Plodding Along

Grief comes and goes in waves.  I think I'm fine, and then I come downstairs in the morning and look over at the white Ikea fake sheepskin on the sofa, expecting to see a white cat on it, and there... isn't.

I'll be picking up Sushi's ashes tomorrow, and then at some point, probably in the spring, will inter them in the ground, probably planting them under a rosebush.

But I'm not in a constant state of grief, so things move on.  I've been working on the Olde World Map cross stitch, and have repigmented the figure in the lower left corner.  Given he? she? is clearly supposed to represent Africa and maybe Asia, having them be lily-white rubbed me the wrong way.

So I went through my box of floss and pulled out three shades of brown that seemed to work well together, and voila!

I've also been seriously thinking about attending Costume College this year.  For the first time in... four years?  Thinking about it seriously enough that I've finally washed that 15 yards of lightweight muslin and found a pattern or three I want to start working on.  (The first two are corset/chemise and bodiced petticoat respectively; the third is the gown to go with them.)  That said, the patterns are download-only so I'm going to need to transfer them to a thumb drive and take them to Office Depot and say "large scale print plz!"

No Crafting - Just Grief

So this has not been a good week.

My cat of 15 years, Sushi, had not been doing great.  I'd taken him in to the urgent care a week ago yesterday, and they gave me some anti-inflammatories and painkillers to help with his limp, which we  think was the result of Ramen, the kitten (catten, now, I guess) wrestling with him too enthusiastically.  And they helped.  A little. But he kept not eating and barely drinking and by the time our regular vet was open yesterday morning, he was not doing well at all.  Nothing came up on his bloodwork except that he was cold, and very dehydrated.  So they were going to keep him through the day, getting fluid and electrolytes into him through an IV, and I was supposed to pick him up before they closed at 6.

A couple hours later, I got a call that he had just... slipped away.

And nothing had come up on his bloodwork or the x-rays the urgent care had done, so we don't even know why.

I keep telling myself that he was warm, he was being cared for, he knew he was loved... but it's hard not to think I could have done more; I should have done more.  Given that we don't even know what he died of, though, that's probably objectively not true.

Adding to my grief is the fact that Squiddle, at 10, is now also processing loss at an adult level, and this is the first time he's lost someone.  (Jazzy, at 7, is sad but not grieving.  There's a difference.)

And, cherry on top of the Shit Monday Cake, my uncle has been diagnosed with metastatic pancreatic cancer.  Five year survival rates are 5-10%.  Realistically, he probably has a year or less to live.

2024 had better be front loading all the bad stuff for me, and it had better be done, is all I can say.