I’m going to start out this post with two disclaimers:
If you’re not interested in listening to someone rage and vent during an entire blog post, please don’t read this post. I totally understand.
If you think the KJV of the bible is the only correct version of the bible, if you abhor swearing, if you think blasphemy can never be appropriate or funny, if you think that angels look like cherubs, Jesus was a white guy and God never sits up in heaven thinking “Guys – I really do have unconditional love for you, but seriously – what the hell? You’re acting like assholes and making it really hard for me to like you” you need to stop reading this post right now. Jesus wants you to go here instead. Trust me on this. Also, if you think swearing is horrible, why in the hell are you still reading my blog?
This is not going to be a happy post. This is an angry and sad post. 2013 has decided that my declarations to punch it in the throat if it isn’t better than 2012 don’t mean much. So I’ve officially declared 2013 an asshole.
Today is the two week anniversary since Benjamin died. The Sunday before, we noticed that Benjamin had very yellow skin. Since Mira and Sam died so close together, we’ve been keeping ridiculously close tabs on the other cats, so much so that we’re really pissing them off. This came out of the blue. That night he refused to eat.
The following Monday he collapsed while putting him in the crate. We rushed to the vet. They took blood, and obviously his liver values were off the chart. He stayed Monday night and Tuesday night. I visited twice a day, but he was so miserable. He was a huge lovebug to us and our close friends, but he hated loud noise and most other people than his family.
We were both devastated. And I was furious. I took a punishing yoga class that Tuesday, hoping to exorcise some of the rage I felt through sweat and pushing myself physically to the limit. It wasn’t the smartest thing to do with my back and knee injuries, but for 90 minutes I thought of nothing but my struggle to not collapse. And when I got out, I was still seething. I hurt, and I wanted to project that hurt on someone else. I’ve learned over the years how unhealthy and unfair and shitty this is to do, so I warned my husband that I needed some alone time and sat up in my bedroom, alternating between sobbing and being filled with rage.
I made the bad decision to look at Facebook. That night the “perfect lives” people were out in full force – if you use Facebook you know exactly who I’m talking about. Those of you who know me well know I loathe a great deal of inspirations GIFs. They’re either adorable ways to be passive aggressive, or they take complex emotional issues and water them down to poorly written platitudes that you can post on someone’s Facebook page and make it look like you care. They’re the graphic equivalent of saying “I’ll pray for you” and never actually doing it. Of all the nights the above could have happened, of course it was that Tuesday night. Some douchenozzle had posted a “God never gives you more than you can handle” inspirational GIF. I felt like a cartoon character because I was so mad that it felt like actual steam was coming out of my ears. I wisely closed the laptop and began to pace back and forth in my room.
I lashed out. I let God know that he had given us more than we could handle and what a total asshole I thought he was. I was so livid that I don’t even know how I could possibly have had any room left for feeling bruised, beat-up, brokenhearted and numb. But somehow all of these things fit in my body, and I felt like I would explode from the pulsating emotions inside me.
The next day, we decided to bring Benjamin home. Our vet, Dr. Claire Ringger, is a wonderful vet who goes far beyond the requirements of her job. She sat and loved on Mira while she got her blood transfusion. She was able to coax Benjamin into eating something by feeding him under a blanket. I’m grateful for her compassion and her honesty. We could have had a biopsy done. Unfortunately, that would have meant more time at the vet. He was so stressed and scared that I just wanted him home.
Dr. Ringger gave us medications for almost all the possibilities, and we have a lot of experience with force-feeding cats. Benjamin snuggled in with us in the bed, and we were able to get a whole can of food in him over the next 24 hours. This gave us a lot of hope. He was only 10 – he was going to beat this. He was very weak, but getting food in him was a big victory. We were so hopeful we could save him – we didn’t care how much time it took or how inconvenient it made our lives, Benjamin was going to get better.
Thursday night, he crashed. Marcus and I took shifts loving on him while the other tried to sleep. He broke my heart again when he came stumbling out from under the dresser when he heard my voice and tried to rub on my ankle. The heater was cranked to 80 in our bedroom, and I was dripping in sweat in a wool sweater because Benjamin liked the feel of wool sweaters. I picked him up, snuggled with him and realized with a horrible moment of crystal-clear clarity, that we weren’t going to get to keep him. The kindest thing we could do for him was to let him go as quickly as possible. A quick call to the vet confirmed this, and we called the visiting vet to come put him to sleep. Laura was wonderful and sweet and kind. She cried with us, because she had to put one of her cats to sleep on Monday. And our beautiful Benjamin nodded off to sleep and died in our arms as we told him how much we loved him, but that he needed to go where he could be happy and safe. We did our best not to baptize him with too many tears. The vet cried some more; we cried some more. I hugged her and told her how glad I was that she was there, so he could die at home. She took a pawprint, hugged us and left.
