In Memoriam -- George Moreby Acklom (1870-?)

It fell as softly as the winter's snow:
There was no sound of storm nor any stress,
No fevered daring of Death's mightiness,
No struggle for a strong man's overthrow:
Just some few hours of moaning, soft and low,
Some hard-drawn breathing, quickly hushed, ah yes!
And then,--and then,--small white limbs motionless,
While we who wait must whisper as we go.
A face and voice we looked for lovingly
Lost from the fellowship of our small band:
One little ripple of Life's restless sea
Soothed into stillness by the Master's hand,
And missing here:--but a white soul to stand
In the vast Temple of Eternity.

A visit from Steve

I had a dream about my brother today. In my dream, he'd been away for a long time because he'd been doing some sort of work that kept him out on the road for months at a time. I returned home one afternoon to find him sitting on my porch in a lounge chair. I ran up and gave him a big hug and asked if he was home to stay. He told me that he had just come for a visit but had to return to the road. We were still hugging each other tightly and I said, "Please don't go. I miss you." He said, "I miss you, too. I wish I could stay, but I have to go," and I cried on his shoulder.

I don't think it was just a dream. I think he's still around, still keeping an eye on me, and every once in awhile, he comes to me in a dream to let me know.

Anyway, the hug was very real. When I woke up, I just kept thinking, "I want to go back to that dream and that hug." I miss him so much.

Drinking and motorcycles do not mix

Easter was interesting -- the evening part, anyway. I got home from dinner at my parents' house and went outside to take out the trash, when I heard a loud crash just down the street. My neighbors were out in their porch swing in their front yard, and all three of us went running down the street, where we found a man lying in someone's front yard with his motorcycle on top of him. He had crashed right into a streetlight pole and hit it so hard that all of the glass covering the light bulb way on top had shattered all over the street. The man kept insisting that he was all right, and admitted that his leg hurt "a little," but that there was no need for us to call an ambulance -- he'd go to the doctor if it kept hurting. Another gentleman who'd stopped to help as he drove past the scene asked the man to try to stand up. He tried, but didn't get more than a few inches off the ground before collapsing in pain. We got him to roll up his pantleg, and his entire leg was horribly black and blue. His knee was swollen up like a grapefruit, and it was sort of dented in the middle, as if it had broken in half. He continued to plead with us not to call 911, which sort of tipped me off that he'd been drinking and was afraid he'd be arrested. I offered to go and get some ice for his leg, but he said no. Finally, the man who'd stopped in his car managed to convince the guy to let him take him to the hospital. After he helped the guy into his car, he came back and told the rest of us, quietly, that the guy reeked of alcohol. What a moron. He didn't even have a helmet on. He's really lucky that he didn't hurt anyone else, and that all he ended up with, as far as I could tell, was a broken leg. That was quite a way to spend Easter evening.

Easter Pics

Toby with his bunny ears on:



And Aunt Cat pushing Toby in his swing after lunch:

Fun at the rheumatologist's office

I had my four-month follow-up with my rheumatologist this morning. Actually, my appointment was with his new nurse practitioner, who seemed very nice and knowledgeable, although it was kind of weird to not see the doctor at all this time around. I've been seeing him since February of 2003, and this was the first time I've had an appointment where he didn't personally examine me.

Anyway, it seems that the methotrexate alone is no longer controlling my RA, so I am going to have to go back on the Enbrel. The good news is that when I was on Enbrel before, I was able to take a lower dose of methotrexate, so I'll probably be able to start lowering it again, and potentially, I may be able to stop the methotrexate entirely and use just the Enbrel.

She also sent me for x-rays of both hands and feet to check for "corrosive damage." That sounds lovely, doesn't it? In addition, I had to do a TB skin test -- they have to check for TB exposure before starting Enbrel, because if you've been exposed to TB, the Enbrel will cause you to come down with a full-blown case of it, apparently. I don't remember being tested for TB the first time I was on Enbrel, but it's a fairly new drug, so maybe they didn't know about that yet. Anyway, I go back Wednesday morning to get the TB test checked, and then in six weeks to see how the Enbrel is working.

Punkin continues to mourn

I have really never seen anything like this before.

Ever since Punkin's escape last weekend, he has been trying all week long to get out again. Any time I open either the front or (especially) the back door for any reason, he's right there, trying to slip past me. Then, on Friday evening, he started doing this:

He just wanders around the house in a big circle, going upstairs to the bedroom, back down the stairs, around the living room, around the kitchen and dining room, into the laundry room, back to the living room, jumps up into the windowsill, scratches on the front door, flops down right next to the front door for a few moments, and then gets up and starts the circle all over again -- crying the entire time. As he makes his rounds, he'll stop in his tracks every so often and turn his head from left to right, as if he's searching for Cocoa Bean. When I go to bed, instead of snuggling up on my pillow, where he and Cocoa Bean used to sleep above my head, he just walks in a circle around the mattress, then sticks his face right in my face and cries.

This is one of the most heartbreaking things I've ever witnessed. I don't how to comfort him. How do you explain to a cat that his best buddy is not coming back?

Animals know things.

Late Saturday night, I realized that Punkin was missing when he didn't join the rest of the kitties for the canned kitty food I doled out. He's always one of the first ones to run into the kitchen when I open a can of cat food, and he even has his own spot on the counter where he eats it and none of the other cats mess with him. I looked all over the house for him when I realized he was missing, but couldn't find him anywhere. I figured he must have slipped out the front door at some point during the day, which he is wont to do on occasion -- my cats are not allowed to go outside, but Punkin is very sneaky and manages to escape once or twice a year. He always comes back within a day or less, however -- mainly, I think, because he refuses to relieve himself outside for some reason. He will come home, scratch on the front door to be let in, and head straight for the litter box. It's hilarious.

Anyway, I went outside to look for him first thing Sunday morning. I put some cat food out on the front porch, but he didn't come. I looked all over the front yard and down the street -- no Punkin. I looked in the back yard and was beginning to despair because I couldn't find him, and was about to go back inside when I thought to check the area where Cocoa Bean is buried (my back yard is huge and rather wild, and Cocoa Bean's grave is not immediately visible from the back door). Sure enough, there he was, just sitting by her grave. I called him, but he just looked at me and mewed, and he continued to mew while I walked over to pick him up and carry him back inside. Poor Punkin! Cocoa was his sweetheart and favorite nap buddy. He looked as if he'd just been sitting there by her grave all night long -- he wasn't all dirty and disheveled like he often gets if he's been outside for awhile, so I don't think he wandered around much. He must have gone straight to Cocoa's grave and stayed there.

It's amazing to me that animals just know things like that, and that they have the same capacity for grief and mourning that humans have.

Interestingly, none of the other cats had eaten Punkin's cat food overnight. They polished off every other morsel I had dished out, but Punkin's little dish was sitting, untouched, in his spot on the counter when he came back inside, and he ate it after availing himself of the litter box facilities.