I don't like needles. Who does? But I tend to take it to the next level: I don't like veins. I don't even like talking about veins. The mere idea of taking my own pulse is enough to make me lightheaded.
I wasn't always like this. I'm not sure when it happened. And...I digress.
Since my last post there have been many developments in the health of my little feline companion, Kittie (with an "ie"). After the doctor confirmed that the diagnosis was indeed feline diabetes, we searched for a vet closer to home. (In truth, I did what I always do in times of need- I sort of "put it out there" as a desperate plea; specifically, I needed a compassionate veterinarian within walking distance.) Someone was listening, because we found one on the first try.
This time the doctor we saw had kind eyes and didn't look nervous when my own eyes started to run. A sweet, soft spoken technician named Mirilla shaved a small patch of hair near the scruff of Kittie's neck (hence my runny eyes) so we'd be able to clearly see the injection sight. We practiced injecting Kittie with a syringe filled with water. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit traumatized, sticking a frigging needle into my cat; but I did it, and we've been doing it, twice a day every day. (Just call me Florence Nightingale.)
Hubby did it flawlessly on his first try, naturally. As for me, I'm still floundering a bit. (Lots of following Kittie around, wielding a syringe, blurting out prayers to Jesus, Mary and Joseph and anyone else who'll listen.) But I'm doing it. And Kittie honestly doesn't even seem to give a good crap, the sweet furry thing.
On Tuesday we went back to the vet to learn how to check Kittie's blood glucose level. Ideally, in the beginning at least, they'd like us to do this twice a day. This will help to regulate the diabetes, and might even be the key to getting her off insulin for good. (There's a chance Kittie might be what they call a "transient diabetic.") The home blood testing is important. But Crikey, does it scare the shit out of me.
For this, we'd need a glucometer. Perhaps I was out of line, but I called my aunt to see if she still had Nanny's glucometer. (One of my grandmother's many catchphrases was, "I'm a freaking diabetic!" and I know she tested her blood sugar daily towards the end.) Now Kittie was a freaking diabetic, too.
How would Nanny feel about my using her glucometer on my cat? Was this an inappropriate thing to do? I couldn't help but wonder. My grandmother had a fantastic sense of humor and my guess is that she'd be roaring with laughter. I hope I'm right.
When I opened up Nanny's kit, the "lancing device" still had a lancet in it, the tip of which was covered in blood. Nanny's, from what I gathered. This brought on a wave of sad shock, to see my grandmother's blood, right there before me, when she'd been gone since May. I wondered what I should do with it? I've been known to collect an inappropriate memento from time to time (don't ask), and I seriously considered saving that bloody lancet. Wasn't it a piece of her? In the end, I tearfully threw it away, talking out loud to myself: "that's not my grandmother!"
And it wasn't. I know that. I did dream about her that night, though.
And then it was the day we learned to use the meter. I'd been nauseous all afternoon just thinking about it; and by the time we got to the vet's office I'd psyched myself up into an awful state. The doctor was calm and very kind. She shaved (again with the shaving!) the backs of Kittie's little Spock ears, so we'd be able to see the vein that runs along their edges. Incidentally, earlier that day a friend suggested it would be "easy" to check my cat's blood sugar. ("SO easy!" I made a mental note right then to knife her in the morning.)
When the doctor suggested microwaving a washcloth and applying it to Kit's ear, so the vein would bulge and be more visible, I nearly lost my shizz altogether. She performed a demonstration, but I was a little distracted, as I was entering into swooning mode. Kittie's blood sugar was 402; too high, but 167 points lower than on the night she was diagnosed nearly a week prior.
"Does one of you want to practice?"
I looked at my husband, eyes bulging. "Maybe you should give it a try."
He wasn't buying it. "I'll be okay doing this, I think you should practice."
The doctor agreed. "It's best to practice it here, rather than trying to do it at home for the first time."
I'd do anything for this cat, but all the same, I felt panicky, ganged up on; I felt...fucking faint. The doctor brought me a cup of water and let some air into the small room. Soon after I was holding the tiny lancet between my sweaty fingers, trying to focus on the small vein that ran along the edge of my cat's adorable little bat ear. She shined a penlight on it, and the ear became almost translucent. Holy shit.
Breathe, psycho. I leveled with the vet. "Doctor, I didn't really watch you when you did it earlier, I think I had my eyes closed. I'm sorry."
She coached me through it, and although I wasn't able to successfully draw a drop of blood, because I was pricking the ear too timidly, I was still aiming in the correct spot. It was a start. I went home feeling hopeful.
The next morning we weren't able to perform the meter reading, which was disappointing and upsetting, but we have another appointment on Saturday and hopefully we can get a second lesson then.
In the meantime, Kittie remains as cheerful and feisty as ever. I've been told a diabetic cat can live a normal, happy lifespan, and indeed she does seem to be tolerating these insulin shots like a trooper. My hopes are nothing but high.
It's going to be okay. xoxo
PS: We didn't have the recommended coffee can handy to contain the first week's syringes for disposal. What this means is, we put them (safety caps on, of course) into our garbage bag, which we then deposited into the dumpster in the alley. A friend told me today that this is like "leaving a loaded gun" (with the safety on) in a crowded playground.
I may have to knife her, as well.
