We are, it would seem, squarely out of the woods. And our minds.

The little one who wouldn’t play? Now she won’t stop. Nelly not pictured in the video. She was off plundering and/or conquering foreign lands. I’m now pretty convinced she’s half Viking.

Day One: Sunday

“The good part is, you will be able to put them down humanely.”

I stared at the vet tech, put my hand over my mouth and choked on a sob. At eight weeks old, the kittens had contracted feline distemper, a virus that, with rare exceptions, is lethal in kittens. Mama cat had been adopted the day before and the antibodies from her breast milk had run their course. The kittens were defenseless.

“We call it the ‘wasting away disease,’” she said. “Their immune systems are simply too immature to fight it.”

When the tech took the kittens into the back to make them more comfortable with fluids and anti-nausea injections, I sank into a chair and cried, my mouth buried in the crook of my arm to muffle the sound of hysteria. A text from my mother read, “Best thing is to say goodbye.” Our family had dealt with distemper before. It was devastating.

I gathered up the kittens, the antibiotic I knew we had little hope of keeping in their violently churning tummies, paid the vet and went home to cry pitilessly into my husband’s shoulder. Once the kittens had fallen asleep, I began scouring the internet for information on Feline Panleukopenia. I shouldn’t have. It was horrifying. Nothing I read gave me any hope of them lasting more than three days; I understood then why the vet had only given me five days worth of medication. He knew they would be dead before it ran out.

Medical science told me to let them go. But I could not. My reading told me that the virus was like the parvo virus in dogs. Our family had dealt with parvo before, too. It required around-the-clock, intensive care, forced fluids and nutrition. And faith. Else, how could you spend hour after hour battling something you can’t see? If I could keep the kittens alive long enough to develop antibodies against the virus, they could make it. But first I had to take on fever spikes, drops in body temperature, shock and dehydration. So I held them while they shivered, tucked them inside my sweatshirt and cried streams of snot onto my sleeve. “I’m sorry,” I said, over and over. “You deserve better than this. Better than me.”

In-hospital care would have cost $500 per kitten, per day. It was simply not an option for us. I was eaten up with remorse and guilt.

Day Two: Monday

Every two hours, day and night, I gathered up the babies and squirted Pedialyte from a syringe into their tiny mouths. They shuddered and cried and I stroked their backs while I whispered, “Please don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up.” They did anyway. We took two trips, one in the morning and one at night, to the vet for fluids and anti-nausea injections. At 4:00AM, Nelly drank on her own. Nelly, who twelve hours before had convinced me of the doctor’s advice to let them go. Each time her body heaved to throw up, bloody water came out the other end.

“How long can I let them go on like this?” I asked my husband, a hand over my face to hide the ugliness of my agony.

“Until you know the medicine will or won’t work.”

With Nelly stabilizing, I had a bit of hope we could save at least one. The others fought through unbearable nausea and debilitating diarrhea, crying when their stomachs cramped hard enough to force thin, foamy water from their otherwise empty tummies.

My husband woke me between feedings. “What happened? Is everything okay?” I had been crying in my sleep.

Day Three: Tuesday

I took another sick day to nurse the kittens, sleeping while they slept. Two more trips to the vet (after a kind and generous gift from a Facebook friend I’d never even met, continued care was made much more doable) and countless attempts at peeling Nelly off my yoga pants when she’d scamper up them to perch on my shoulder like a parrot. The runt of the litter, it both surprised me and didn’t that she had such verve. Such fight. When she went into the litter box and, for the first time in days, did not cry, I clapped when she produced a real poop. No one has ever been so happy to see poop, ever. Twelve hours later, Hamilton followed suit.

Day Four: Wednesday

With two kittens stabilized and two still showing little progress, I had to go back to work, stomach sick from constant worry. Gentry wouldn’t eat and Holly wouldn’t engage. At lunch, I went home to do a round of fluids and food and as I cradled Gentry, I heard a sound – the slightest little hint, barely perceptible, that he had a stuffy nose. Kittens who can’t smell don’t eat. I ran to the bathroom where the Little Noses baby nose spray was from our last Mission Impossible: Kitten Rescue and dosed him up. By evening, he was going back for thirds.

Day Five: Thursday

Holly isn’t much for playing yet (aside from toying with the string on my sweatshirt) but she’s eating, drinking and cuddling – no longer choosing to slink off and sleep alone under the sofa. Nelly and Hamilton are driving. me. effing. crazy. Which is to say, they feel great. Gentry is getting there, too.

I told my boss that I was going to sleep through the night and start wearing eye makeup again, because I feel safe in saying, we did it, no more crying. Yeah, it will have to be bargain basement eye make-up after $850 in vet bills over four days, but ask me if that’s too much to pay not to have to euthanize four eight-week-old babies. Or don’t ask; just have a look for yourself.

Nelly & Hamilton (who still needs a mommy)

Holly & Gentry

And last but not least, Mama Nox, in her new home with her new favorite boy, Caleb. All but Hamilton have new homes to go to (as soon as they’re all better) but this adoption gives me the most joy. I worried and worried and worried (as I do) that Mama Cat wouldn’t find a home. But someone scooped her up into a loving home with a little boy who wants nothing more than a kitty of his own to sleep on his bed. My heart hurts, a little, with how happy that makes me.

Hoo-boy, am I in a fix. To make a long story short, on Sunday, I rescued a mother cat and 4 3-week-old babies. The mother was starving so she was very amenable to being scooped up by the resident cat whisperer and is quite contentedly living in our spare room/office.

For now.

I am taking care of 9 cats. It’s exhausting. And expensive.

These lovely creatures need homes. They are the sweetest most exquisite little beings. I’ve spent the last several days hand-feeding the babies while mama got her strength back. What a handful! Last night, we learned how to lap from a dish! It was all very exciting. Everyone is getting strong, healthy and adventurous and so playful.

