I'm In Hermit Mode

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Written by Kodi Wolf at 10:11 AM

I think the stuff with Akasha is hitting me harder than I realized. I haven't been responding to any of the e-mails I've received since the end of November (when Kash was diagnosed), even from my sisters. I only just today started answering them.

Granted, I usually can take upwards of a month to reply to e-mails (shyness delays me at first as I try to get past my social anxiety to actually communicate with another human being, and then there's my forgetfulness if I get sidetracked by something else in the middle of writing my reply before sending, so that the e-mail ends up getting buried in my Inbox as new e-mails come in).

But I think this has been more about me feeling overwhelmed to the point that I don't want to deal with anything that isn't immediately necessary.

What's funny is that in an actual crisis situation, I tend to do fine. In fact, I usually take charge. One of my sisters says she's very much the same way. It's what makes her a good paramedic. She finally has a focus for all her anxiety. But I think it's more than that.

Most people don't experience the level of constant anxiety that I do. Most of the time I don't have anywhere to channel it, which is where my sister's explanation comes in, but I also think that because I feel it all the time, I'm acclimated to it, so when I'm finally in a situation that would panic most people, I feel fine because it isn't really any different than what I normally feel. I'm used to it. So, while everyone else is trying to cope with the new feeling of freaking out, I finally not only have a focus for my anxiety, it's also something I live with, so it's just another day for me.

But this stuff with Kash... It's just this emotional roller coaster that doesn't seem to have any possible good endings.

One day, she looks like death warmed over, and Corene and I are discussing if it's time to euthanize her because she clearly hates taking the medications and being stuck with a needle to get subcutaneous fluids every other day, and we really hate putting her through all that.

Then the next day, she'll crawl into my lap and flip over to expose her belly for some rubbing and I'll actually hear her purr a little (she's always had a whisper purr, unlike Felix who you can hear in another room, but since Kash has been sick, she hardly purrs at all, or if she does, it's just a vibration, no real sound). She never quite gets back to the way she used to be, but those little indications that she's feeling better (wanting to be pet, purring) seem so huge in comparison.

Sometimes, I wish she would just die in her sleep, so it would be over, but then I try to imagine not having her around, and I pray today won't be the day, so I can have her with me just a little while longer. Talk about feeling ambivalent. I think I'm the poster child at the moment.

Where do you draw the line between what's best for her and what you hope or wish for yourself?

I want her to have a good life and I think she's had that so far with me. I've always kept her fed and warm and made sure she got her shots every year and took her to the vet when she was sick. Other than pining for a boyfriend (she is such a little slut kitty, if it's male, she has to be near it), I don't think she's really wanted for anything.

Now, though, it's hard to say whether the good times are outweighing the bad or the other way around. It seems like more and more she's choosing to be by herself, which isn't her norm, but she's seeking out the spot in the sun on the kitty tower by the window or on the floor, so I don't consider that the same as when she was really ill and sleeping in the middle of the bed in the dark when we were in the living room watching TV (which is when she usually asserts her rights as a lap kitty).

But then there's times, like right now for instance, where she's chosen to follow me into the office and is currently curled up in my lap. And if I reach down to pet her, I'll get a brief purr in response, as she settles in deeper.

I've had Kash for all of my adult life (she was born less than a month after my 18th birthday from a stray cat my sister had taken in). I want to do what's best for her, but I don't think I'm ready to let her go. Not that I ever will be, but I just don't know how I'm going to make that decision, if and when the time comes. But I also don't want to force her to continue a life that has become more pain than joy with no hope of getting better. That goes against all of my beliefs.

I just can't imagine my life without her, but I know that time is coming. It's just a matter of when.

Comments:

Roarin' Fire said...

March 5, 2009 10:41 AM

I love you, baby... I wish I was home now, so I could hold you... or you could hold me and wipe away the tears. Just know, that I am here for you.... come what may, I am here, baby.

Goodbye, Akasha

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Written by Kodi Wolf at 8:59 AM

I finally made the decision yesterday to put Kash to sleep. She'd been going seriously downhill the past couple weeks and yesterday I noticed she wasn't walking straight and she was "knuckling" her paws, not straightening them out to lay flat, which is just never a good sign. After writing my blog post the day before, I realized I'd been ignoring a lot of stuff, like the fact I hadn't seen her eat or drink or groom in several days.

I also realized that her cuddling in my lap for a few hours a day was not enough to justify her continued living with what was obviously a painful existence that included traumatizing her with medications twice a day and an extra time every other day with the fluids. She bore it all very well (she was the sweetest cat, never bit or fought too much), and within half a minute would be back in my lap on the couch after such sessions, which is why it was so hard to make the decision, but I know she hated it.

Akasha Wolf (as my vet calls her) was put to sleep at about 5:20pm, March 6, 2009. She was born in the early morning of March 3, 1994. She had just turned 15.

I'm really going to miss her.

I've been crying so much, my eyes were practically swollen shut yesterday. They're a little better today, and I've been trying really hard not to cry as much because it just hurts, but it's not easy.

