Charlie’s Ghost

Not long before I found out I was pregnant with Charlie, a good friend of mine announced her own pregnancy. Our due dates ended up being just one month apart.

My friend delivered a healthy baby boy at thirty-seven weeks. In her hospital pictures she was still in full makeup as she held her new bundle of joy in her arms.

Charlie was born a month later via emergency c-section. Half-dead on arrival, I never held him in my arms and spent the rest of the morning alone and crying.

The differences in our experiences didn’t end there. My friend nursed her son until his first birthday. At three months he went into daycare and she went back to work. I wouldn’t dare say things were easy, but they did seem uneventful. Meanwhile, I scuttled back and forth to the hospital for endless appointments and was nursed by a yellow machine named Madela.

In most areas, I have accepted this unusual life that I have been handed. I know how lucky we are. My child is alive, he crawls, he eats, he laughs, he sits. We have so much.

When it comes to my friend’s child, Stephen, I’m not quite so Zen. For whatever reason, he gets to me. I mean, I love my friend and her darling son, but sometimes it’s hard for me—harder than it is around other kids.

Stephen goes to daycare, so he’s not the product of some hyperactive mother hell-bent on perfection. My friend is an extremely laid-back type who lets her child be who he is. Her son is what you get with the regular amount of effort: He walks, he talks, he drinks from a straw. It’s not like he’s solving quadratic equations or anything. And yet, I cannot look at a picture of him without wondering what my Charlie would be doing without the pile of medical garbage he deals with, without wondering what he would look like if he could stand on his own. Or wonder what his voice would sound like.

I can deal with a lot—I deal with insurance companies and appointments. I deal with questioning eyes and worry. I deal with state agencies and impossible decisions.

But some days, I can’t deal with Stephen.

Disabled for Life

A while back, Charlie was evaluated by the office of Persons with Disabilities to see whether or not he would remain on the state’s list of disabled persons. There are several categories—things like “gross motor skills,” “fine motor skills,” “speech,” "self-care,” etc. If you score below the 60th percentile in two areas you stay on the list for three more years. If you score below 60th percentile in three or more areas AND have the appropriate diagnosis, you get on the list for life.

The evaluation included a whole range of things and truthfully there was little I could answer “yes” to. Despite this, I was devastated when I got the call telling me that Charlie was “disabled for life.” It just seems so finite—like there’s nothing I can do. She also told me the parish had agreed to pay to have a wheelchair ramp installed on the outside of our house.

I should be thrilled about the ramp. I knew we would need one—we live in South LA and our house is raised three feet--but expected we would pay out of pocket for something like that. Now, it will be taken care of. Hubby, the engineer, was more interested in that news than in anything else we’ve done over the last few weeks.

I’m trying very hard not to think about the other side of the conversation—the part where my child is disabled for life. The part where he scored below the 60th percentile in three areas.

I can remember being in Elementary School and getting very upset because I’d  scored in the 87th percentile on a standardized test. I was horrified and disappointed in myself. I’ve always been a 90th percentile and above—preferably 99th—kind of gal. I do tip of the top.

Charlie doesn’t do average either and it breaks my heart. My beautiful, tiny boy has already failed so many tests. I know, logically, that it’s just a test. I know that they do nothing to describe my child’s potential or even the amazing odds he’s overcome in just three years.

I also know that I have a long way to go before I’ll be good at living on this side of the bell curve. I have miles to go before I learn to fully detach from this unit of worth.

I’m trying, but some days are harder than others.

I am THAT Girl

It’s been almost three years since this happened, so I guess it’s OK if I tell you guys the story now. . . if the cops show up at my front door I’m blaming y’all, though, kay?