Marcus and I just sat on the edge of our bed and cried. We cuddled Benjamin a bit more. And then my husband said “This is exactly where I didn’t want to be. Another $1000 and another dead cat.” And then we cried some more, and I got really pissed. Stages of grief are never as neat as they seem in Psych 101 textbook.
While I cuddled Benjamin, I uttered these words. “I no longer think God’s an asshole. Frankly, at this point, He can go fuck himself.” We sat there on the bed for a while. And then, Marcus looked over at me and said “Kristina – He’s God. He probably can.” Then this happened:
Obviously, this did not happen. Either that or Hell has one bitchin’ wi-fi connection and looks a lot like our house. No – we laughed, bitterly with the kind of black humor we bring out when we’re trying not to drown in sadness.
Benjamin, my gorgeous funny baby, was the straw that broke my back. My husband’s back isn’t feeling that strong lately. Despite all of the anger and sadness that I’ve felt about other situations going on in our lives, I’ve kind of kept my shit together. That house of cards built with hopes and optimism blew up.
Last Thursday, the cards lying on the table spontaneously combusted. More bad news medically which hit me (and the ones I love, especially my Mom) with a savage blow in a very vulnerable place. I’ll tell you about that later. A few hours later, my car broke down. I broke a nail. And I realized I had been walking around with my fly down for the last few hours. Friends received hysterical phone calls.
I hate this.
My heart feels like it’s in a perpetual state of being broken. Every time I think I’ve hit rock bottom, the rug gets ripped out from under me, and I fall again. I feel like Pigpen, except I carry a cloud of misery wherever I go. I am sick of asking for prayers or good thoughts or good vibes. I want to generate good mojo on our own. I’m sick of people being worried about me. I’m sick of being the hot mess of a friend. At one point, my Dad told my husband that we’ve had the worst streak of luck lately. I don’t want to be that person.
I told a friend that my life felt like the bastard child of a telenova and a Lifetime special – just with a lot less sex, less Valerie Bertinelli or Leanne Rimes and no affairs with gorgeous Hispanic lovers, begging me not to leave them. I’m actually very grateful for the less Leann Rimes part.
After a brief period of wading in the shallow end of the drama pool in my early 20s, I got the hell out. So many people wallow in their miseries and drama their entire lives. If you’re going through a bad experience, they make sure to tell you about how theirs was worse. If you’re dealing with an illness, they’ll one-up you with some mysterious malady. I refer to it as going for the gold medal at the Oppression Olympics. That’s an award I have no interest in winning. But I feel like I’m stuck in quicksand right now. I want out, but I keep getting sucked back in.
There are the people that tell you that you need to focus on all the good things in your life. I do that on an almost daily basis. I have my husband who’s been a rock through all of this, even as he grieves. My Mom and my Dad have supported me in more ways than I can possibly list. I have friends that care about me. I have a church where I can find support. I have a pastor who understands why I’m so angry at God and who doesn’t try to placate me with platitudes. I am truly grateful for all of those things, but that doesn’t make the pain and anxiety I’m feeling disappear.
The next group are the people that remind you that there are people suffering far more than you in this world. That the situation we’re in could be so much worse. And you know what? I am aware of that. I’m aware of the privilege I automatically get being a white, well-spoken, educated woman born in this country. I get all these things. But knowing that some mother in a third country is holding her baby while he dies of dysentery doesn’t make me feel better. Knowing that some gay teen in Kansas is living his own private hell of bullying and/or having to deny who he really is on a daily basis? That doesn’t make me feel any better either. That friend of mine just diagnosed with a life-threatening disease? Hooray! At least I don’t have that. I think you’re a bit of a sociopath if you find comfort in this way of thinking.
Some people find comfort in the idea that trials in life are just the way God tests you. So God killed Marcus’ dad, Cleo, Mira, Sam, Mama-cat and Benjamin in order to make us stronger? That’s not my God. That kind of God is the same jackass who blew apart Job’s life in order to win a bet with the devil. Nice guy, huh?
