunrise shining through the leaves, his dog curled next to him in the grass. A cheeky robin is singing in a tree close by.
The man rises, feeling surprisingly spry. He enters the cabin only to find, to his great surprise that instead of the old man, his father is sitting at the table with two places set. Tears spring to the man's eyes and he lets out a great cry of joy, for his father died many years ago. The two embrace.
The father says "I'm sorry for the deception son. It is the test of kindness and charity that we all must pass. And you passed with flying colours as I knew you would.
"But where are we, Dad?" the man asks, in awe.
"Why, this is heaven, son, and this is your place. Your mother and I live just down the road a ways. We fixed it up for you and Pete, here, when we heard you were coming."
"But what was that other place?" the man asks in confusion.
"Why that was Hell, son. You don't think that heaven would be a place that would refuse to let such a kind and loyal being enter, do you?"
The man beamed and stroked the head of his old friend.
"Come on down for supper later. Your Mother is anxious to see you."
*************************************************************************************
Anyway, that's my version of the story. But it's what I believe.
So, we've got snow piled high and it feels like the Swiss Alps here. It's warm out today though. And Chester is curled up beside me. And it's about time for breakfast.
I'll be putting some pretty cool things into the Etsy store today. So, please, go check it out. Lotta bills to pay and all that;-)
www.etsy.com/shop/AutumnDomoslai

What's on the menu: Chicken noodle soup, Apple pie
Listening to: Omnia
What's goin' on: Making tiny tomes
Viewing: Ha! Heroes...season 3 and Paranormal State