When Charlie became very sick, he was transferred to a large, well-reputed Children’s Hospital—one with a very fancy NICU services. One of the missions of this esteemed hospital was to encourage women to breast feed—even women like me whose kids were in no shape to actually nurse. “Nursing” mothers were given a food allowance and free pumping supplies. Right outside the NICU they had a little room with sinks, storage supplies, and a TV where you could go and take advantage of the super-charged pumps that hospitals have. Next door to the Pump Room was an industrial freezer and each woman was given a lock box to store their milk. In the haze of drugs and anxiety, it could be difficult to remember your lock combination, so eventually everyone would ask why exactly we were locking up breast milk. You carefully labeled every container, so what’s with the high security?

That’s when someone would whisper the story of The Crazy Mother--a distraught mother had stolen another woman’s milk because she wasn’t producing enough. Since breast milk is a bodily fluid,it’s considered a bio-hazard for anyone other than the intended recipient. Basically, it was like this woman had poisoned her baby. As far as I know, the baby was fine, but they instituted the lock box policy after that.

Charlie wasn’t in the NICU. Charlie was on a specialized floor called CVICU which stands for “Cardio Vascular Intensive Care Unit.” A whole floor just for babies with heart problems. One half of the floor was traditional ICU and the other side was designed specifically for families who would be taking their babies home. You slept in the room with your child and administered all of their needed food and medications. I’m pretty sure that if you were to wind up in hell, it would be a lot like that part of the floor: the stress and pressure of a medically-fragile infant combined with incessant beeping from monitors and a schedule that would make grown men weep. Fun times.

Since we required to be with our children at all times, they set it up so we didn’t have to go down to the Pump Room any more—they arranged for pumps in the rooms and there was a fridge on the floor where we could store our containers of breast milk. Once a day we would trudge down to the NICU floor and drop off our liquid gold in our lock boxes.

Finally, after two and half weeks on the step-down unit, we were permitted to go home. It took about two wagons to get all of our stuff out to the parking lot. I went back at the last minute with a mini ice chest and collected my milk from the processing room by the NICU and the fridge on the CVICU floor.

You can see where I’m going with this, right? I mean, it’s me—how else could things possibly go? When I got home, I realized that I had accidentally taken the breast milk of another CVICU resident. There it was, clearly labeled with the name of some mystery child. I WAS A BREAST MILK STEALER. I was THAT woman. People like me are the reason breast milk has to be locked up.

I couldn’t think of a good way to return the breast milk—I figured there was some type of protocol that would prevent them from using milk that had left the “chain of evidence” or whatever. Besides, it’s not like I was going to show up and admit to stealing someone else’s breast milk—even if it was a completely accident--so I threw it out.

So there it is. . . maybe people are whispering about me now? You never know.

After reading this over I feel duty-bound to add that I didn't steal a day's worth of the stuff--just one pump's worth. The rest of the stuff I grabbed was mine--I think hers was just too close to the area where mine was.

Mama Warned Me

When you're a kid, your mother warns you about leaving the house looking less than your best.



"You never know who you might run into."



Yes. Well. Since the dawn of of my mommy-hood I've played pretty fast and loose with leaving the house. I figure there are people walking around wearing curlers in their hair--I'm not going to attract that much attention. Besides, most of the people I know have jobs--the kind that take place in offices.



Yesterday I was forced to admit that things may have gone too far.



I went out in my pajamas--a t-shirt that my mom bought me on a cruise, a pair of red capri PJ pants, and some slip-on tennis shoes. Nothing matched. Not even close. My hair was unbrushed and pulled back into a ball of swirly mess. I had no plans to leave the car--I was just going to hit the drive thru for my daily fix of Chick fil a.



Charlie was wearing a t-shirt and shorts in different shades of blue. No shoes. No socks. I really never let him go out like that, but he was cranky and ready to go and again, I WAS NOT GOING TO LEAVE THE CAR.



But then I remembered something.



You see, on Friday I dropped off a season of Monk at the library and then later that day they called and told me one of the discs was missing. I tried to bring it back that afternoon, but our library closes early on Fridays--please do not get me started on our library's bizarre hours. They're pretty much never open when you want them to be AND they lock their drop boxes when they're closed. What's the point of the drop boxes you ask? I'm wondering the exact same thing.

