Spring is Here

And it is! I can tell when the cherry trees blossom, no matter how chilly it may feel the next day. The plants always know. It has rained a bit in the past two weeks, but this time the grass is actually soaking it up and keeping it; there are clumps of fresh greenery growing. In California, this says a lot, as much of the time it is dry, and the still-undeveloped park by my parents' house is more golden brown than anything the majority of the year. (This is a park full of trees, hills, deer, snakes, and mountain lions.)

Not to mention that we saw a great blue heron amidst the greenery on the path back to the car, just watching us out of the corner of its knowing eye. Unusual, being that we were a few miles inland, but not unlikely. I'm looking forward to thriving wildlife—ticks and mosquitoes excluded—and should probably head to Muir Woods in the near future before the rains really set in.

The Bear is settling in well with the other two, and has taken an interest to my presence. She's still a bit skittish, and though she hasn't tried to bite me again I also haven't given her a chance to, but she'll come right up to the door and sniff at me. And also stopped squeaking whenever I pick her up, so at least I don't have to worry about having to give her up to someone who isn't allergic to rat bites for taming her.

Also came across this music video the the artist Mika, which should be enjoyed by all:

Hallelujah, I'm Normal ™

I went to another doctor yesterday, to see what condition my condition was in. After some drawn out discussion about my visit last month, full of steroids and antibiotics, he assured me that I was a pretty ordinary person.

I can't explain exactly how much this means to me. After years of dealing with minor asthma, allergic reactions that I was mostly in control of, two bouts of pneumonia and several other intermittent respiratory illnesses (bronchitis, respiratory infection), it was nice to know that I wasn't in line for Serious Medical Attention. In fact, I was a pretty standard case of chronic asthma. I mean, being able to ride 115 miles on a bike day trip in between all that nonsense still counts for something, right?

It's reassuring to know that I'm not handicapped by this. That I'm not some sickly creature that's going to kick the bucket too soon, which has been a fear I wasn't ready to admit to in the past few years.

The older I get, the more I'm affected, is all. And I seriously suspect that the illegal denture factory below is giving my lungs plenty to react to, but with some Singulair I've managed to avoid needing a shock of albuterol this day so far.

Talk about relief.

I Wanna Go/I Don't Wanna Go

Sick sick sick...ish. My mother told me the other day how sorry she was that we didn't look into my asthma problem earlier in my childhood, and now I'm holding out on either getting health insurance via a new job, or getting a good estimate of how much it'll cost me and in what increments I'll have to pay in order to get a thorough respiratory-related examination.

Jumping from one doctor to another emergency room to another doctor and so forth, I don't have the most accurate records anymore. Not on paper, and much to memory, and it gets hard to breathe right now.

Of Exploding Cages and Rampaging Bears

The word of the moment is Dynamic. Unpredictable, even. Where you're kept on your toes!

It rained for the past two days, which has followed the fluctuations into spring to a "t". Spring starting in February, of course. Sunshine and walks through the Presidio trees and park to beach. The cherry blossoms have unfurled already, and their redolent sweet scent trails after us as we walk past. And then into rain.

Things have been mildly chaotic. The rat cage upended onto its side the other day, onto the floor. Shavings everywhere on the rug. A complete, irritating mess. We weren't in the apartment at the time, so the only explanation we've come up with is that there was a mild earthquake that shook them. Unless the rats were wrestling heavily, or ran so vigorously on the wheel that they shook the cage over the edge. Unlikely. Either way, a mess that really worked up my allergies—yes, I am allergic to the soaking of rat urine and the like, which makes the inhaler handy, and my delight in the rodents probably ridiculous.

And in conjunction with a relapse in breathing difficulties, of which the origin seems to stem from a different part of the respiratory system, I've been having much more fantastical dreams than usual (I often don't recall any at all the older I get).

In one, I was being chased, along with a friend that I can't place, in a green valley by a enormous grizzly bear. We both had packs on us, and were in such a panic trying to run to the trees in hopes of climbing one, that we didn't have time to slough off the extra weight. We made it as far as the younger trees bordering the forest with the bear close behind us before I woke up. If dreams carry meaning, I can only wonder at the point of this one, as I don't find bears creatures to fear, if not respect. Symbolically they're linked to instinct and initial phases of creation, along with medicine and nurturing. This page indicates that:

People with "Brown Bear Medicine" are considered by many as self sufficient, and would rather stand on their own 2 feet than rely on others. They are often considered "dreamers". Many have developed the skill of visualizing new things, but as a result can get caught up in the "dreaming" making little progress in "waking" reality.