I just keep thinking of holding her and petting her and how she's not going to be in my lap ever again or curled up on the bed next to me, pinning the covers down and making me too hot. She's never again going to push open the door to the bathroom and come in looking to be pet at that most inopportune time. She's never again going to headbutt me in the arm so hard it hurts, trying to get me to pet her or give her my food. She's never again going to sit in my lap and reach up with her paw to try to touch my face, but instead reach far to the side because her eye-paw coordination was a little off.

Even though Kash was a really quiet cat, as my wife just said to me, the house feels emptier without her in it. She never really made her presence that known, but I definitely notice it now that it's gone.

My lap is empty.

I really loved her and I don't know how I'm going to get through this, but I know I will. It's just going to be hard.

I love you, Kash, and I miss you.

Akasha
March 3, 1994 — March 6, 2009

(Full-size image)

Comments:

Wandering Manda said...

March 7, 2009 12:40 PM

My heart goes out to you right now. That is such a hard choice to make. ::hugs:: Akasha was such a sweet cat. She will certainly be missed.

Kodi Wolf said...

March 7, 2009 5:57 PM

Thank you for the hugs. They're greatly appreciated. And yeah, she definitely is missed.

Ceredwyn said...

March 7, 2009 7:13 PM

Kodi,

I'm so sorry.

Much much love

Kodi Wolf said...

March 7, 2009 9:22 PM

Thank you. That helps.

My History With Pets

Monday, March 9, 2009

Written by Kodi Wolf at 11:16 AM

My first pet was a cat I named Junior because I thought it meant small and he was very tiny. I was about 6 or 7 years old. I'd found him and one of his siblings running around the apartment/housing complex I lived in and managed to finally corner them with another kid who lived in the complex. I don't think their mother had been able to care for them or else they probably would have been with her because they only looked to be about 4-6 weeks old.

Anyway, like I said, me and the other kid managed to chase them down and I scooped them up and handed one to the kid and kept the other for myself. We both planned to beg our parents to let us keep the kittens.

We went to my house first, but before we could go in, I noticed the girl wasn't holding her kitten properly (she had her grip around its chest), so I told her to give him to me because she wasn't holding him right. Well, this only made her grip the kitten tighter as she held it away from me, and I eventually started screaming for my dad to come out. He did and I told him what she was doing and he immediately played the commanding adult and ordered her to hand the kitten over. She reluctantly did and I remember seeing the kitten curled up in the palm of my father's hand (that's how small the kittens were). It took a few gasps of breath and then nothing more. My dad said it was dead and the girl immediately started asking for my kitten to replace hers. I remember feeling absolutely panicked because I knew my kitten would be dead within the hour if I handed it over, so I pleaded with my dad to let me keep it and he agreed, as long as I remembered to feed it and take care of it. I agreed. The girl gave me dirty looks and then ran off home. My dad and I buried the kitten in the junkyard near our house.

Junior was a great companion. I remember playing with him with a red and white fishing line bob tied to a length of green twine. I would swing it back and forth like a pendulum and he would run back and forth trying to catch it, but I never let him have it. I remember my mom saying I had to let him catch it sometimes or he would lose interest and wouldn't want to play with me anymore, but he never did and I would swing that thing for an hour and he'd keep chasing it. I think he understood the game better than my mom. It was the chase that was fun.

Junior always slept with me, against the wishes of my mom, because while I was asleep, he would curl up around the top of my head and play with my hair all night, so that when I woke up in the morning, I had a tangle in my hair the size of my fist. I would cry and struggle as my mom combed it out, but I never once thought about moving Junior away from my head. I liked having him play with my hair. It was soothing and he enjoyed it, so even though it wasn't really a conscious decision, somewhere in my mind I decided it was worth the pain.

Junior also had fleas. It got so bad that I started walking on the furniture to get from the tiled kitchen through the living room to my bedroom. Otherwise, if I stood on the carpet in the living room for even a few seconds with calf-high socks on, I could see dozens of fleas jump onto my socks. But compared to the roaches, mice, and ants, it was just another nuisance.

Unfortunately, I think it was flea bites that made Junior sick. He started getting these thumb-nail sized sores on the back of his neck. This was after my father had gone to prison for molesting/raping me and money was tight, partly because there was less of it, but also because my mother just had no idea how to maintain a budget. So, my mom told me there was no money for vet bills, so we had to take him to the animal shelter. I remember crying and begging her not to give him up, but there was no dissuading her. I think I remember asking one of the people at the shelter what would happen to him, and I think I got the impression that if what was wrong with him was simple to fix, he'd get treatment and be put up for adoption. If not, he'd be put to sleep. I have no idea which way it went.

My next pet was another kitten I named Dakota because I'd been reading about the Sioux and learned it meant "friend." I think I was about 10 or 11 because I had finished 4th grade and had been out of school for the beginning of 5th grade because my mom and I had been living in a homeless shelter for several months. The shelter normally had a limit of 30 days, but they kept letting us stay longer because my mom was very good at the "poor me" story of how she kept looking for a place for us to live, but nobody wanted kids or the rent was too much, etc.