So I'm driving home and I remember that I still have that disc in the car and I start getting all twitchy because I hate it when I owe somebody something. Makes my skin crawl.

I figure I'll just run over to the library--it's early, no one will be there. Usually there's a lone librarian and a teenager trying to get on the Internet at that time of day.


Well, I was wrong.


Dead wrong.


No only was the entire library staff in attendance as I hauled my barefooted babe into the facility, but also the head of our parish's library system.

They were doing a giveaway of Jazz Fest tickets and I was asked to do the official drawing.


On videotape.


I was like Miss White Trash USA up there, y'all, shaking hands and introducing myself while STILL WEARING MY PAJAMAS.



My friend who works at the library Facebooked me later to tell me that it'll be up on the library's website in the next few days.


Next time, I'll just pay the late fee.

The Boy Who Bites

When I first started my Facebook page, I asked what people wanted their children to learn and I read all the responses very carefully. I noticed several parents talking about their child biting, licking, putting things in their mouth inappropriately.

As it turns out, I'm having a similar problem with my little guy.

Charlie has always used his mouth more than he should. When he was very little, he used it when his vision wasn't helpful. This meant that he would often lick something up and down, but the neurologist assured us it was fine.

Well, we've worked diligently in the mouthing area, but then Charlie developed a new and terrible habit--self biting.

Let me say that I don't even want to talk about this. I HATE that he does this. HATE it. For me, it's like he's wearing a badge that says "mentally unstable." I feel like I do a decent job at accepting the things that I cannot change, but I this doesn't seem like that.

It started when he was refluxing. We went through a period where he was out of his Slippery Elm and I guess biting provided some sort of relief. Now, he bites as a stress reliever. Loud room full of people talking? Bite. Stretching? Bite.

So, I've been reading and researching and asking the professionals.

Some kids put things in their mouths for more sensory input. This is what Charlie was doing before. As they age, it's best to offer them appropriate outlets. You can encourage them to feel with their hands or give them something appropriate to put in their mouths. Some of the website even suggested fashioning a necklace out of a chewy material if a child is a mouther. No one mentioned gum, but I wonder if this would help with older kids.

For Charlie, however, it seems to be a frustration relief. I read a story about a girl who clenched her jaw in frustration and actually broke her teeth. I clench in my sleep and have had more than one trip to the dentist as a result. The goal doesn't appear to be self-injury since he never breaks the skin.

The recommendations from both the therapist and the neurologist has been to redirect. So, we've been keeping a multitude of chewy toys around and at the first sign of frustration, we hand it to him. This has helped a lot. I'd love it if he were never frustrated, but sometimes we all have to do things we don't want to--that's just a sad fact of life.

I guess I should also add that if he does get into the throws of biting, we rub his upper lip to make him let go. My husband explained that its some kind of pressure point or something. I might not have been paying attention. It works--rub the upper lip.

So there ya go. A rather painful admission (I don't know WHY I beat myself up about this stuff), what we're doing about it, and some pictures of Charlie sorting Easter Eggs.

Perspective

Lately I've been borderline obsessed with Charlie complete disinterest in speech. One of the people from the school district came a while back and absolutely marveled at how well Charlie doing using his augmentative communication device (a.k.a. Tina the Talker). I revelled in her compliment for about half a second before turning my agst back on full blast. I mean, the device isn't terribly useful at this point and I find myself yearning for a child who can tell me which video he'd like to watch or even that he's thirsty--I'm only human! Sometimes I think I've tried it all when in reality he hasn't had a thing to drink in hours.

In truth, I think that I can worry about speech because I feel good about other things. Progress may be paint-dry slow, but I can see Charlie improve physically day after day--his body looks better and moves more freely. I'm addressing his intellect--we cover topics, read books, watch movies, and I see the wheels spinning when he's introduced to new things. He eats; his vision is improving. I could just revel in this stuff but why do that when I could find something new to worry about?

