Eat

I had a salad and wheat crackers with neufchatel, and it should be enough.  It's not, because there was no protein, of course, and my stomach is still gnawing at me, and though breakfast was at 2 p.m., following laundry, laundry, and re-cleaning the mattress side where the cat exploded Friday night, it's now 3, and I'm a disaster of struggling with hunger, homework, work-work, cat-death-decision-making, and other things.  There is never enough time, I know.

There is a most-turkey in the fridge I can make us for later; I think it's thawed finally, but making turkey takes forever and offers too-easy diversions from doing my job.  I did work from 8:30 to noon, just so you know.

Then the chores, minimalist style.  Then I talked to my friend who has had many cats in her life who have had many illnesses and different paths to euthanasia.

I just don't want to, not when there's only the one tumor, not when Kitty is still jumping and purring and eating.  I want the surgeon to be the one to tell me that she's too small, lost too much weight, will be too traumatized, to make it.  Is it stupid to pay for that?

"The average lifespan for a domestic indoor cat is 13 years."  It feels like I lost six years of time — the last vet had me believing she was only seven or so.  If the tumor removal and possible subsequent infections don't do her in, it will only be something else, and who knows when…renal failure, more intestinal cancer, whatever.  It's likely she'd not outlive the debt, but while I can laud my frugality against buying new clothes, a television that doesn't have lines going through the picture, even home-improvement things or new contacts or dental work or my first haircut in two years, I can't see not spending money on the only pseudo-offspring I'll ever have.

Eat it.