Finally, we were referred to a woman who I think had either previously been at the shelter or was just some kind of affiliate. We went to interview for the room in her house and her cat had recently had kittens, and I just went crazy for them and played with them the whole time. I remember the woman asking me what kind of kid I was (basically, would I disrupt her household and break her stuff) and me being the little adult I was, I clearly stated how quiet I was, I got straight A's, etc. She also said I could have one of the kittens if she decided to let us move in. Well, she did and I got Dakota.

I don't remember much about Dakota. It was a very hard time for me. I developed severe schoolphobia and would miss days, sometimes weeks, of school. The school was a year-round school, so by the time I was ready to come back, the track I was on would be on vacation, so they'd switch me to another track, but then I'd start missing school again, etc. What I do remember is my mom finally making the decision to move a few cities over to be closer to her sister. I kept wanting to move back to my other school, which I had gone to from 1st through 4th grade, where all my friends and favorite teachers were, so I was not happy about that decision. But my mom found another room to rent, so we moved.

Dakota turned out to be female and went into heat. I don't think the family we were living with enjoyed the late night yowling (I can't say I did either because we had to keep her in the small bedroom with us and Dakota could go on for hours). Anyway, one day, they left the front door open (after we had asked them to keep it shut) and off she went. I never saw her again.

My next pet was a puppy. The man my mom and I were renting a room from brought him home one day from some people with a cardboard box of "free puppies" outside the grocery store. He named the puppy Petite (but called him Pete for short) because the dog was a small Maltese Cockapoo and the man knew the French word meant "small." So, technically, he wasn't my pet, but after the first night of listening to him whimper and whine all night because the asshole locked him up in the upstairs bathroom with a ticking clock (to supposedly mimic his mother's heartbeat), so he'd get used to being by himself, I took over. I was 13 and had been in adult mode since I was 7, trying to take care of my mom and just survive my life, but by that time I was also starting to recognize I had some power and I didn't have to just accept what the adults in my life were doing. I was finally starting to rebel against things that went against my sense of morality and I refused to stand by and watch the dog be abused. So, I just started keeping him in my room and when the man asked where the dog was, I told him I was taking care of him so he wouldn't have to. He seemed to accept that and continued to buy dog food and stuff for him, so my mom couldn't bitch at me about it costing us money.

A short while later, the man came home with a kitten (named Tux because of her black coloring with white paws and chest like a tuxedo). Pete and Tux would run through the house for hours. Pete would chase Tux going in one direction and then when they came back, Tux would be chasing Pete. It was hilarious. But I never really took over Tux's care, except to explain to the man why she wouldn't eat right next to her litter box under the stairs, so I don't consider her one of my pets. However, one of the other people renting a room upstairs had taken a shine to her and took her with him when he moved out, but me and the other people living there told the landlord that she must have run away. He was drunk all the time and rather dimwitted, so he never made the connection that she disappeared when the guy moved out.

Pete was a great dog. He was very smart. I trained him so that he would only bite when I was wearing a certain burgundy leather glove. In fact, as soon as he saw it, he'd start biting it before I could even get it on. But if I took the glove off and tried to get him to bite me (I even put my hand in his mouth to test him), he would just look at me all slack-jawed like, "You're kidding, right? I'm not gonna bite you." He always slept with me, came when I called, played fetch, etc. The only problem he ever really had was getting too excited when the doorbell rang. Actually, he'd start freaking out when people just walked by on the sidewalk in front of the house. I used to say he could hear the ants crawling on the sidewalk out there. But when he'd get excited, he'd pee. Like I said, it was his one major flaw.

About a year and a half later, my mom finally decided I could have my own dog, so we answered a classified ad and got a puppy. Her mother was this huge German Shepherd and the owners said they didn't know who the father was. It was either a Samoan or a Chow from the neighborhood. I named her Heloj Okuloj (Esperanto for "light eyes" pronounced hell-oy oak-oo-loy) because she had these pretty light blue-gray eyes and I had just started learning about Esperanto. However, it was a bit of a mouthful, so I called her Okie for short. At 8 weeks, which is when I was allowed to take her (I first met her at 6 weeks), she was already bigger than Pete who was fully grown. But being a puppy, size didn't matter, and she followed Pete around like he was the end-all, be-all of the universe. She wasn't quite the fast learner that Pete had been, but she was really sweet and I loved her.

Then, on my 15th birthday, a police officer came to the door based on a report my therapist had made about my reports that I was being abused by the other people renting rooms in the house. I'd stayed home from school and the officer was there to take me to the station so I could make a "cool call" (that's where the police record the phone call to the suspect in hopes of getting a confession) to one of the men living in the house who had been molesting me with his wife and best friend. I got him to admit everything he'd done so that when they arrested him, they played his confession to him and he pled guilty and they didn't have to go through a costly trial (he received 8 months work furlough, meaning he went to jail, but got to leave to go to work). The detectives talked to me and found out the landlord had also been feeling me up during his daily drunken hazes, that my mom knew about all this (and was sleeping with him, too), so basically, even though I was pretty much self-sufficient and taking care of myself, I wasn't doing too good a job in some respects, so they decided to remove me from my mother's home until she could find another, and better, place to live (she never did and I never lived with her again).