So I worry about speech because it's next--because I can taste normalcy in a way that I couldn't before. In the beginning, I was glad that he could move all arms and legs. He'd make eye contact with the camera and I'd send the picture to everyone in my address book. I was happy for any victory.

I have often been confused by the parents of other children who are angry about their child's disability. Specifically, parents whose children are disabled, but are still able to walk and talk. I'm not saying that they don't have a right to be angry--I think anger is a valid part of the grieving process--but I look at them and see all that they have. They've got walking or talking, hell, good vision. I guess from their perspective, something is missing and that's the thing we focus on--the missing thing. All I can see is what they do have.

Jessica is a fellow blogger who discusses her days as a special needs parent. She posted something recently that hit me square between the eyes and is still lingering. She wasn't looking for pity or even really dwelling on it, but she revealed to us that her son, Connor, has what is considered a "severely life-limiting" condition. He's already lived three times longer than the doctor's original estimates and I can't tell you the number of times I've read about her performing rescue breathing on him because of a seizure. She speaks frankly about her desire to preserve and record as much of Connor's life as possible because they just don't know when it will be over.

I wonder about that perspective too. In the beginning of Charlie's life I was so scared about the future. So scared about having to care for him FOREVER. Scared that I wouldn't' be strong enough to go the distance. What if the opposite were true? What if each day was a gift that I might not get again? What would I do differently? Would I worry less or more? Would I handle it with Jess's grace or crumble under the weight of it all?

How much of our struggles comes from our perspective? How much of it is real and how much of it do we create? Can we do things to make it easier? Can we give ourselves a break sometimes?

I wonder.

Photographs from our recent Ocean activity, putting sea horse stickers in the ocean. Not a hit. In this second picture he's willing my husband to come save him.

The Day I Lost My Mind

I am embarrassed to even write this, but I promised I would. . .

You see. It all starts with this bridge. There's an extremely long bridge, The Causeway, that connects where I live to New Orleans. By long, I mean 23 miles. At minimum, I cross this bridge twice week and often it is much, much more than that. You see, Charlie's Feldenkrais therapy is in on the other side, as is my brother, my parents, and most of the good restaurants. On my side we've got better public schools and lower flood insurance, which is why we live here instead of there.

Anyway, anyone who knows anything about anything knows that you DO NOT speed on the Causeway. You can go four miles over the speed limit and that is the absolute maximum. After that, well, expect to get pulled over.

Every time I get on the bridge, I set my cruise and cross the bridge with no problems. I pass multiple police officers without breaking a sweat. I'm a rule-follower when it comes to the Causeway. This is mostly because everyone knows that the Causeway has more money than things to do, so you best not become the object of their wrath.

At the end of the bridge, the speed limit drops rapidly from 65 mph to 35 mph and this is one of the places they love to pull people over. I know this.

Well, today I was a little distracted. I'd had an especially stressful morning, one in which I'd found out that I may have to cancel our February trip to Plano because I'm having trouble finding a companion, and while I like to play rock solid here on the ole bloggy, blog, it does take a village to raise a Charlie and some days are harder than others.

So! Distracted! Exiting the Bridge! Suddenly I realize that I am, in fact, exiting and begin breaking rapidly. Well, too little too late I found out. A few yards after the bridge, police officer steps out into the road. She points at my car and makes some hand gestures. Then, she points at the car next to me and makes some hand gestures. I think, "Whew!" I guess I slowed down in time and then continue on my way. I thought she'd been waving us on.

Not so much. Actually, the cop thought I was a fugitive from justice. She RAN to her car like the bionic woman and caught up with me three yard away where I was stopped at a red light. She gets on the loud speaker, "OWNER OF THE FORD TAURUS--PULL INTO THE U-HAUL PARKING LOT." Not good, right? Well, I pull in there, and then she makes me back out of a parking spot and continue driving through the parking lot and then on some more until she finds an abandoned parking lot in which to properly cite me.

I'm already not happy with the situation. I prefer to be pulled over in public location with plenty of public scrutiny. That's just how I roll.

