02/17/2014 by syrbal-labrys
It is my eldest son’s birthday today. I wish I was in a more jolly mood; we gave his present to him early as we knew it’s techno-delightfulness might rob some of the sharp-thing yums from his bride’s gift to him. And we made cake early, too. So there is no real celebratory anything happening, and it would be a bit of a forced thing if there was because this weekend sucked.
It began sliding into hand-baskets full of despair as early as Thursday when an attempted pet rescue started to sour. And then, Valentine’s Day always leaves me rather in a funk all on it’s own, but the morning began with the spectacularly horrid discovery of one of my pet geese — Alba the snowy white egg layer was killed around dawn by some incompetent thing like a raccoon. A very bad death. Nothing like a funeral to get Valentine’s Day off to a jolly start. The dogs, Zaya and Jack, thought we were insane burying all that good meat. If we were starving, yes, I would have butchered the bird. But I just didn’t have the heart for eating a pet when I am scarcely eating meat at all these days.
The day wore on, and then in the evening when the phone rang a sense of foreboding coursed through me like electricity. It was my youngest son’s platoon sergeant at Ft. Campbell. My son was injured, was in a hospital in Tennessee being prepped for surgery. He had been out hunting with a friend, had tripped while walking in the woods — his shotgun discharged into his feet as he fell. I am glad it was not worse and that he was not alone.
Calls went back and forth to the civilian hospital he was taken to — they did surgery to clean up the completely blown off right big toe and planned more for Sunday morning. But they couldn’t stop the blood-seeping from dozens of birdshot pellets. WTF kind of hospital can’t manage THAT? So, Saturday, he was put in an ambulance and driven to Ft. Campbell to am Army hospital. There, they must know more about bleeding and the like, of necessity.
Sunday, an attempt to save the big toe of his left foot meant pinning the scrambled bone together — the civilian surgeon had pretty much planned to amputate without much further ado. They stopped all the bleeding, too. My Runaway will heal, live, and have one more reason (aside from PTSD and back injuries) to be medically discharged from the Army.
His wounding was accidental, even if self-inflicted. My wounding over the cat that surely will eventually come to a sorry end was absolutely in the category of “No good deed goes unpunished.” Today I will contact the Cat Rescue lady to tell her that little Gracie cannot live here — I’m not sure she can live ANYwhere, since she refuses to use a litter box to pee in as long as there is bedding instead! Any cat that can and will hold urine over 24 hours to get at a pile of bedding…
I remind myself how competently I am managing to hold it all together as we continue to plan kitchen repairs, my husband’s retirement (bill paying), and our continued support of my eldest, also medically disabled son, as he searches (thus far fruitlessly) for work. But right now, it sure all feels like a bloody struggle. Death and taxes….dead goose, property and income tax both due in the next two months, and insurance, too! Lions, tigers, and bears!