Life is hard. And sometimes it’s one thing after another, over and over. I don’t think God causes these things to happen. I think these things just happen in life. And you have some very simple choices to make. Do you stop going on or do you keep going on? I hope my choice of the latter option is evident. And if you have faith, do you keep it or toss it? I’m working really hard on keeping mine.
I think the God that wrestled with Jacob is totally OK with me calling him an asshole and telling him to go fuck himself. Because he understands that life is hard, and no matter how much He may want to comfort me, He has to let me rage and scream and struggle with my faith before I can find my way back to Him. Faith is not certainty and doesn’t come with soft pink lights and halos – if you’re certain, you don’t have to have faith. Faith is messy. It’s crawling through the trenches. It’s something that waxes and wanes. It’s the struggle to believe even when there seems to be no good reason to continue.
After writing several posts about grief, a few of you have emailed me looking for advice about dealing with grief. And you know what? I don’t know what the hell to tell you to do. I wish I had some wisdom to throw down on you, but I’m not doing so hot myself.
My suggestions? Be a hot mess for a while? Burst into tears at inappropriate times in public places? I think my best tip is not to wear disposable contacts while crying; they wear out quicker. Buy Kleenex with lotion. Let people be kind to you. Let yourself feel numb for a while – it’s your body’s way of protecting you. After that, get your grief and anger out in any way possible so you don’t take it out on yourself. Develop routines to force you to do good things for yourself. Right now, mine is yoga. Try to remember the good things in your life, but also remember that the bad things are allowed to overwhelm you at times. You don’t have to be rational and logical all the time.
People keep telling me it will be OK. To hang in there. You know what? I don’t think it’s necessary to have a stiff upper lip when the pain is so fresh. It’s OK to lose your shit for a while. In fact, please sequester yourself for a while from friends that are going to give you the ‘Cheer up Buckeroo’ speech. You don’t need to hear that when the pain is still fresh. Things will eventually get better, and you’ll find your way to the light. But when the darkness envelops you like a heavy quilt? You don’t need to look for the sunny side. You can be upset. You can be scared. You can rage. You can grieve. You can be mad at the world or karma or God or whatever you believe in. It’s OK.
Why did I write this post? I’m really not sure. Some of it was a form of therapy. Seeing the words written on the screen makes the pain feel more real, and I want to get as much of this pain out as possible. I also want to let those of you who ask me how to deal with grief know that there is no right way to do it. It’s messy, and no one has the answers for your grief. Suggestions? Yes. But actual answers? Only snake oil salesmen would sell you that idea. I wanted to share my faith – not some aqua-netted televangelist-styled version where as long as you follow the rules and stay away from gay people, you get a gold ticket into heaven. My faith is a lot messier and harder than that. I wanted to provide a blog that isn’t all train wreck and drama, nor a screed to a “Look how wonderful my life is”. But that means it’s a blog where the train might get derailed sometimes. And I wanted to share more of myself on my blog this year. This is Kristina – hot mess and bourbon and bacon and biscuits and all.
I feel like I’ve lost the capacity to write in any cohesive manner (I’ll give myself credit that it’s a bit difficult to do while bawling) so I’ll end with this. Go hug every furry and non-furry member of your family. Be kind to yourself and others. Eat more pie.
My husband and I recently lost two of our most precious cats in less than a week. Right now, every time I wake in the night and don’t feel like I’m being crushed to death because a Mira cat is not sleeping on my chest, I burst into tears. Right now, every time my husband sits in our chair in the bedroom and doesn’t have a Sammy-cat immediately interrupt whatever he’s doing, his heart feels like it might break. They were a part of our family, and they took a piece of our hearts with them when they died.
I suppose I could write my way through this, and at some point I will. But right now the pain is too raw, and my grief is too omnipresent to even collect my thoughts into a coherent post. I also don’t think it’s fair to subject you all to post after post about my grief. I’d rather parcel those posts out over time. So rather than not posting for a few days, I’m going to take my favorite posts from the past and post those. Then I’ll get back in front of the computer with another cat on my lap as I type more posts.
Thanks for being patient and I’ll see you soon.