She gets on her megaphone--I mean, really?--and tells me to get out my license, proof of insurance, and registration. I'm getting annoyed. It's taken five minutes just to pull me over, and I've got a Feldenkrais appointment that I have to pay for, whether we attend it or not.

The good girl in me is still ashamed for speeding and ready to take my punishment as quickly as possible. I'm not one to argue or try to get out of a ticket--if I've done something wrong, then I'm prepared to take the punishment.

So, she comes to my window and I hand her my license and insurance card, and say brightly, "I've got so many insurance cards, it's hard to figure out which one's current. Let me get my registration!"

And then she replies, "Why did you ignore me when I told you to pull over?"

I'm still trying to be nice at this point and say, "I thought you were waving me on. "

And she says, "NO. I did this."

And then she proceeds to do more of that crazy hand waving business and at that point I lost my ever-loving mind. I mean really. Do the police actually think that ANYONE knows what those crazy signals mean? More than once I've been at an intersection wondering if I should go. . . or not. . . and it's one thing to use it, and another thing entirely to assume that every blooming person on the planet has undergone police training.

And you know? She didn't have to be rude about it. I worked with surly adolescents for years and rudeness never got me anywhere. A simple explanation of the different signals would have made me a more competent driver--instead, she decided to power trip on me and for whatever reason, I snapped.

So I say "Sorry. I don't have a degree in hand signals. You don't have to get an attitude."

WHO DO I THINK I AM?

I'm lucky she didn't haul me out of the car and taze me just for fun.

So when I finally get my ticket, it's not only for speeding, but I have to appear in court for, you guessed it, failure to obey police orders. When she asked me to sign it I refused. I obeyed her orders! That's how I ended up in an abandoned parking lot! She told me that signing was not an admission of guilt--just an admission that I'd received the ticket and that if I didn't sign it, she could arrest me. It said right there on the form, "Not an admission of guilt," so I did sign it, but I tell you what, I was gettin' hot and indignant. I was stickin' up for the little guy! I was a freedom fighter! Ok, I was none of those things, but in the moment, I was feelin' it.

Of course, now I just feel like a hot-head.

So there ya go. The ugly side of Bird on the Street.

I'm Mostly Kidding

Well, it's definitely fall here in the South and that means lots of get-together, parties, and tailgating. It's a fun time of year.

Last year we felt Charlie was really too small to enjoy any of it. We mostly got him babysitters for outdoor events or anything involving a lot of people. This year, however, we think that Charlie is old enough to enjoy some of these things. He likes being pushed in the stroller and he loves to listen to his iPod, so I can take him just about anywhere.

Of course, then the anxiety starts to creep in. Charlie, in a stroller, listening to music, looks mostly normal. He has some strange eye movement from time to time, but as far as I can tell, his general appearance doesn't send up red flags.

So I'm imagining there will be some uncomfortable-ness as we run into acquaintances. Our friends know that Charlie has issues, some are more up-to-date than others, but I'm fine talking to them knowing that if they ask how Charlie is doing I can say that we're working on standing or saying the word "cup" and I won't have to backtrack completely and tell his birth story again. Not that it isn't a great story, but Hubby and I equate telling someone your kid is disabled with throwing a bomb at them. Their faces fall, they don't know what to say, and suddenly, you've ruined their day. Granted, you're the one with the disabled kid and you're actually fine with it, but now they're completely bummed out. It feels like a party foul. Dropping the disability bomb on someone is never cool and imagining a group outing where I may have to do it multiple times doesn't sound as good as an offer for a teeth cleaning. Or a mammogram.

There are a couple approaches to this. I could go with the "it's none of their business" approach. I mean, because it isn't. But these aren't strangers--these are people we know. Hubby and I were in a lot of student organizations in college and as a result, we know a lot people. Not best friends, but people we like and enjoy talking to. These people are often at football games or the birthday parties of mutual friend's children. They know us, but we haven't kept up.