...Maybe I am overwhelmed by the dreaming and need to wake up. I know how often I get too caught up in my ideas instead of actually making something out of it.

In other news, my grandmother has adapted to the finality of hospital life by relenting to dementia. It's relieving if only because it means she's no longer dwelling on discomfort and boredom, busying herself with the things that surround her. At points she'll become absorbed in an object, poking at it. Or an idea; she tried drinking both her fan, a closed carton of milk, and the table itself.

But she'll still sit and converse with us, if only in brief phrases. She recognizes us, and is glad to see us, and frankly that's all I care about. I plan on bringing in some big plastic knitting needles and yarn for her to preoccupy herself in our absence, as she's been hungrily eyeing the armwarmers I've been working on, and has taken to "knitting" objects out of instinct.

It is strange and extremely humbling to witness the stages of mortality, and understand them. I have been around my aunt and my grandfather when they were terminally ill, but as a child the impact wasn't as deep. There's the shame that comes from losing the language, too; Cantonese was my first spoken language, fluent. Though over time in all-American schools (starting preschool, where I still remember crying after my mother in bewilderment as people chatted to me in a foreign language—English), along my own stubborn nature, I can only speak minor phrases now.

There's still hope, since I can understand a good portion of Cantonese still, and often have dreams immersed in the language. I've been working on it a little at a time, and hope to have a real conversation with my grandmother soon.

Hopping Off the Train of Thought

It returns as a frustrating point to remind me of exactly what I was looking for in a dog when I got Pavlov, and how he cannot ever be, despite wanting to be, that dog. His condition makes it a commitment—and yes, I would go so far to say a burden—to take him out daily. If it's rainy or cold, he can't physically go for a walk because the elements are too much for him to handle, unless it's just outside to go to the bathroom. He was supposed to accompany me everywhere, barring work, all day everyday. Hiking, swimming, chasing squirrels, what have you. I mostly end up carrying him, unless we're not in a rush. Tonight I'll get to see his cheerful little pupface.

I catsat again for a friend/previous coworker this weekend on short notice. I enjoy petsitting for people, especially since I can't keep Pavlov with me at the moment. It's the aunt/uncle/"god"something syndrome. I get to spend time somewhere not in my temporary home and get to play with someone else's animals and keep them fat and happy for a time. If it weren't for all the money required that I currently lack—mostly regarding the abode itself, I'd like nothing better than to continuously foster animals in a home and find them owners.

This weekend was drawing with crayons and taking care of Boutros, keeping him full of insulin and food. Old cats need a lot of love. Mostly when they're lacking the cat companion they once had. He's become considerably more yowly since Nailah's been gone.

I love older animals because their lives are already shaped and colored by experiences. I suppose that's not as promising when you're trying to adopt and train one, depending on circumstance, but they've distinct personalities. There's some earning of trust and rights involved, and when another species actually chooses you to spend time with, it still doesn't fail to humble me.

Boutros is a cheerful, kneady cat, who likes to sit right beside you if he's not climbing onto your lap (claws out!) and spreading his greasy black fur out for petting. Spending time with him in the morning is best, as he sprawls in the sunbeams on the kitchen table while you make breakfast.

Speaking of breakfast, it horrifies me that few people know the simplest secret to making the perfect pancake. And here it is: do not grease or oil the pan. That's right. Unless, for some reason, you are in love with the oily, often fried-butter texture that comes with greasing the pan, leave it out. Even if it's a cast iron pan.

Why? Because the griddle turns liquid batter into a solid pancake. The part of the batter that touches the griddle loses its moisture first, which solidifies the bottom. I.E., the pancake is dried on the side touching the pan. You don't need grease to separate the cake from the pan, because when it is dry on the bottom (also known as golden-brown, and bubbling a little on the top), you simply scoop and flip it. Grease never comes into play. It will be steamy and soft and golden brown on both sides, moist in the middle and ready to soak up syrup.

I think I want to kill off my internet connection, too. I won't even admit exactly how much time a day I can waste behind it, because I don't want to face that fact. It's disgusting. When Jon and I catsat the internet was down in the house, and we ended up walking all over San Francisco creation. (Not that we don't do a lot of walking around anyway.) I also ended up—gasp—drawing and enjoying it. It's difficult because the internet is so convenient. And that's also a handicap in and of itself.

