As I mentioned in yesterday’s post about the local tumult and a hundred square feet of bloody paw printed carpet, the cat injured himself yesterday. When I last wrote, he was stationed on his own personal fluffy towel on the kitchen floor (blood comes off lineoleum better than carpet, I suspect). My wife was going to monitor the bleeding, as it wouldn’t have been a smart idea to have me do it (unless she wanted me passed out on the floor too).
The bleeding had mostly stopped, thankfully. I figured this was good news for the obvious reason plus my wife could stop worrying. I believe that worrying is genetic in her case, in addition to environmental.
But alas, it was not to be. Simply because the bleeding had stopped was no reason to stop being concerned and fretting like mad, no sir. What if he tripped, opened a vein, and bled to death?
At this point I needed a moment of silence. The concept was so ridiculous that I thought perhaps she was going to smile, signifying she was pulling my leg. But no, she was serious.
Just to make sure I was still participating in reality, I asked if she was, in fact, a nurse. She answered in the affirmative, which led me to question the mental health of the people who grade nursing exams, not to mention hers. She referred to the quadrupeds as her kids and it’s her job to worry about them. Ok, they’re my kids too but the bleeding has stopped so I’m going to bed.
No form of logic would be convincing enough; she was going to sleep downstairs so she could watch the cat. Never mind the inherent contradiction.
Trauma survivors develop something called hypervigilance, which means pretty much what it sounds like. Let me phrase it this way: if you need to be on the lookout for sounds outside your bedroom door because that means bad things, you develop hypervigilance. It’s a difficult sense to get rid of, even after you no longer need it.
Perhaps to honor her hypervigilance, my wife decided to put it to good use. As for me, I hypervigilantly monitored the inside of my eyelids but that’s just what I do… if I don’t get my four hours of sleep per night, I get more difficult. In fact, if I get too much more than my fours hours of sleep, I get more difficult. Needless to say, there are just a few sleep issues here at our house.
I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to know the answer but my wife probably stayed awake all night monitoring the cat. They got a very early appointment with the vet after I left for work.
The vet agreed with everything my wife said and did, which validated her. Of course the vet agrees with everything I say when I go there so the jury is still out. Satan (Ren) got a course of antibiotics, an exam, his claws clipped, and positively adored by all of the vets and techs. At twenty three pounds, he broke whatever they were trying to weigh him on, which amused everyone to no end. The vet proclaimed him a pound or two overweight. Seriously. He’s rather long and almost as big as Marshall, the cocker spaniel.
And wouldn’t you know it… just as everyone was fawning over him, he sat implacably, even allowing the vet to clip his nails without moving. I wondered what evil he was planning and it finally hit me: he was overdue for a few shots. Two hundred dollars later they both walked out of the animal hospital for the better.
I knew it. He does not play games – he can be pure evil when he wants to. He found out about the few extra dollars my wife had this week and vowed to see that she never got to spend it. This is the same little darling who waits until my wife finally falls asleep after a few days’ insomnia, then jumps on her head.
Another great coping skill of dissociative survivors is the ability to handle a crisis with total professionalism and postpone the breakdown for a day or a week. Or a month, if absolutely necessary. Fortunately(?) processing has sped up a lot around here so by the time I got home, my wife was just getting a really good start on falling apart, in addition to some really nasty medicinal side effects that doubled up on her.
Meanwhile I’m going over songs for the last time and packing up the equipment for the audition. I have decided nothing is going to spontaneously break today; not even at the audition. So there.
And guess what…. there is not a single visible blood stain anywhere on the hundred square feet of carpet. The woman knows her cleaning chemicals!