We could also go with the "denial" approach wherein Hubby and I create bland excuses to cover any abnormalities in Charlie's behavior. No eye contact? Must be tired. Not running and playing with other children? Shy. Doesn't answer your questions? Distracted by his music. I hate that approach, though, because it's false and it makes it seem like we're somehow ashamed of Charlie's disabilities. I'm not ashamed. Hell, I'm proud. My kid's got a lot less brain matter than most people and he still manages to do pretty well for himself.

So, I'm thinking I've got two options:

I could post in my status update on Facebook: For those of you who haven't kept up with us, Charlie is disabled. He's two, but cannot walk or talk. We are fine with that. In fact, I still think he's cuter than your kid and KNOW he's better behaved in a restaurant.

What's that? Too bold? Too in your face? Well how 'bout option two:

I have a t-shirt printed up for Charlie that reads "I have brain damage. What's your excuse?"

Sadly, Hubby seems to have vetoed both options.

What's The Point?

So Barbara is doing a blog carnival as she does every year and this year I missed it because I was too busy stressing myself out over the purchase of equipment. I'd had a story in mind that I really liked, though, so I wanted to share it even though I missed the official carnival.



I've already shared with you guys that the days after Charlie's birth were hard. I think it was even harder when I brought him home five weeks later. The hustle and bustle and distraction of the hospital was gone and it was just me and my tiny baby whose future was entirely unknown.



I wanted to go see a counselor and to do that I needed to go see my family doctor and get a referral, so I went to the base to get my referral. Visits to see a base doctor are never quick, so I sat and waited for quite a bit. People would come by and coo at my tiny, sleeping babe and all I could think was "get me out of here." I was hard-core into the bargaining phase of grief at that point. I would think things like "just let him suck his thumb, God, and I know he'll be OK." I also asked God to send me a sign constantly. I was asking and asking and asking--it's like I wanted God to call me on the telephone and say, "Look, he's gonna be just fine, OK?" So there I was, waiting, asking God again to send me a sign and then this guy walks by.



You know how some people talk really loud on their cell phones? Well this guy was doing that and this is what he said:



You need to stop asking yourself why this happened to you and you need to start asking yourself why did God bring this to me?



That was the message I needed to hear.



You know, God didn't do anything to me. He didn't stand on a cloud, point a thunderbolt at me and declare that I'd be getting a disabled child because I missed church on a Sunday or cheated on a test in the eleventh grade. If that were the case, then surely there would be a lot more disabled children in the world. I think the universe is big and awesome and completely unfathomable. I think that trying to rationalize everything is a small view and it undermines the power of God. I remember being a kid and pressing my face up against the television (wow, I sound like a weirdo),and all I could see were bits of red, and green and blue--no distinct image. I think life is like that. All we can see is the little bit that we're closest to and the big pictures is obscured. We're just little specks of color in a larger masterpiece.



But I'm not trying to make you believe what I believe. Regardless of world view, I think that we all know that sometimes bad things happen to good people and it's troubling. What I'm trying to say is that I had lost track of my faith. I'd started trying to make sense out of a world that is entirely too complex for me to fathom. If I was going to personalize it, then I needed to change my view. Stop wondering why things happen and start wondering what can be done with them. What could I do with my current situation? How could I use it to grow and become better? I needed to stop putting a judgment on something that I hadn't really experienced. I was frightened to death of disability and really, I knew nothing about it.



I'm not saying that I immediately had an answer. I don't know if I have the answer now. What I do know is that I needed a change in my point of view. I needed to stop looking at Charlie's medical problems as a punishment and start looking at them as a new opportunity. I could rise to the occasion or not. I could become better or I could stagnate. The guy on the cell phone wanted somebody to change their perspective--to stop judging something as negative--I needed to do the same thing.



I still try to bargain with God sometimes--I'm only human--but it's less fervent now, less panicked. This thing I have going with Charlie, it's our thing. It's an opportunity for me as well. Being his mother has made me stronger, more assertive, and less worried about the small things. I believe our journey has made me more tenacious, more faithful, and less complacent. I am proud of the person I have become and sometimes, I feel like I'm growing as much as he is.