So, I went into what I thought then was temporary foster care. A few weeks later, I found out my dogs were being kept outside in a so-called "dog run" that was about 8 feet long by 4 feet wide next to the garage with an overhang of about 4 inches and it had been raining for several days. I told my mom to come pick me up, we went to the house, put the dogs in the car, and took them to the same animal shelter we'd taken Junior to. I was told that they routinely put down Chows because of their unpredictable aggressive behavior and that I should just put down for Okie's father that he was a Samoan mix. I was told there would be a 14-day quarantine period, and if they survived that with no problems, then they'd be put up for adoption. I have no idea what happened to them, but I hope they found good homes. I think Okie, if they didn't peg her as part Chow, probably did fine because she was only a few months old and looked like a big, fluffy Golden Retriever. But I've always worried about Pete because I was pretty much his whole world. He didn't like strangers and never listened to anyone else but me. I can only hope that someone saw past that and took him home and he decided to forget me and love another human.

My next pet was a cat I named Dakota again (Dak for short), but actually it was the house cat for the group home I was living in. I was about 16 and the Program Director had purposely put me in charge of the cat because she knew I needed something to care for. I was routinely suicidal, but taking care of the well-being of an animal helped keep me focused on living. However, there were kids living in the house who were HIV+, and eventually, an edict came down from the Executive Director that no cats were allowed in the group homes anymore because of the potentially fatal problems that could be caused by the litter boxes for the HIV+ kids. Those kids weren't happy about losing the cat either and thought it was really unfair, so I never blamed them or anything, but it was still hard. At least I knew Dak went to a good home because the Program Director decided to keep him.

My next pet was Akasha, who I named after the Queen of the Vampires from Anne Rice's novel, which I was reading at the time (I wasn't sure what sex Kash was when she was first born, so if she'd been a boy, she would have been Enkil, after the Queen's husband). I just liked the name and only later found out it comes from Sanskrit for "ether" in reference to the spirit element (earth, air, fire, and water being the other elements). Just before my 18th birthday, I came back from Michigan, where my adopted sister had sent me to stay with some friends when I ran away from the group home when I was 17. Her and her roommate had taken in a stray who was pregnant and when she gave birth, my sister promised me I could have one of the kittens.

I think she thought the same thing the Program Director at the group home had, which was that if I promised to take care of an animal, my honor and sense of responsibility (not to mention the emotional connection I made to the animal) would keep me from committing suicide in order to keep my promise. There were several close calls (it was a really crazy year, which we've always referred to as the "Year of Hell"), but when my sister wasn't there to talk me down, I had images of my cat looking for me and me not being there to make me stop and reconsider.

Anyway, I chose Akasha from the litter of 8 because she had the same markings as Junior, my first cat (except her stripes were more gray; Junior's stripes were brown). Of course, my sister fell in love with the runt of the litter, who she named Guim (originally, I remember it being "gwym" for the personal ads listing the acronym for "gay white young male", but somewhere along the line, she changed it to Guim). We had to keep pushing aside his brothers so he could nurse, but finally on the third day, his mom licked him clean, so we knew he would make it. When we moved out into our own apartment when they were 6-8 weeks old, we took them with us.

We had planned to get one of them fixed, but before I knew it, one day I was playing on my Nintendo and looked over to see Guim mounting Kash. I told my sister and we took Guim to be neutered the next day. Of course, it was a little too late by then, and Kash gave birth a couple months later to 3 kittens, one of which was Felix (my sister named her and the original spelling was Feel Licks, but that always seemed a bit much to me, so I changed it to the standard spelling).

At first, I didn't like Felix. She was a little bully. She constantly attacked her two brothers. I've since learned from a documentary that female cats that were between male cats in the womb tend to be more aggressive, so I'm guessing that's probably what happened.

Anyway, my sister was trying find homes for the kittens and I really wanted to keep one, but I wanted to keep the one that looked like Kash. However, my sister said it would be easier to place the male cats, so she wanted me to keep Felix. She was rather insistent (and manipulative, and sneaky... :)). She would pick up Felix and put her on me or in the crook of my neck when I was laying down, and Felix would start purring and cuddling into my neck and sleeping and just generally being too cute for words. So I caved.

Seriously, could you have said no to that face? :)

And now Felix is my baby, my familiar, and in general my favorite and most loved pet I've ever had.

She is very sweet and quite bratty all at once. She knows she's cute and uses that to her advantage. There's also the piercingly loud meow that will make you do just about anything to get her to shut up already.

But back to Kash, which I've obviously skipped over a bit. That's because it really hurts to think about her right now (see previous posts).

When she was younger, she was kind of standoffish. She didn't cuddle very much and she hated to be picked up (that part never really changed until just these last few weeks). But after she got pregnant, she became a lap kitty. Corene and I called her Stealth Kitty because we'd be watching TV and all of a sudden we'd notice Kash was in one of our laps and we couldn't remember her climbing into it.