There's nothing in life I particularly regret, but the internet was a major crutch for me growing up, especially as I didn't relate to most of my peers very well. Or perhaps it was a heavy dosage of introversion. I devoted a lot of my time to online text roleplaying and the all but forgotten ICQ chat, of which friends I made through them helped shape me into the person I am today, and yes of which I love dear if not near, and regardless of how often (or rarely) we interact today.

It's so easy to want to jump back onto the RP wagon for me, though, considering my insatiable desire to write and make stories and weave them. At the same time, I'm not even sure if I'll enjoy it anymore. I've got a girl sitting on GarouMUSH, but now that I have her, I don't even know what to do with her. I'm beginning to think this should be a retired hobby; my introduction to the game was already thirteen years ago. And wow, that makes me feel old. I'm not as interested in lounging around so much as the story, and my lack of desire for conversation hinders progress on that end.

I should probably just turn off the computer for a while, as much as it is a resource for art and reference images and trivial knowledge (and I need it to do some work soon). It seems like all signs point that way.

The Year of the Rat

Chinese New Year, new beginnings, right? I guess there's no better, luckier way than to start it off with a new rat.

Which is funny in hindsight, considering I didn't want another rat, was not even tempted to get another rat. But I'm extremely glad I did pick her up, she who is already dubbed "Little Fatty Fingers", "The Fat One", "The Bear", or just play "Ursa". And why?

Well...

I'd been searching for a new rat cage for my duo for the past few months, but have never found something that was satisfying either in price or in size. I wanted something larger than the Ritz Coast Cage they're in...which is pretty tiny for two adult female rats, even if they're on the small size. And I'd been through various cages in the past to know what I could and couldn't or didn't want to use.

Craigslist is usually pretty helpful, but there seems to be an influx in little critter owners in the Bay Area, and most trying to get rid of gigantic cages that I don't even have the space for. Humor a long-time rodent owner, but finding the perfect rat cage is nigh impossible; really, building one is probably the best choice, especially if you have a lot of requirements. Cages actually made for rats usually don't accommodate more than two at a time if you're being generous. Other cages for chinchillas and ferrets work better, but they're usually much too big for someone who has to take size and space into consideration.

My requirements being that the base was smaller than 30"x18", but bigger than 20"x16", and taller than 24". If you actually look at a lot of rodent cages like me, you'll know that's pretty much impossible. I need something I can put on a small endtable and yet be big enough (I.E., tall enough and have enough shelves) to be roomy for two rats, especially rats that like to run on a wheel that will fit them comfortably while still having floor space. Not to mention collapsible so I can fit the thing into the shower when I need to wash it. And light. And with narrow enough bar spacing so that my girls can't get out unless I let them, which is usually the problem when considering ferret or chinchilla cages that are otherwise well sized.

Lo and behold, I found the perfect cage a few blocks over in what I swore was a run down aquarium type pet shop on the brink of Chinatown. I've passed this place so many times without even glancing in, just on the assumption that all they'd sell was some fish and maybe frogs and turtles.

Boy was I wrong. My cousins came up to see my grandmother, and while they were here we went to dinner next store to the pet store, which piqued one of my cousin's interest. I sort of brushed off her inquiry about it, since there probably wasn't much to see.

They actually carried the perfect cage to match my standards. All standards. And even better, I can't find it in production anymore (I checked online), probably because the construction is too cheap for the ferrets it was actually intended for. The bar spacing is narrow enough to hold even three week old babies, the cage collapses twice both flat and in half—I can turn it into a travel cage if I wanted—and it came with a ceramic dish and hammock and some silly jingle balls and ramps.

I'd visited the store three times to match measurements and such, and each time there I would notice this one hooded rat they had. Like any other pet store, they have many aquarium setups for their smaller rodents, and larger glass enclosures for the guinea pigs/chinchillas. What really got me was that the one rat they had was in a cage barely four times its size within the aquarium setup, of which the actual aquarium itself was full of dwarf hamsters and hamster tubes. A cage within a cage.

That poor girl; every time I came in she was just squished into a corner lying there looking miserable and bored. There was only enough space for her to walk a small circle if she even wanted to. I pointed her out to Jon today when we went to buy the cage, and after a while decided that if she was female—it was a large rat and I couldn't see its butt—, and if the storekeepers would give her to me for free, I would rescue her from her situation.

The nice thing about the internet is that Yelp.com exists, which has been extraordinarily helpful for me and Jon in the past few weeks to find good cheap food in the area, and also for me to look up this pet store the other day. I read some reviews where they'd throw in a rodent pet for free if you were buying a cage, and so I asked the girl who was helping me take the rat out (yes, it turned out to a nice big girl who was friendly if not confused and shy) if she'd ask the manager if I could have her for free.

