My Friend the Cat

I have always been a cat lady. But at this point in my life I am simply a Balliver lady. As in, Balliver our cat. I love my cat, and I know that makes me a little creepy to some people, but this cat and I have a bond.

Throughout this year, Balliver always seems to know when I am sick. After my first chemo treatment, Nate had to lock Balliver out of our bedroom because all the cat wanted to do was lay on top of me and snuggle and I just couldn't handle it. But by my last treatment I looked forward to getting home to Balliver. I knew I'd lay down in the bed and Balliver would be with me in minutes, right next to my face, purring and rearranging himself again and again to get as close to me as possible.

So it should have been no surprise on Friday that the minute I crawled into my bed (fell, may be a more accurate verb) after surgery, Balliver was immediately by my side. Because Balliver was so intent on getting right on top of me, he was temporarily banned from the room. Later, though, I relented, and he got used to the idea that he would have to be content with "next to" rather than "on top of."

He's a bit like one of those saint bernard dogs, with a sixth sense about these things. His pregdar is even better than mine (just ask Angie) and he just seems to know things. Maybe he's like the Old Testament prophet who stretched out over the boy and brought him back to life ...

Well. Maybe Balliver's not quite that good. But he has become my favorite cat, and that's saying a lot, considering how many I have had. Which is a lot.

Let's see, there was Josie, Cosmo, Baxter, Skye, Molly, Big Kitty, Little Kitty, Sam, Bandit ...

And the irony--oh, the great irony--is that I have been in incredible pain with this surgery. Such terrible pain, I keep repeatedly asking Nate ridiculous questions like: Did they break my sternum? You're sure they didn't dislocate my shoulder? When I know the answer is no.

And why is it ironic? Because if I didn't love that stupid cat so much I would never have climbed onto the porch railing of Harvey and Patricia's house in the middle of the night exactly two years ago and tried to rescue him. The actual root of my pain, you see, is this old injury on the upper right side of my back. I injured it falling off that railing onto concrete when Balliver jumped out of my arms. The other time I injured the same spot is chronicled right here. And since it typically hurts with weather changes, my back hurt before surgery, and since surgery ... it feels worse. (I'm pretty sure surgery didn't do it any favors.)

(Also, I got my bandages removed today. Turns out the doctor cut out all of my old scarring and started from scratch, which explains why this hurts worse than the first surgery and why I thought my sternum had been assaulted.)

All this to say. I'm in pain. And on Saturday I dealt with it and got up and about, and it ended in more pain. So today I took it easy and did lots of laying still, and it's still ending in more pain. Perhaps less pain than yesterday. But ... pain. The kind that makes it hard to breathe and has me taking full doses of Norco.

And, faithful to a fault, Balliver has been here to keep me warm the last three days. So, I'm trying to forget that this current pain issue is pretty much his fault. Well, his fault and cancer's fault. To be fair.