Akasha has actually had many nicknames over the years. Here are the ones I can remember. Kash, Kasha, Kashi, Kashi-Go-Lean, Mama Bat Cat, Mama Bat, Stealth Kitty, Slut Kitty, Skinny Bones, Skinny Butt, Little One, Sweetie, Squeaker, Old Woman, Mouser.

She also sounded a lot like her mother, who we used to joke must have been an old woman who smoked all the time in her previous life because her meow was more scratchy than actual sound. But Kash had a bit of sound to her meow, and when we picked her up, she would squeak (hence the above nickname).

She also was a little catnip addict. We found these really cool cloth mice stuffed with catnip at Wal-Mart, so every Winter Solstice, we put a couple in Kash and Felix's stockings and let them go to town on them on the day. They both would rub and love on them for quite a while, and then go into that drugged haze afterwards, but Kash seemed to find them and go back to them more often. Of course, they both treated them like prey, so every now and then, we'd see one of them with a mouse in their jaws making the "I have bounty, come partake of it" meow.

Kash now has the distinction of being the first pet I've had from birth to death. With her, I was finally allowed to take care of her the way I wanted to, not give her up because of circumstances outside my control. I was an adult when I got her, so I didn't have to bow down to other people's decisions.

I think when I was younger and other people were in control of my life, I sometimes wondered if I would be any better at taking care of my pets than those people. Well, I don't wonder anymore. Kash had a good life with me. I just wish it had been longer.

Doing My Job

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Written by Kodi Wolf at 3:16 AM

I recently watched The American President and realized one of my favorite lines from that movie actually applies to me: I've been so busy trying to keep my job, I forgot to do my job.

I've been so wrapped up in trying to improve my stories and create the new membership site to protect them that I've stopped producing those stories the way I used to, one chapter at a time.

I think part of the reason I haven't focused my writing efforts more on getting new chapters ready to post is because I've known that I wasn't going to post anything new until I got the membership site up and running. While that has been incomplete (and some days I've even considered it up in the air because I've been on the verge of chucking the whole idea and just taking my stuff down), I haven't really felt any impetus to work on the next chapters for my stories.

Instead, when I have worked on my stories (in between all the life crap that's been getting in the way or trying to get the new membership site done), I've tended to focus on editing what I've already written, or working on scenes that come later in the stories, or working on unposted stories, or researching facts and ideas.

All of those are certainly valid endeavors and need to be done, but they haven't really let me feel like I've accomplished anything. And they certainly don't let my readers feel like I'm still actively working on my stories. If I had new consecutive chapters ready, even if I didn't post them until the new site was done, I could at least tell my readers that they were written (I'm not going to lie and say they are when they're not). Instead, I have half-finished rewrites, partial scenes, and various "snippets" scattered throughout my stories without a single "next" chapter completed.

Because of the numerous edits I'm in the middle of for The Vampire Hunter, it's unrealistic to expect myself to be able to work on the next chapter in that series, since until those edits are finalized, that next chapter is somewhat up in the air.

But none of my other posted stories are in such tatters. So, rather than beat myself up for getting so sidetracked, I'm going to try to let all that other crap go and really put some effort into working on my stories on a regular basis the way I used to. If I'm in the mood to edit, then I will, but I really want to move forward. I love writing and I feel like I've lost sight of that with all the distractions of day-to-day life stuff coming up and my mistaken belief that I had to get the new site done before I could focus on my stories again.

So, I'm hereby giving myself permission to make writing my top priority, not finishing the new site.

The new site will get done when it gets done.

Comments:

rebeccac said...

May 13, 2009 3:49 PM

I know whats its like to have a busy lifestyle. However,id like to thank you for posting this to keep your readers updated.:)))

mels_angelbard said...

June 13, 2009 11:30 PM

Hi Kodi I have always loved your stories I wouldn't mind paying for a yearly subscription thought I would love to re read the stories thus far as a refresher specially Assassins and Hunters

Kodi, I have kept an eye on this membership proyect of yours...I still remember when your originsal stories were tagger uber xena and I read them for the first time...I LOVED EM

I've Started Renovations Again

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Written by Kodi Wolf at 10:04 PM

I've finished tiling the hallway and have now moved on to the kitchen. I'm hoping it will only take me another month or two. I have to do it in sections, partly because I have to move stuff around (the stove and refrigerator for one area, the dining table and cat tower in another, and the rolling island in another), but also because of the fibromyalgia. Even the small sections take a lot out of me. Corene is helping with the prep by moving stuff and cleaning the floor and then sanding the leveler between coats, but I'm the one laying down the leveler and the tile, which is pretty intense work for me. I don't think it would be so hard if it didn't force me to use every muscle in my body all at the same time for the whole time. My muscles start shaking from overuse about halfway through, which just annoys the hell out of me. Of course, the next couple days I just end up aching all over, but waiting for my body to feel better gives me a chance to work on the site, so it's not all bad. :)

So far, I've managed to design chapter menu buttons that fit in with the rest of the site's design and code the CSS so that they display properly, and I've created Membership Info pages, though they need some serious tweaking because I've changed my mind about some stuff.