And thankfully they did. A true rescue situation; I certainly wasn't interested in buying her. I just wanted to get her the hell out of that little cage. The owners seemed pleased that she was getting a real home, too. Whether or not they were just pleased that I threw down money on a new cage and wheel and was taking a little lonely food eater out of their hands was unclear, but everyone got to go home happy.

Little Fatty Fingers is already on good terms with her new roommates. I harbor no regrets now that there's a cage large enough for three, and I feel good that I probably gave that rat a nicer home than what she probably would have gotten into, considering that they obviously didn't get much rat owner traffic.

I feel good indeed.

Spots of Distraction

Finally restarted and finished reading Dune. This is a very complex, heavy book that I severely disliked the first time around; I picked it up on recommendation of just about every sci-fi geek who has an opinion. It is not a personal account story, and therefore requires a broader mindset to enjoy. It is epic, and you have to pay attention to what's going on in the story instead of glossing over the details to get the most out of it. The political, environmental, and personal depths this book explores is pretty amazing. You'd have to like reading about aspects of politics and environment to really enjoy it, from my experience.

Seaweed, by The Fruit Bats. This is a very gentle song that makes me feel comfortable and safe, if not a little melancholy. I would have missed hearing them if I didn't put on my friend Jordan's zombiecandy!radio, which I highly recommend. A great eclectic collection of music that is always welcome when I don't have specific songs I want to listen to.

Futurama, Futurama. I've always liked it better than The Simpsons. I think it's because it doesn't revolve around a family; I enjoy The Simpsons, but I'm not a big fan of cartoon family sitcoms. I find Family Guy more amusing than Simpsons, but only in a very flashy, American instant-gratification light. I think Futurama has better stories without making any always making pop culture references.

Batman, the animated series. The old one, the one that first came out before they made the stupid decision to water down the character designs and plots. When it was still extremely dark and creepy.

Teen Wolf. I can't believe this movie is actually as good as it is. I wanted to watch it for nostalgia purposes the other day, but I had forgotten that along with spots of hokeyness, it's actually a pretty well thought-out story with amusing characters. I miss the eighties.

The Jerk, and My Blue Heaven. I miss old comedies so much. Especially old comedies with Steve Martin in them. Aside from his own hilarious capers, the movies he finds himself in are both childhood favourites and a great blend of humor without dipping lecherously into Laurel-and-Hardy type slapstick. (No, I'm not much of a fan for slapstick, except when it's in cartoons for some reason.) The Three Amigos and Roxanne are two other Steve Martin movies I love.

I've also been reading and am nearly done with In the Land of the Grasshopper Song by Mary Ellicott Arnold and Mabel Reed. It's about the Klamath River Indian Country up in Northern California circa 1908-1909, as experienced by the authors who worked as field matrons. I forget if I acquired this book through a friend a few years back or while digging through the Blue House in Savannah after the co-op-esque house was sold to new owners and had all the tenants kicked out. Either way, it's a refreshing change of book that is a direct documentation of events that occurred through the eyes of the author. True to life, many situations have no closure, but are interesting to follow. Makes me really want to leave the city for a while, though, even though the culture of the land is long gone. I've been by Klamath Falls, and it's not exactly a great place to hang out. At the same time, when I was there I had to get off a train and hitchhike, along with a really horrible thunderstorm that rained down later on while we were stuck at a rest stop. Still...

Crocheting a little turtle for my neck. I have horrible asthma-related issues that crop up especially in cold weather, and sometimes a scarf just isn't effective enough or too fucking cumbersome to deal with.

Going to crochet a little bull cow for my grandma. She likes them oxen.

And another pair of armwarmers for someone...for pay! Again! Word. This will all keep me well distracted from other stress.

Oh yeah. And I should probably get back to my comics. I've been on hiatus way too long.

...And the Silence In Between

The past few weeks, the whole month of January has been a harrowing affair. It's here where the shortcomings of language make themselves obvious to me, to not be able to put into words even a hint of how feel.

And truth be told, I don't even know how I feel. Hollow, perhaps. As if a white-walled maze has suddenly been lowered around me, where the smell of fresh air and endless landscape still surrounds me, sits underfoot, but is unobtainable until I find my way to the exit.

