AND DAMN PROUD OF IT
by Heidi Johnson-Wright
(from the EarthBound TomBoy files)
A
multi-level tower greets those who come through my door. Toys made of foil or fluff are strewn across
my floor.
You might
call me a crazy cat lady.
I suppose I
am one. And a bit of a novice, too. While I’ve loved animals my whole life, I
was certain I was a dog person. Until two fuzzy feline sweethearts came into my
life three years ago. Two kitties -- a mother and daughter – who lived on the
streets and needed a human mommy.
It didn’t
happen overnight. There were many days when I admired them from afar.
Then my
husband and I tendered some kitty treats, and a bond began to form.
We weren’t
certain if either of us had allergies. So we started out with the rule that we
wouldn’t allow them in the house beyond the front room. Then the rule quickly
changed to “in the house but not in the bedrooms.” That rule didn’t last long,
either.
Now three
years in, the only forbidden zones are the cupboards containing household
cleaners and the stove top. (OK, the inside of the refrigerator is off limits,
too.)
So why the
change? How did I become someone who never imagined being a cat mommy to a
woman who does hours of online research to find the best cat harness?
Perhaps it
links back to my disability. I developed severe rheumatoid arthritis back in
grade school. The disease quickly became a juggernaut of severe joint pain and
destruction. It has since resulted in two dozen major orthopedic surgeries,
followed by months of torturous rehabilitation.
Do you know
what it’s like to spend months on your back – your body aching from constantly
maintaining the same position -- forbidden to enjoy the simple luxury of
rolling onto your side?
I do. I know
what it feels like to lay in a pool of my own sweat collected under my lower
back, unable to get air against my skin to evaporate the moisture.
It may sound
like a small thing, something you could simply distract yourself from noticing.
I assure you it is not. Because when your whole world consists of you in a
hospital bed, you literally ache for the simple pleasures we often take for
granted.
And I
remember all of it: every miserable detail, even the sleepless nights from 40
years ago. Nights and days when I thought: “If only I could roll over for five
minutes. If only I could lie on soft sheets. If only I could have a few moments
of relief from these aches that never end.”
Perhaps
that’s why – if you visit my home – you’ll see comfy cushions and baby blankets
throughout my house and soft dish drying pads lying around my patio. I
understand such things may label me a crazy cat lady. I proudly cop to that
label.
But don’t
forget there’s more to the story. That cushions and blankets and pads symbolize
a reduction in suffering. The reduction in suffering that tantalized but evaded
a frightened young girl in a hospital bed. The reduction in suffering that I am
determined to provide to my fur angels.
Am I a crazy
cat lady? You’re goddamn right I am.
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