Anyway, once I get the kitchen tiling done, there will only be the pantry left to do, and then some odds and ends of caulking, painting the front and back doors, etc.

And then I'll finally be able to focus on my writing again. For some reason, when there are practical things that require my energy, I end up not having any creative energy for writing. For example, according to my Master List of Progress Reports, which I've been diligently keeping updated, the last time I worked on anything was May 20. I started prepping for laying tile in the hallway the next day and haven't done more than jot a note here and there since, so I know it seriously affects my writing.

So, hopefully this will be the last year of renovations. However, as my wife says, "Even though your writing has suffered, at least the house looks great. And you have a much prettier environment to write in now." :)

Comments:

Anonymous said...

June 16, 2009 11:16 PM

pace yourself with that fibro. But sounds like you're doing creative work, just in a different field. Much success to you.

I Want My Brain Back

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Written by Kodi Wolf at 6:52 PM

One of my new doctors decided to prescribe Cymbalta (Duloxetine) for my fibromyalgia pain. It's an SNRI (Serotonin and Noradrenaline Reuptake Inhibitor) and was originally approved for treating depression, but has since started being used to treat other problems. I figured what the hell, if it'll help, I'll try anything once.

When we discussed side effects, I mentioned several drugs I'd been on when I was a teenager, and she said it would be most like Pamelor (Nortriptyline - it's a Tricyclic antidepressant). Pamelor never seemed to do much except dull me out, so I figured the side effects would be minimal.

Oh my gods, could I have been any more wrong?

Within a couple hours of taking the first dose, I started this yawning thing with jaw tremors and an intense need to cry out as I finished yawning, and then there was this sort of gasping thing I had to do because I felt like I couldn't breathe afterwards. Intead of yawning being something that took a few seconds out of my day, each yawn became like some kind of mini panic attack that lasted for about a minute. And I was yawning about every couple minutes for half-hour blocks of time over several hours.

Well, I decided if that was the worst of it, I could deal with it, because the next day, I felt like almost all of my fibro pain was gone. Unfortunately, I felt completely washed out and was a little annoyed I couldn't take advantage of being relatively pain-free. Instead, I was relegated to sitting in front of my computer playing Monopoly and other simple computer games to keep me occupied because I didn't feel like I could handle anything more mentally active, but I didn't want to just sit and watch TV all day.

By the third day, I felt like some of my fibro pain had returned and I realized through my dulled out state that my regular insomnia was not my regular insomnia. I'd been having trouble sleeping (falling asleep and then staying asleep) even though I felt utterly exhausted all the time. Normally, once I hit that exhausted "my brain doesn't work anymore" state, I'm out like a light and the only thing that wakes me up is Felix meowing in my ear for me to roll over so she can cuddle with me or a desperate need to pee. Instead, I was laying there, my brain not really working to the point that I was no longer freaking out about sleeping the way I usually do, but I still couldn't fall asleep. But I didn't have any energy to get up and read or play a computer game or even watch a movie, so I was just laying there not sleeping and kind of in a haze.

I also noticed a few other things. My throat felt tight and achy most of the time, making it difficult to swallow and nearly impossible to sing (something I like to do quite often and usually at the top of my lungs when I'm alone). My chest felt tight, too. I was also rocking almost constantly, something I usually only do when I'm in pain or having extreme anxiety. I was also more nauseous than usual and my constipation increased significantly. I also found it difficult to focus my eyes for reading, making it a real strain both mental and physical. My restless leg syndrome also intensified beyond anything I've experienced before, making my whole body feel twitchy, not just my legs, and it hit me throughout the day, not just at night when I was overtired, which is when it usually hits me (even then, it usually only lasts for maybe 5-10 minutes max, while this was lasting for a half hour or longer).

Then came the fourth night. Everything was going the same as before and then I started feeling weird. Then weird became anxious. Then anxious increased until I was rocking and my breathing increased to just under gasping and I thought I was losing my mind. After about an hour of this, I finally said, "fuck it," and woke up Corene, even though she'd only had a couple hours sleep (it was a Friday night, so even though I felt bad, I knew she didn't have to get up for work, so it wasn't too inconvenient).

But actually, I didn't wake her up. What I did was walk into our bedroom and stand next to the bed on her side and pet her upper arm. Petting her arm was sort of soothing and I was just barely holding onto sanity and couldn't quite make the transition to action even though in my head I wanted her to wake up. After a few minutes, she finally woke up and realized I wasn't quite acting like myself and asked what was wrong and I told her I was freaking out and I thought I was probably having a reaction to the drug. She said okay and sat up and told me it was okay and pulled me into a hug.

My breathing was still out of control and I almost hyperventilated and started sort of crying out as the anxiety intensified to a level I'm not sure I've ever experienced before. I mean when I have a regular old panic attack I feel like I'm screaming in my head and I can't breathe, etc., but it's a kind of paralyzing thing and I'm physically aware that those are feelings and I'm not actually screaming and my breathing is steady. With this, I was actually acting out my anxiety.