Mira B. McPhelps (Walked into our lives in the Spring of 1999 and left us January 14, 2013)
Sammy Sam Sam McPhelps (Rescued from an abusive owner in the Spring of 1997 and left us on January 7, 2013)
There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats. – Albert Schweitzer
I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul. – Jean Cocteau
No amount of time can erase the memory of a good cat, and no amount of masking tape can ever totally remove his fur from your couch. – Leo Dworken
The furry little buggers are just deep, deep wells you throw your emotions into. – Bruce Schimmel
Another cat? Perhaps. For love there is also a season; its seeds must be resown. But a family cat is not replaceable like a worn out coat or a set of tires. Each new kitten becomes its own cat, and none is repeated. I am four cats old, measuring out my life in friends that have succeeded but not replaced one another. – Irving Townsend
A catless writer is almost inconceivable. It’s a perverse taste, really, since it would be easier to write with a herd of buffalo in the room than even one cat; they make nests in the notes and bite the end of the pen and walk on the typewriter keys. – Barbara Holland
On Monday our eldest cat, Sam, had to be put to sleep. I’ve talked about her in a previous post. We are grateful to have had her as long as we did, but she left a hole in our heart when she left us. This post is not a memorial to her because she deserves her own blog post. She was that awesome.
We went home from the vet Monday, and Marcus and I sobbed for most of the night. I cried so much I looked like I had just gotten back from a Phish concert. One of our other cats, Mira slept on my chest the whole night. I woke up every 30 minutes, still in my “Sam is sick” mode, and I needed to check on her. I cried each time I woke up and realized it wasn’t necessary anymore. Mira loved on me, and at one point licked, my face to pull me back. I mean, why cry when a Mira-cat needs petting?
When I get depressed and sad, my tendency is to curl up in a ball and go into hermit mode. It’s not healthy, and I’m trying so hard not to do that. The next morning, Marcus left early for a contract job an hour away. I got up and made myself get back online. I tweeted. I worked on the message board we run. I Facebooked. I answered some comments on the BlogHer article I wrote. I wrote some replies to comments here. I looked at a post I had been writing over the weekend and tried to tie up the loose ends. I jotted down some thoughts about our Sammy-cat. I sent one of my friends a text that said “I’m kind of proud of myself. I’m doing everything I can not to hermit out.” It was a struggle, and I was so glad that I had forced through the inclination to hide. I’ve often done that, and my blog has suffered as a result of that. This blog post tonight is also a victory, because I didn’t want to write it, but I knew I had to do.
Marcus and I have been treating Mira for a chronic bloody nose with a pretty strong antibiotic in case it was due to a bad sinus infection. We were more concerned about Sam, because it was obvious she was dying, but we still were worried sick about Mira. The antibiotic had made her queasy, and if there is anything you learn from this post, it’s to NEVER be unconcerned if your cat stops eating. If your cat doesn’t eat for one to two days, get them to the Vet IMMEDIATELY or they could die from liver damage, especially if they’re on the plump side. When Mira quit eating, Marcus and I syringe fed her. I made jokes on Facebook about how if any of our friends noticed that we smelled like turkey, they should not be worried about the fact that we were wearing a new horrible perfume or cologne. It was not a particularly funny joke, but the replies on Facebook and texts we got from our friends showed that they didn’t care. They were just worried about us and wanted us to know they cared. Just knowing that they were thinking about us helped us deal with the sadness and anxiety we were feeling. Marcus and I are so glad we have so many people in our lives that realize that pets are a part of your family. That helps so much.
An hour after I sent that “I’m not a hermit!” text to my friend, I looked at Mira and I just knew something was wrong. She was still walking around, but my gut instinct told me something wasn’t right. A good friend of ours was able to get us in touch with a really great vet. I’m surprised this vet could even understand me, because I was almost hysterical. In fact I did tell her that I might be over-reacting, because our other cat had just died the day before. She asked me how soon I could get there, and I told her 30 minutes. I got Mira in her carrier, got in the car and sat there for 2 minutes making myself take deep breaths. Then I drove, seeing that my iPhone was barely charged and hoped it would keep working, so I wouldn’t get lost trying to find this place. I felt like I was on the verge of losing it, but I knew I couldn’t because I had to drive and stay calm so Mira wouldn’t be scared. Knowing that this vet who didn’t even know us was willing to squeeze us in – the kindness in that gesture – helped make this trip out there easier to bear.
