I brought the cat home with a feeding tube today.
The son has received his PSAT scores.
The daughter is collecting data for her science fair project (gods, the last one).
The MRI is Monday morning. Hopefully by the end of the week, I will know what is what.
The world rocks on.
Yes, I'm pumping meds and liquid food into the cat through his tube. Years ago, I had a cat with thyroid disease and had to learn how to administer subcutaneous fluids. Not the most pleasant thing, either for the cat or me. The feeding tube is actually slightly less daunting.
One day last week, I stopped by the vet to visit Milton en route home from PT. I was still achy from PT: the therapist yanked on my leg so hard that my lower spine popped alarmingly. We waited for a moment in surprise, she and I, I think both of us hoping that there would be a sudden return of sensation to my leg, but no such luck.
It's just not going to be that easy.
At any rate, the cat was out of his most recent surgery (insertion of feeding tube), and he made a lot of noise when I appeared. We've been trying to encourage him to eat on his own, but no such luck as of yet. I spent an hour and a half with him, hanging half way out of his cage, trying to soothe, trying to cajole. The vet came around eventually, and we discussed Milton's condition.
"What do you do?" the vet asked. "You have a lot of medical knowledge."
I disavowed much knowledge, just a basic grasp of human anatomy and physiology and disease process, and a minor ability to translate that in a rudimentary way to a cat.
(But I know cool words like "tolerances" and "pylorus" and "projectile vomiting" and "bilirubin.")
Milton hasn't eaten yet. He's just not going to be that easy.
And the world rocks on.
Go listen to some good music: "Learn to Fly" from the album There is Nothing Left to Lose by Foo Fighters.