Being Stupid is Hard

I'd like to start off by saying that today's story is brought to you by hormones. I'm not sure exactly which ones, but I'm thirty years old and I have a pimple, so something has gone haywire this week.

But I'm getting a little bit ahead of myself.

I recently noticed that our cat, Max, has been looking a little plump. He's seven years old, so I thought maybe he was experiencing a middle age decline in metabolism. I suggested to my husband that we switch him over to wet food, which is pretty much the only thing you can do to get a cat to lose a couple of pounds. To quote our vet, "it's not like you can take him out for a walk." So my husband purchased a bunch of wet food and Sunday night we started trying to figure out how much to give him. After crunching some numbers, we figured he should probably get four cans a day. My hubby decided that since Max was fat, we should give him one a day. I protested, but was over-ruled. My FIL used to make Hubby run wind sprints in the back yard when he was like eight, so I guess he gets the heartless bastard thing from him. I once let him train me at the gym and I swear I didn't walk straight for a week.

The first day of the diet was brutal and I finally broke down under Max's campaign of kitty harassment and gave him another can. Hubby was displeased.

The next day I was tough and didn't give him another can. Sometime in the afternoon Max threw up a big pile of water. Later, he did it again.

The next day he continued with the water puking. At this point I was annoyed--I figured Max was filling his empty belly with water and it wasn't going so well. I also went ahead and made an appointment with the vet just to be safe.

I met with the vet and he agreed that Max was probably just drinking too much water. He also told me to go up to two cans a day. He cautioned me that starving cats was a bad idea since it can cause cats to go into LIVER FAILURE. At this point I freaked out a bit. Ok, a lot. I mean, this is my first baby. We used to joke that Max came from my uterus--that's how much I love this cat. He's chill and friendly and playful and just a really cool animal--people just love Max. A friend of ours calls Max a gateway drug--people meet him and want a cat of their own.

So I go home and tell my hubby about the potential liver failure. I may have been upset. I may have gesticulated several octaves above the norm. I may have then had a drink to calm my nerves. Maybe.

The next day Max is on the two can regimen and I notice that he's still acting funny. First, he poops right in front of his litter box. I assume this is some sort of retaliation for the diet and brush it off. Later, he begins walking around the house mewing and scratching at things. Again I'm thinking he wants us to know that he doesn't appreciate the changes to his culinary fare.

That night I'm in the bathroom when Max stalks in and begins mewing. There was food in his dish so I pretty much started freaking out. He walked into the corner and began clawing the bath mat like he had to go to the bathroom. I check his litter box. It's still there. I put him in front of it and he refuses to go in. Again, he's mewing; he's pawing the ground. Me? Well, at this point there isn't enough alcohol in New Orleans to keep me calm. I am CONVINCED that Max has developed a rare case of can'tpeeitis as a result of the diet and NOW HE IS GOING TO DIE. I run into our bedroom where Hubby is trying to convince Charlie to sleep--a nightly ritual that I'm pretty sure Hubby likes more than Charlie. I'm shouting "I don't care if Charlie sleeps--you've got to help Max pee!"

Just re-reading that sentence makes me realize just how hella crazy I was at this point. What exactly did I think my husband was going to do? Pee for him?

Hubby comes in. He examines Max's funny behavior. He tries to jam Max into the litter box, but it's a no go. We stare at each other. We scratch our heads. Max is still pawing the ground and mewing. At this point the two genius in the room decide to actually look in the litter box.

Whoa!

Apparently Max was doing more than just throwing up water. He was also creating a small lake in his litter box.

It was bad. Hubby and I are over-litterers. We put a LOT of litter in the box--several inches worth. For us, more is more when it comes to litter. I kid you not, the litter had turned into one frightening, mushy block of cat pee. It was pretty freakin' disgusting.


While we were getting that taken care of, Max gave up on his idiot parents and pissed on the floor of the bathroom.



Moral of the Story: Diets Suck