I told Corene that nothing felt right, that I felt weird and like I was insane and not in my body, and then when we moved to another room, I realized gravity had shifted on me.

This wasn't what I would normally refer to as dizziness or vertigo. Those words tend to mean to me a feeling like the room is spinning or the floor is trying to slip out from beneath my feet. No, this literally felt like gravity was shifting and I was being pulled in one direction or another and I had to hold onto furniture and doorframes and walls, actually pushing against them, to keep from tumbling over. I've never felt anything like it in my life.

Then, after I started to calm down a little, I noticed a kind of buzzing in my body, like something was vibrating inside me.

Eventually, I calmed down and pretty much vowed never to take the drug again, but over the weekend, Corene and I talked and I decided if I could cut the dose in half, I would be willing to try it again in the hopes of getting at least some of the benefit without the intense side effects.

I called my doctor on Monday and she told me to try taking it every other day and at bedtime in hopes that I would sleep through the side effects and not feel so anxious. I took it that night and felt the weirdness return, though it didn't quite get to the level it was at the previous Friday, but the restless legs thing kicked into high gear and the last thing I remember is waking up from a light doze and thinking, "oh good, at least my legs finally stopped." My legs were actually sore from tensing so much and for so long. I think the only reason I was able to fall asleep at all was because I took a Darvocet for pain from a neck muscle I'd pulled earlier that evening (and believe me, that was not fun with my legs jerking all over the place for half an hour and jarring my neck).

So I've basically decided that's it. I'm not taking it again. None of the side effects are worth the reduced pain, which had started coming back after only a couple days anyway. I thought I was non-functional before, but on this stuff, I'm beyond non-funtional. I feel like I need a babysitter.

I think I've also sworn off messing with my brain chemistry ever again. Every time I try, I end up worse off than I was before.

The original reason the doctor wanted to put me on Cymbalta was to help with my daily headaches (she's a headache specialist). She told me to stop taking Sudafed and ibuprofen because they probably weren't helping and might even be making my pain worse. The Cymbalta was supposed to take the place of the ibuprofen and be "better" for me.

I wasn't really taking that much ibuprofen before and I haven't had any since starting the Cymbalta, so I don't think that's going to change. I mean if I took a pain med every time I had pain, I'd be on the stuff 24/7, so I tend to just grit my teeth and bear it most of the time. I hate taking any kind of medication, so if I can get by without it, I do.

But you know, I'm not likely to freak out on ibuprofen. I don't rock or feel like gravity has shifted or like I'm not real when I take ibuprofen. So I think I'm going to stick with something I know won't make me lose my mind.

And don't even let me get started on the rest of the past couple months... Oh what the hell, why not?

Back at the end of May, I broke out in hives all over my body and ended up in the ER, where they gave me two shots in the hip of steroids and Benadryl. I was referred to an allergy specialist a week or so later who tested me and concluded I'm allergic to all crustaceans, dust mites, shrimp, and cockroaches, though there's no telling what actually caused me to have such an intense allergic reaction. He told me my immune system appears to be a tad "twitchy" and just to be careful, and then he gave me some Epi-pens and put me on Nasonex.

A few weeks later, I went back for a checkup with the allergy doctor and after mentioning I have headaches every day, he told me that's "abnormal" and referred me to the headache specialist mentioned above.

During June and most of July, I finished tiling the kitchen, laying down the baseboards and trim, etc. Someday, I'll post pictures.

Finally, at the beginning of August, I got to go on a 6-day vacation to the beach for my family's biennial reunion. I got to relax and spend time with my wife and family with nothing more pressing to do than make sure I had enough sunscreen on before getting in the water.

Of course, the day before we were supposed to leave, I got a sinus infection, which pretty much put me out of commission for the next couple weeks.

Then last week I went to the headache specialist mentioned above who diagnosed my headaches as migraines (yay, another diagnosis). I'm currently scheduled for a series of 3 nerve block/trigger point treatment shots in my back and neck for the month of September.

Then on Monday I went and pulled a muscle in my neck to the point that I could barely move my head in any direction without immediate sharp pain. At least it's gotten a little better and my chiropractor said I should be mostly healed in a week or so. Of course, he also said I should take ibuprofen for its anti-inflammatory properties because my muscles have all spasmed and locked up. I still haven't decided whether to do it or not. I'd really like to be able to walk into the doctor's office and say even though I refuse to take the Cymbalta anymore, I'm at least trying to follow her other advice about the pain meds. I guess it's a pride thing.

Corene says this is the exception to the rule, though, since I wouldn't be taking the ibuprofen for pain, but for inflammation.

Needless to say, writing has taken a back seat yet again, and it's really starting to piss me off. I feel like I'm still in a fog from the Cymbalta, like my stories are there, just under the surface, but I can't get to them. That creative spark I'm used to feeling every day (even if I've been pushing it aside because I have to focus on other stuff) feels muffled, almost like I don't care. I really hope that goes away the longer I'm off the Cymbalta.