This vet was so kind. She took a full history and said she wanted to get blood labwork done right away because Mira seemed a little pale. Twenty minutes later, I got the results. Marcus had done a wonderful job of staving off hepatic lipidosis. Her liver levels were all great. But she had a horribly low red blood cell count, so low that the vet was worried about her collapsing and dying. There could be a lot of causes for the anemia, but she couldn’t really address those because Mira was going to die if we didn’t do something. And that something was a blood transfusion, and even then, they were worried she might collapse from the stress. I started crying so hard I couldn’t even get out complete sentences. Since my phone had died, she gave me hers and I called Marcus and told him what was going on. Money is incredibly tight right now, but I didn’t know if I could live with myself without giving her a chance at life. Marcus agreed, telling me we’d get the money one way or another. So we told them yes – do the transfusion.
I sat with Mira for about an hour and a half. The vet needed to deal with a few horse patients but left me with her personal phone in case I needed to call anyone or they needed to reach me. I called my dad and asked him if he could pick me up because I didn’t think I could drive home. Poor Marcus had to drive home from his contract job, get changed and go immediately to a job interview.
I wrapped my arms around Mira and kissed her and loved on her. Tears dropped onto her black and white head, and she kept rubbing on my face like “Girl – you need to chill”. I told her that I really wanted her to fight this, but if she felt like she needed to go, that she could do that. I would miss her horribly, and it would really be nice if she wouldn’t be bitchy to Sam when she saw her.
My brother came in, sat with me and Mira until it was time for her to go back to get the blood transfusion. I gave the vet a DNR order and said that if she did collapse, I wanted them to stop what they were doing and have someone pick her up and cradle her and tell her that she was loved. And then I gave her to the vet tech to get started. The entire ride home (about 30 minutes) I cried gut wrenching sobs. My brother sat next to me and patted my shoulder the entire way home which helped so much. As soon as I got home I noticed the porch cat that doesn’t seem to care for her house and likes to hang out at mine waiting for some food. And then a big cat out of nowhere took off after her and started attacking her. My brother and I rushed over to break it up but couldn’t find our porch kitty anywhere to see if she was hurt.
I got back inside and sobbed for another half hour. My brother kept giving me hugs and doing routine things like feeding the other cats, so I wouldn’t have to worry about that. I was just rigid, waiting for that phone call that said she had died. My husband called, and I asked how his job interview went. His words? ”I was fucking awesome because I am in complete fucking denial”. After he called, the vet called to say that Mira has started the transfusion and the riskiest part was over. That if something went wrong, they’d call but otherwise they would call us in the morning. Marcus came home and my brother left. I started sobbing again, while Marcus hugged me. The whole time I got texts from friends, phone calls from my mother, and twitter messages from people letting us know that they were thinking of us. When the hurt feels so raw, it’s hard for anything else to permeate that sadness but those people reaching out to us, telling us they cared, kept us from slinking off into the darkness.
I found out later that the vet we originally saw sat with Mira and petted her while she got the transfusion. I sobbed for 30 minutes over that kindness. At some point my husband asked me if I had eaten any supper, and I realized that I had eaten nothing but a bowl of oatmeal at 8am. I have never been one of those people that when they get stressed or depressed, they stop eating. I’m the opposite. I want to EAT ALL THE THINGS. During a bout of food poisoning, I would throw up and moan “I’m so hungry. I want french fries” while my husband called me a freak. But that night, I wanted nothing to eat. Marcus ran and got some frozen pea pods and a rotisserie chicken and made sure I ate some of it.
I knew I needed to get a blog post up today. I got a heads up from a friend that I needed to be on my game with my blog because of opportunities that could be coming up. So I tried to suck it up and finish that “Food Trends in 2013″ post I had almost done. The only problem is that I’ve lost my funny. I feel like I’ve lost my ability to even think clearly. My mind feels like I’m pushing through sand. So I asked for help from all my snarky, funny, food invested friends to help me finish up the last part of the post I needed. The vast majority rose to the occasion and gave me great suggestions. I even laughed which was amazing. This is one of the reasons I’m grateful for the food blogger community that I’m a part of. They’re more than just food bloggers; they’re friends, even the ones I haven’t met in person yet. The helpful ideas, the absolutely so horrible they’re funny replies to my request for help meant so much to me.