Chester's Journey - Round 2

I figure, it's bad enough having to go through all of this. Not exactly everyone's Christmas wish. But when you have people making it more difficult, people who are supposed to be the ones who are professional and care, that just makes it seem like you're being a bit picked on.
Chester's second chemo was yesterday. He was finally starting to be himself. He'd gained back his weight and was pretty normal, if tiring quickly. I'd been back and forth emailing his doctor trying to get to the bottom of what the hell happened when he was so sick after the last treatment. I basically got a lot of bullshite and excuses and 'I dunnos'. What else? I was told that the clinic is world class and they love all the animals as though they were their own and it boiled down to trying to make me feel like I was mistaken and maybe over reacting just a little. It finally came down to me just having enough and saying "you know, I didn't expect anyone to apologize or say that this should never have happened but it won't happen again. I'm not a naive idiot. However, Chester's Journey in this is being documented publicly step by step for his many friends around the world and I'd really like to say that the people caring for him showed absolute compassion and made this experience as kind, loving and gentle as possible." Then the reply was suddenly a little nicer and I was assured that Chester would be lovingly carried out if it ever came to that again rather than being dragged across the floor at the end of a rope tied around his neck.
I just thought, 'yeah, right'.
Anyway, he had originally been booked to go ion on the 21st. It was pretty much universally decided that he was too weak and needed extra time to recover and gain his weight back. So the doc suggested the 27th or 28th. I decided on the 28th. I'd already called to book that day but they suggested I talk to Dr. Stelfox, which I did with all the emails. Then I called the clinic to book the 28th again. They said, oh, it's already been changed to the 28th. Come in a half hour early.
So, the 28th being yesterday, with a fair amount of dread, we packed up Chester in his blankie since he is becoming quite bald on his chest, legs and underside. We got there almost exactly at 1:30, walked in and said to one of the frowning receptionists "Chester is here for his appointment". She glanced at her book and looked up going "Uh...no. He's not booked for today." I. Was. Immediately. Unhappy. I said "Uh...yes. He is." She made a huge show of flipping pages back and forth looking at the other receptionists in a perplexed manner. "No, he's not booked."
I explained, "I called twice. The appointment was booked. I talked to Dr. Stelfox. She knew the appointment was booked." At this point, she goes "You talked to Dr. Stelfox?" I said yeah, I have the emails. I can bring them in if proof needs to be provided (because I am lying, of course)." At this point they started muttering about how she didn't write it down again and it just turned into a ridiculous fluster. Then someone went to the back to ask what to do. They said that Dr. Stelfox's husband would be able to do Chester's chemo. I said, well I want to talk to Dr. Stelfox. I had the feeling that something strange was going on here. So it was decided that we would come back at 3:00. We went away after they did bloodwork on Chester and then came back at 3. They took us into the room where we were told that Dr. Stelfox would only be able to see us on the fly for a few minutes. I thought, you know I'm getting a little tired of this. So she comes in, says they decided to give him 30% less of the treatment in the hopes that he would have a much better reaction. It was all very nervous-friendly. She told us that they were on call until 3pm on the 31st and to call before then if he had any GI problems. So I attempted to ask her, well, what about after hours (meaning after 3 on the 31st) to which she snarled "I just explained that." I think my mouth dropped open. She then recovered and seemed to understand what I wanted to know and said "well, just tell the vets in Stony Plain (who are the ones on call after 3pm on the 31st) to track one of us down because of the situation".
I'm starting to be just a little weirded out by this time. Then she completely acted as though she had no knowledge of this appointment yesterday and she didn't know why I'd made this mistake. I clarified that I did not make the mistake. She ignored that and left quickly. So the tech (who was very nice) gives him his pre meds while I held him. They gave the sedation a few minutes to work and this Dr. Reid (sp) comes in and takes him.
We waited about 40 minutes and Reid comes back out carrying Chester, hands him over, says "I have to do paperwork" in a very quiet voice and walks away. So there I stood holding my out-of-it guy, waiting. Reid comes out again after a bit of time and puts the paperwork and prescriptions on the counter and starts to walk away, barely glancing up at me. I go "well, how did it go? How was he?" You know...the doctor is generally supposed to say something to you. Isn't he? I mean, it is a cancer treatment that didn't go very well last time. He looks back and quickly says "Good. He almost went to sleep". He then scurried away and that was that.
Then we were ignored for ten minutes as we stood there at the desk waiting. That has happened almost every time. Finally we took the stuff to one of the receptionists who has always been a sweetheart. She did all the paperwork, explained the meds and off we went. Honestly, it is becoming a little surreal. Especially since, as she was booking the next appointments, she goes, "well, I don't know what happened or how you mistook today as being his appointment. I clarified that it was, as a matter of fact, not me who made the mistake. This is starting to just infuriate me.
Chester was pretty dopey all evening. He didn't seem as wasted as he was last time since they said they gave him only a single dose of sedative. He slept a little last night but I've been up with him since about 4am. I wasn't really sleeping before that. We have to be pretty vigilant because of the extreme toxicity of his waste and he'd already wet his bed once. Now he's just sort of sitting here beside me acting like he's tripping in a terrible way. Which of course, is very distressing. I carry him out to go potty every half hour or so but he gets so cold that all he does is shiver.
I'm just tired, you know. I am having to make some really rough and crappy decisions here for a lot of reasons, this just being one (though granted a pretty big one). Now to have this whatever it is going on with this clinic is just not okay. No one likes a mistake pointed out but this is supposed to be a group of medical veterinary professionals, for godsakes! And now its like they are either playing some creepy game or they are so concerned with looking out for their own asses that at some point here a mistake is really going to be made and it will cost lives. They are so incredibly busy that they don't recognize you from one minute to the next. One of them will look you in the eye, give your dog three needles as you hold him. She will engage you in conversation and not an hour later will look you in the eye while you hold the same dog while standing beside your same daughter and blankly ask if I've been helped. Then walk away in a seeming daze when I go, in a perplexed voice "Yes, I've been helped". Bizarre.
So I've got the alarm set continually to go off for medicine time and potty time. This means the alarm goes off roughly every 15 minutes to half hour. I'm actually thinking Chester is still pretty stoned, the way he's sitting here with glazed eyes and his tongue sticking out. Shouldn't the stuff have worn off by now? Did they give him too much again? It's been sixteen hours now.