I've truly lost track of time. The days bleed together at the edges almost seamlessly, in part because I'm only working a contract job at the moment on my own time, and simply because they aren't very different. My time has revolved around my grandmother, my own respiratory problems of which I'd been suffering greatly last week till a doctor's visit, and much less so my commission work.

Popo ("my grandmother") had a nasty fall sometime on the 3rd of January—presumably. Presumably, because my parents found her on the 5th when we came up to Chinatown for our at-least weekly visit in the bathroom, on the floor. In her old bedroom was a pool of blood, and on the right side of her head a horrific cut and bruise that in a horrifically comical way resembled the scar of Zuko, from the Avatar series.

My boyfriend and I were about twenty minutes behind my parents, so I only heard that "Popo had a fall," as my mom still feels the need to cover up the extent of emergency to me, and that I needed to come pick up some food to take to my sister's party that evening.

I did not expect to see my grandmother's street blocked by an ambulance. I did not expect to see how bruised and tired my grandma was, as two EMS workers hefted her into the back. A lot of screaming at honking traffic behind us ensued; Chinatown streets are notoriously one way, one lane.

It was horrifying the first few days at the hospital. She looked so small and helpless, especially with blood under her fingernails and eyes so small and questioning without glasses to frame them.
Popo is a stubborn woman, especially so at 92 years old. Stubborn enough to decide at first that she was ready to go. Dispensing bits of wisdom and trying to mentally parcel out her possessions to her grandchildren. Asking us why we wouldn't let them administer the pill or the shot that would end it all.

After a few days of heavy drug dosage and treatment, though, she pulled herself together and started to recuperate in anticipation of returning back to her apartment. And she made so much progress under the following week. Her bruise healed up, she went from IV feeding to nasty puree, to using the bathroom—the actual bathroom—to sitting up and feeding herself, conversing.

On my own end, from stress and weather, I started developing breathing/asthma related problems, which discouraged me from seeing her move from ER to the convalescent home just a block further away.

It may have been the bad turn she took wasn't due strictly to the inadequacy or unwillingness of staff, but they certainly didn't help alleviate or take much notice of the heavy coughing that developed in Popo her first night there, but a few days later she was back in ER because nobody took care of the fluid that built up again in her lungs.

I'd finally gone to the doctor by this point, slathering up my diet with helpful doses of prednisone (steroids, to help my breathing) and amoxicillin, and, well. It's clear the fight has gone out of her. In part, I'm sure, from the drugs, and the treatment they've been administering to help get the fluid out of her lungs.

Since I was sick and unable to visit at the time, my mother told me that my grandmother's recovery would be delayed. She did not tell me about the irregular heart rate that occurred in Popo the other night without warning, the one we recognize so well in movies to mean the end of the line.

But there's not really any conversation anymore. There is helping her use the commode. There is her fidgeting in bed, sleeping. Before she'd gone to the convalescent home, she was entirely coherent; her problems were physical and not mental. Now, I can't tell. I suspect a lot of it is caused by being doped up on medicine, but who knows, because I can't ask Popo point blank why she feels the way she does.

It feels very heavy in my gut. To top it off with a self-absorbed glance, the stress has delayed my cycles and today my period finally came, extremely painful in the abdomen.

The doctor, after finally being pressed by my mother for a realistic assessment told us that she would probably not make it beyond two weeks from now. I am not in denial of this possibility, but it was such a swift and drastic return from the progress I'd seen her make just a week ago. I would almost say that it feels like someone decided to mock my grandmother's attempt at recovery by giving us false hope, but this is not unnatural or unusual, setbacks. It's merely a way of life. All we have to rely on is the charts, as Popo is mostly resting. The charts say she grows weaker.

Perhaps she will get better; we tell her she'll still be going back home. I just wonder which meaning of home our reassurance implies. Now is the desire to remove the suffering, put at peace. Do Not Resuscitate.

The pit of my being aches something awful. I've been to many funerals, but these were either family further removed, or far back enough into my youth that the depths of a bond weren't realized enough. The depths of a bond that hold us together, that go beyond merely blood ties, of being woken up at 12am to be fed slices of bacon on toast, beyond a tight hug, or trips to Portsmouth Square to chase pigeons. The pure bond that makes a mockery of words, as I am doing so in writing.

Having lost the desire to eat, draw, knit, write, interact, smile. The days bleed further together because I can't even think, the past few weeks being more of a big blank, staring at the white walls of my mind if not focusing on my breathing, or mindless watching of Futurama and animated Batman to take my mind off taking my mind off.

Needing a peace of mind.