At this point, I just want my brain back.

So, how's your summer been? :)

Comments:

Ceredwyn said...

August 28, 2009 1:22 PM

Awwwwww, sweety.

petpetpetpetpetpetpet

Cymbalta does have some pretty odd side effects. The yawning thing is actually pretty common from what I understand--often accompanied with weird twitchy neurological stuff (some people have orgasms every time they yawn fer instance).

Take the fucking ibuprofen.:)

Anonymous said...

September 24, 2009 9:19 PM

I also have had a history with fibromyalgia, and my doctor prescribed a drug commonly used for epilepsy. It's only function was to stop the constant spasms in my muscles. It worked great. After a day or 2 my back & neck relaxed and I was actually able to sleep thru the night and dream. That was something I hadn't done in literally years.

After reading your post I looked up this drug and according to what I have been seeing about Cymbalta, you were having a severe allergic reaction to the drug.

I am by no means any kind of doctor, but it seems to me your doctor should have seen the symptoms you describe as an allergic reaction and discontinued use immediately.

I would stay w/the ibuprofen and ask your fibromyalgia doctor about the epilepsy drug. My doctor specialized in fibromyalgia and had as part of my therapy back massage,chiropractic adjustments and relaxation exercises. If you are at all interested you can contact me and I will try to find out what the drug name was. I had contacted you earlier via email regarding paid subscriptions to your site and just signed up today.

I sincerely hope that you find a safe solution to your pain.

Ann Maijala

Anonymous said...

November 7, 2009 10:02 PM

I have come to find you after having lost you for quite some time. The website is looking truly incredible. Always glad to see you have been working on the vampire hunter series. :-) Just want you to know you are on my mind and I am sending you good thoughts. One more thing, go see someone specializing in auto-immune disorders. Fibro falls into this category. They say the auto immune disorders are not typically hereditary, but I and my 3 sisters all have different types of these disorders (rheumatoid arthritis, fibromyalgia, sarcoidosis, or some combination of these). I also agree about taking the damn ibuprofen. Remember that you are your own best advocate.

Sending you healing thoughts...

I Think I'm Starting To Come Back

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Written by Kodi Wolf at 9:24 AM

I've been writing. Actual writing. Not notes, not snippets. Actual scenes with description and dialogue and emotions and whole sentences even.

It feels a little scary to write that because I'm afraid it's going to go away again. Shit just keeps happening to pull me away from my writing.

After ditching the Cymbalta, I started feeling a little more like myself towards the end of September, but I was still in a funk and mostly just worked on editing stuff. There just wasn't a whole lot of creative spark in me. I felt muffled.

Then at the beginning of October, I decided to start a new exercise program (swimming, a little weight lifting) with my wife to try to feel better (and to lose some weight; I'm back up to 189lbs), so that sort of took all my focus and energy. Since I still felt kind of muddled from the Cymbalta, I figured focusing on the physical might help, and I think it did. I was jotting down more notes and organizing my story ideas, and I even finished two new chapters of Lights of Life (no, they're not posted; they haven't even been beta-ed yet).

But then, about halfway through October, I got sick with bronchitis. I've had bronchitis before where I just feel like crap and am constantly coughing up junk, etc. But this... I never coughed up anything. My lungs just felt like they'd gone down to about 20% efficiency (sorry, I've been watching a lot of Star Trek :)).

Even a month after finishing off the antibiotics, I still felt like I'd been running a marathon after just walking the 15-20 feet from the living room to the office, and going shopping with Corene required her pushing me around in a wheelchair half the time because I simply couldn't do it on my own.

But it's finally been getting better and I'm having a lot more days where I don't feel like I'm carrying a fifty-pound weight on my chest anymore. I've actually been doing some housework again, and I even put up the winter decorations (Solstice/Christmas tree, etc.), so I know I'm feeling better (though it did take me several days, instead of the one or two it has in the past).

And now, like I said, I've actually been writing. It's made me realize I need to fantasize and visualize more. I need to go to those worlds inside my head and just play. I haven't been playing enough.

I think I get so wrapped up in just getting through the day sometimes, whether it's trying to control my anxiety or work up the energy to do some dishes or balance the checkbook or whatever, that I haven't been allowing myself the freedom to enjoy my creativity, to actually focus on it and put it first. I tend to put it down and treat it like an indulgence. But in a lot of ways it isn't. It's a necessity.

There are two times when I'm at my happiest. The first (and this may be an overshare, but what the hell) is right after having sex with my wife and we're cuddling and talking and just being close with each other, intimate. It's the kind of happiness usually referred to as contentment. Everything feels right in my world. And then there's the time when I'm writing. That kind of happiness I think I would call joy. It's me being me at my best, doing what I feel like I was born to do, what I love to do.

So, I think I'm going to go be me. :)

I just thought I would update everyone, since it's been a few months.

Take care.

Comments:

Marie said...

December 13, 2009 10:22 PM

Merry Christmas/Happy Solstice, whatever you celebrate. Glad to hear you're writing again and feeling better. Hope 2010 will be better for you.