Anyway, a couple more updates. Bugsy and Henry have found a great new home, for which I am very happy. It was a gift that they got to go together with someone I trust who is very experienced with birds. We had a pretty quiet Christmas. Went to see Tron and Little Fockers, but I was pretty unwell with a miserable cold. It's better now, though I'm still coughing a bit. Poor Twyla got through that horrible stomach flu and now she's got my cold. My poor Chickie.
Christmas at my brother's house on Monday was even more loud and chaotic than usual. I dunno. Everything actually seems a little surreal and I'm sure it's not just the lack of sleep.
On Sunday it will be exactly five years that we have been here. I can't say that there has been a whole lot of enjoyment...that certainly hasn't been the overwhelming feeling of life here. Don't get me wrong. It is beautiful out here (or was until the great day of demolition) and we have met some dear people that will be friends forever. There is just something missing. Actually a lot of somethings and the odd someone that I miss desperately, almost to the point of feeling sick with it sometimes. Maybe it is how much of myself and my life I seem to have misplaced. (This was demonstrated by the woman who adopted the cockatoos. She goes "maybe you could sell some of your art on the Internet. You probably could not get more than a hundred dollars for those ones one the wall" she said, pointing to the originals. I thought to myself it just figures. There was not really any point to saying anything to that. And the fact is that they are on my wall, rather than someone else's. So...
Maybe it is all of the horror and misery and sorrow we've had to deal with. Maybe it is the fact that the damn house is slowly crumbling, bit by bit. I think the guy we bought it from was pretty unscrupulous and did a whole bunch of home-handyman cosmetic renovation stuff just to sell it that we just didn't notice or know enough to notice. In all fairness, the house inspector didn't notice either. Listen to me grumbling here. Call it no sleep.
Time to get to work I guess. Would you light a little candle for Chester if you have a minute? Maybe if enough little lights burn out there he will see his way past all this and come out of it with a bit more life and energy. Hmmm. Maybe I need a few candles too;-)
Hope you all had a great Christmas, Yule and may your New Year be full of wondrous things and magickal miracles.
Thanks for following along with us on this journey. I hope that 2011 has more happy stories than not. For all of us. Joy to you!
Love
Auntie Autumn

Chester's Journey...An Update

It's been a week since we went to the vet to bring Chester home. He crashed in a most terrifying manner two days after the chemo. He was such a sick baby. We'd had to rush him to the vet on the Thursday night after he began vomiting and diarrhea continuously. The vets in Gunn were wonderful. However, the vet in Spruce Grove where he gets his chemo wanted him there so we transferred him, sick all the way, and he was put on iv for the entire weekend. I can't go into a lot of detail right now because it may turn into a legal matter, but the Chester we picked up last Monday was a shell of himself. They brought him out soaked in feces and urine, dragged across the icy floor with a yellow rope tied around his neck. He still was not eating or drinking and he was so utterly terrified that it was indescribable. Ive only seen such behavior in the worst abuse cases. I've been in contact with his doctor who was away at the time to express my outrage and disgust. That's all I can say about it right now. It was a long week of force feeding a pureed mixture of water, rice and boiled hamburger and forcing water mixed with Gatorade down Chester's throat with a syringe along with a multitude of medications. He was unable to maintain body temperature so needed a heater on him at all times. He was completely incontinent so lots and lots of bedding changes and towelling dry. He weighed next to nothing like a little trembling bag of feathers and sticks. He couldn't walk or even get up. I was up literally for days with him, catching a little sleep when I could. I am happy to report that on Thursday he started to make a turn around. He finally tottered out of the kennel, insisting on sleeping in the bedroom again. He began taking a little food...actually he stole some of Rosie's special food. He had a drink on his own and wanted to have the puck tossed onto his bed so he could pretend to chase it. Saturday he ate more and was tottering around. Yesterday he was putting on weight, eating everything in sight (including the cat food) guzzling water and blaming Kippy for everything. He was trying to break out of the kitchen (he actually succeeded several times) and was strong enough to be carryied outside to pee. He's still having a hard time holding it long enough to get to the paper. But we're getting there. His next chemo is scheduled for the 20th but I am going to delay that until at least the 28th. I want him to regain his weight and his strength. We will also be talking about the adjustments to the dose. I will not put him through this again. He goes for a blood test today to check his cbc. He ended up anaemic after being at the vet for those three horrific days. He still sleeps a lot but he's a lot better. More than I can say for people for whom hell will be raised very shortly. I'm a little vexed. A lot tired. And I'm in no mood for the crap I saw last week when Chester was brought out to me by people who were supposed to care.