I sent my post off to a wonderful friend of mine who is a professor of English. She often saves you all from my grammar errors. She is teaching me how to be a comma ninja. She sent back some great suggestions but also mentioned that the post seemed a little forced to her. Very funny but not exactly “me”. And then she said this:
I’m here to help as needed. Take whatever advice helps and leave the rest. And trust yourself. I know it’s hard to be funny right now, so my other suggestion is to write what you feel. Your posts when you do that are amazing. But write even if you don’t post it till later. The beauty of your writing is that you share the way food and pain and food and happiness and food and community come together. How they become expressions of things we share and understand. You are as profound as you are funny (and often the two are perfectly married in your posts), so trust your voice wherever it leads you— unless it’s to cake pops.
I cried a little more after I read that.
I’ve always made a promise to myself to be honest with my blog readers. That doesn’t mean I tell you everything about my life, and small details or names are changed to protect people’s identities. But it does mean that I post what I really think or feel. I’m not interested in creating a drama filled train wreck of a blog for people to follow, but I also am not going to pretend that my life is full of whimsical moments where my witty husband constantly brings me flowers, and if there is a lesson in the post, it’s always wrapped up by the end of it in a neat little package tied with baker’s twine. Those posts always used to make me feel so inadequate until I realized that the majority of them were bullshit. Life is messy. It’s complicated. It’s full of wonderful things. And it can be a shit sandwich sometimes.
Putting out a snarky post about 2013 food trends would be a lie right now. It’s probably the smart thing to do – building on the post that brought so many of you here. I might be bumming my new readers out with all the sad stuff lately. But I’m not going to throw up a post that isn’t me and gloss over what is going on, because this is my blog and my life. And it’s going to stay that way if I have 10 readers or 100,000.
I’m taking my friend’s advice for the most part. I agree that I need to keep writing from the heart. But my heart’s on lock down right now, because there’s too much pain to feel all at once. I’m trying to crack the door open a little bit right now by writing this post tonight.
Today, we went back to the vet and held our Mira-cat. She was pissed at us for about a minute and then forgave us, rubbing our faces and purring up a storm. She was thrilled to be out of her cone and spent the next 30 minutes loving on us and trying to bite at her IV line. She even ate a little food for us. The vet told us she seemed perkier and was “talking” more. That’s Mira. She takes after her mom. She also ate last night, and that’s encouraging. She said that there’s a chance that even though we treat all our cats with Advantage, Mira had some flea dirt on her, and that can cause anemia or other diseases. That’s our best case option. We’re desperately praying for that one. The other options mean we’re probably going to lose her. And that’s all I can say about that right now because I can’t let that door swing all the way open. It’s too much. I drove my car home this afternoon, managing not to sob but with tears dripping down my face the whole time.
Last night I wanted a bowl of homemade tapioca pudding like a dying man in the desert craves water. It was a pudding my mom made for me, and while some people find the tapioca disgusting, it tastes like home and comfort to me. But I was too tired to make it and while my husband would have made it in a second, he didn’t need that added to the load he was carrying.
Again, tonight I felt like I needed tapioca pudding in my life. I knew I could tweet my friends and someone would find me a good, easy recipe for tapioca pudding, because they would have loved to do something to help. But my eyes still sting, my back feel like it’s made of wood, I have rash marks on my cheeks from crying, my heart feels like a cheese grater has been taken to it and my stomach feels like I’ve done 500 crunches. I know that cooking for ourselves or others is often how so many of us food bloggers find comfort. But I knew I could not cook tonight.
We got in the car and drove to Trader Joe’s. We bought nothing that contained any nutrition, and as I walked past the dairy area, I saw it. They sell tapioca pudding. I bought it. I know it’s so gauche for a food blogger to buy ready made pudding, but I didn’t care. Some day I’ll get my mom’s recipe, try a few others and post the most delicious tapioca pudding recipe I can find. But I can’t do that tonight.
I’ll make my snarky post later this week, and I’m working on a post about surviving middle school through the power of my mom’s brownies. It will even have an actual recipe in it!
Tonight I ate a dinner made up of complete crap and had a bowl of tapioca pudding. It was not my mom’s recipe, and it wasn’t as good. But for store bought pudding? It was tasty, and it was what I needed.
Send prayers, vibes, juju, naked forest chants – whatever you think might help Mira. And send Marcus and I a little love so that we can make it through any hard choices we have to make tomorrow.