BioSET

I went to BioSET again.

I'm no longer allergic to asbestos.

Good thing, too, asbestos is bad enough on its own without having an allergic reaction to boot.

We finished up the environmental toxins kit - I get annoyed with myself because I have to frequently split one kit into two separate treatments. But...it is what it is.

After years and years of my immune system overworked and at diminished capacity, all the allergies and bad nutrition (who's hungry when everything you eat hurts?) - I can't really get mad at my body - myself - for not being able to handle one kit at a time.

Radioactive Poop

We went to pick up our little darling from his radioactive treatment. He didn’t meow until he saw me – then he didn’t stop. At all. For the rest of the day. Poor thing. Poor radioactive thing.

We chucked him in the car in the cat carrier, turned out of the driveway and promptly got lost. Soon after we got back on track – I nearly bolted from the car. As I was driving, this greatly disturbed Mom. She looked strangely at me.

“Oh my! I can’t breathe!”

She furrowed her brow as though wondering if I’d gone insane right then and there.

Then – all of the sudden – she gagged.

I rolled down the windows and hung out of it like a dog. It didn’t help. The cat meowed. I shouted over him. Mom laughed, squeezing her nose shut with her whole hand.

“The cat pooped!” I shouted, unfortunately at a red light with the windows open. “He radioactively pooped – in my car!”

Mom found this so funny. I did not.

We finally made it home and dealt with the poor creature and his radioactive poop.

(I mean, seriously, who has to deal with this? And a germophobe at that! It’s so crazy. Now if I’m ever in a room full of people and someone asks if they’ve ever carried radioactive poop at 50 miles an hour, I’ll have to raise my hand.)

Mom tried to reassure me that nothing actually touched any part of my car as he was in the carrier but still! I mean, come on!

Safely in the house and the radioactive feline clean and running around the house, back to his territory, Mom searched for her cell phone.

We gave up and looked in the car, she thinking it had fallen under the seat in the craziness.

I leaned my head so that my nose was flush with the underside of my car and asked her to call herself from my cell.

I heard her ring.

I turned my head toward the street.

I looked down.

Way down.

Mom heard it, too. “Is it under the seat?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Way under.”

I saw the flashing light of her display screen from the city sewer, what, ten, twenty feet below the city streets.

I found this hilarious.

Mom did not.

We couldn’t get the sewer cover open, even with the factory workers help. (Big, strong guys came with a crowbar to see if they could be of assistance.)

We tried glue and tape and curtain rods and yarn and everything we could think of. It was Macgyver meets Martha Stewart and The Three Stooges.

It was all for naught. I got the cell phone into a makeshift doily-type mesh of yarn Mom and I concocted but at the last second, it fell off and disappeared under the water and mud.

I called my sister to update her on the cat and inform her that she can’t call Mom.

“Well, she can,” Mom said, hands on hips, lips pursed. “But the sewer people will answer.”

My sister was a little confused.

After we got back into the house, hours after going to get the cat, Mom looked at me. “I wished I’d gone to work today.”

“I was thinking the same thing earlier!” I said.

But to tell you the truth, despite the horrors of radioactive poop in one’s car and losing a cell phone (that you had – you had it!!) with the special little baubles she’d collected throughout the years and the zillions of phone numbers locked inside – I don’t regret this day at all.

Despite the sheer frustrations the day offered, I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much or so deeply and with my Mom.

I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Radioactive Cat

After debating and research, we decided to take the cat in for radioactive treatment. At 12 ½ yrs. old, he’s been diagnosed with hyperactive thyroid.

We tried the pills but our schedules don’t permit us to mush it into his food every twelve hours.

Also and more important, we hate drugs and the drugs’ll end up killing him, albeit later than the hyperactive thyroid which already seems to be wreaking havoc with his little kitty heart. And they have side effects.

So, naturally, we went with the treatment that will make him radioactive. This is a cure. There are supposed to be no side effects – except the violent, little darling will be radioactive and we have to limit our exposure to him for the next two weeks (I can’t sleep with him) and treat his litter box as though it’s hazardous waste material. Which…it is.

It wasn’t actually my decision as he’s not technically my cat but I did voice my opinion in the matter (shocking!) and am glad we’re going to try this route.

My sister took him in today.

I wore an old shirt as pajamas for three nights so it’d have my smell on it. This is known to comfort the cat while he’s away. I also supplied an audio tape of Captain Underhill as I listen to it every night and the cat sleeps with me so he should know Captain Underhill’s voice as well as anyone’s.

No cat for three days and then we have to ignore him for two more weeks.

The place said it’s harder on the humans than it is on the cats…I’m beginning to agree.