Chester's Journey - Suffering

When I was twenty I worked as an in-home nursing aid. I mostly worked with geriatrics but I saw a lot of suffering in younger people and children as well. I saw enough suffering (and suffered enough insufferable ingratitude) that I didn't persue that line as a career. I now see suffering on a daily scale that might stagger you. I gloss over it here and a lot of times try to avoid it. Who wants to here on a daily basis "people are idiots"? Talk about stating the obvious.
Chester is suffering right now. On Wednesday, he had to be taken in to get his white cell count done. He was lethargic and had no appetite. He was sent home and we were told to come back if it got worse. Well, it got worse. We came home from the city last night to find that the boy had diarrhea and was feeling weak. The chemo is making him feel wretched and very sick. We were warned that this might happen. I am now getting the usual contingent of advice from I don't know how many people saying "well, maybe you should let him go, maybe you should put him down, maybe you should kill him off because he's suffering." I watched Twyla nearly go through the roof after about the tenth one. Let me explain something to those who think I may not be thinking things through or doing this "for myself". Most people know I suffer from migraines. Those of you who have never experienced this condition will think "awe...poor baby gets headaches". Those people can take an immediate trip to the hot place. When I say I suffer from migraine, I'm not talking about a few headaches. I am talking about agonizing pain Half the time. It is not something that just happens because I am stressed or hung over. And it doesn't just effect the head. It causes vomiting and relentless nausea. It causes my face to go numb and my motor functions to basically disassemble. It causes my eyesight to go (one of the reasons I don't drive, kids...I would be a danger on the road. These things can hit very fast). It causes my thinking to become blurred and it feels like the pressure inside my head will cause it to burst. It causes sinus suffocation and shaking and extreme sensitivity to certain sounds (dog barking and bird screeching especially can be like a loud drill shrieking next to your ears) and light. Fifteen days a month this happens if not more. If I don't take the medication immediately, it doesn't work. If I don't have medication, I will endure three days of this to a week. If a dog suffered from this relentless pain, he would be put down. He's suffering. Trust me. I suffer. And some may be going "well, it's not killing you" but as a matter of fact it can have some very dire effects like the higher potential of stroke if left to go on as well as brain and nerve damage.
If someone were to ask me if I want to be put down, I'd look at them like they were a loonie. You see, life is still sweet. Even when I am so sick I am weeping in agony, life is still sweet. Why should Chester be any different? I can't explain to him saying, " Sweetpea, this medicine is going to make you feel wretched for a while, but then it will pass and you will feel better" and then let him decide. I have to be the thinker for him and put myself into his position. If there was no chance of a parcel of time for Chester to be happy and well and if I thought this would be it, what do you think I would decide? People, when they are told that they have cancer and are offered chemo, choose to go through the suffering it causes because life is sweet and dead is for a really long time, however you look at it. They decide, well, this is going to make me feel like I want to die during moments of intense illness. But I am going to dive in because the alternative is a long time. If it were a human family member going through this I would sit and suffer at watching them suffer as well. I would weep at the pain they are experiencing and hold their hand and see them through to the other side of the treatment.
On Wednesday night when we came home from the vet, we had one of the birds cross over. I let him go. DNR, you know. He had suffered enough and it was his time. Before that, he still had fun and functioned. And it was with a sense of relief that I watched his spirit leave his poor little shell and go free. Chester's spirit is still strong. And let me tell you something. I don't just let my kids go without a fight. It would be easier in some ways. I wouldn't have to clean up hazardous diarrhea at eleven at night or drive through the night to get him to a vet or suffer myself at seeing his illness. God knows it would be cheaper than spending hundreds of dollars for said overnight stay. I would do the same for anyone I cared about. I would not just take the easy path. It's funny. I am left with people's messes to make life and death choices. I get little help and less participation without an exhausting amount of bullying and begging (with some very golden and shining exceptions). If it is Chester's time, and he will tell me it is, then I will help him to cross over in whatever way he needs to. Perhaps he crossed over last night on his own, though I still feel his presence strongly. It is with a sense of dread and worry that I wait to see how he is. Cruelly, unlike with a human child, we are not permitted to stay at their side. But I will be damned if I will let him go down without a fight because he would choose to keep fighting. That's who Chester is. His condition is terminal. We, each and every one of us is suffering from that condition. Life is terminal. Should we not fight to enjoy it for as long as we can, even if there is some suffering to have to do so? Dozens of lives have crossed over in my arms. The Gods willing, that is how Chester will cross over. When he is ready and not a milisecond before. If I am entrusted with these lives, then stop second guessing me. Please. And I promise you, if I am ever put in charge of your life, I will fight just as hard for you and you can cross over when you are damn good and ready and not because somebody decided for you that you've had enough life now. You will go when you tell me it is time. Chemo is a shite thing to have to endure. Ask people who have gone through it and gone into remission if it was worth it to spend a little more time under the sky, seeing the leaves turn and the sun setting and laughing with loved ones. Or chasing a puck. Chester has too much fun to give up, so I won't just give up for him. That is up to him.