Here are some factoids:

1. Four babies and 1 mama, all very adoptable. The mama is less than a year old, sweet as anything and I’ve never met a cat who wanted to be loved so much. I get a lump in my throat thinking about what she went through, being uncared for.

2. Two boys, two girls. Currently named after Texas Rangers. KittenFace Gentry (don’t tell the others that he’s my favorite), Hamilton, Nelly and Holly (after Holland).

3. I will get them all fixed if I have to. I just can’t keep them. NINE CATS. DID YOU HEAR ME? NINE.

Please, pretty please, email me (thisfish at gmail dot com) if you live in the area and would like to meet them. Even if you can only foster! The no-kill shelters in the area are currently full but that won’t always be the case.

Please pass this on to anyone else you may know who has a big heart with room for a little fuzzball. The idea that they might not go to loving homes keeps me up at night with worry. They are so very sweet and helpless.

We are going out of state on the 25th – I’m desperate to get them caring parents by that time.

It’s impossible to get stills of these little guys right now – they wiggle! So here’s some video I captured a couple days ago.

Nelly Time

Holly Learns to Play

I’m still here. I have no intention of shutting down my blog completely, which is why I haven’t posted the official sign-off some of you are asking for. I might not have much to talk about right now, but that doesn’t mean it will always be that way.

In fact, last week, my nephew Andrew was born, which is among the most meaningful things I have ever participated in. His dad got very ill and I stepped in as birth partner to my sister. Extraordinarily moving. And I was going to post about it, but then I got back to my email and lo and behold, there were quite a few about the blog. And among the friendly how-are-you emails were a handful of why-haven’t-you-posted? and don’t-you-owe-your-readers-better? emails and it started to feel burdensome, right out of the gate.

Doing something out of obligation sucks all of the joy right out of it and all I want is to love it again, to actually need it again. Which may or may not make sense to you.

I’m living Ground Hog Day. Wherein Ground Hog Day is actually Pay the Bills Day. We’re living and working and sleeping and eating all with the goal of paying off our debt so we can start a family. We meet financial goals by maintaining a strict budget and we maintain a strict budget by not doing jack shit. That’s just the way it be. It is boring and repetitive and stifling sometimes. And it certainly isn’t anything to write about.

Since December of 2010, we have paid off roughly forty thousand dollars of credit card and student loan debt. We have about half of that left to pay and even typing that sentence makes me want to retreat back into the quiet of my spreadsheet. See?

It’s just the way things are and it won’t always be. So while I’m sorry to those I have offended by not making a proper exit, it’s just not something I’m ready to do.

Andrew Michael Christensen. Hours old and minutes away from puking down my shirt.

… but no one actually said they were sorry.

Thanks for the follow up Heather.

Upon review, the mention of Elizabeth Smart was used a punch line. A feeble, and tasteless attempt at a joke. It wasn’t mean to be mean spirited, but still–it was over the line

I regularly meet with the morning show, and all the on air staff here. It is their job to entertain in the “Ticket style” and sometimes in those attempts to be funny, they cross the line. When they do, it is my job to point out when they do cross the line, why, and how.  I discussed this with the guys, and they had received email about it too. And they also told me when the segment was over, they immediately felt they could’ve gone to far and felt bad about it.

Generally speaking, some topics (rape being one of them) just aren’t funny–no matter what.

Jeff

I haven’t heard an apology on air, and there wasn’t one in that letter. I don’t know about you, but to me, that’s not quite good enough.

Jeff,

Will they be making an on-air apology?

Heather

And we wait.

No they won’t.

Here is why, in part. Having done this for the past 18 years or so, its been my experience that an on air apology only causes further attention to a mistake that is already out there–and shouldn’t be revisited. I don’t want them to explain the joke, then the mystery created when they don’t explain it, causes a stir among the audience and makes it a greater issue due to runaway imaginations.

They made a mistake. I pointed it out to them, they already felt bad about it. It was addressed in a meeting and now they have to be allowed to correct it moving forward.

This is not unlike dealing with kids in many ways!

Jeff

I think I’m going to outsource all of my apologizing from now on. Who wants the job?

While not unexpected, I find your answer — particularly the last statement — to be so intriguing. One, I probably wouldn’t let kids run my radio station, but that’s beside the point. And two, from my 18 or so years of experience *being* a kid, I can tell you that were I in the wrong, I’d have been marched right over to whomever I wronged and been made to apologize (there’s this whole stealing gum incident that’s etched pretty clearly in my memory). My parents certainly didn’t do the apologizing for me, either. A “they felt bad” is not nearly the same thing as the culpable person saying, “I’m sorry.” Obviously this must be the industry standard, protecting the talent, but it seems very… unmanly.

But like you said, Kids.

So, while acknowledging it directly is clearly out of the question, I’m sure we all (your advertisers included) can look forward to the Musers’ eventual Public Service Announcement. Perhaps it can be a Limbaugh/Ticket joint production.

Have a good one, Jeff.

Well, this was not a boat I intended on rocking.

And honestly, I don’t look forward to the conversation in which I tell the Dork Lord that I’ve been boat-rockin’ his favorite radio station (I think he gets a wee bit weary of my ‘the world should be a better place’ on an endless loop). After reading some of your comments, however, I decided that it might be more effective to take my complaint to the source (and perhaps change something) than let it loose in the ethers to bounce around aimlessly.

Here’s my email to the program director:

Good afternoon Jeff,

I’ve debated with myself about sending this – whether or not there’s a point; what kind of outcome it could have. But I think it’s important, if only to say that I spoke up.

Here is what I know:

Elizabeth Smart was kidnapped when she was 14 years old. Taken as a “wife” by an insane man, she was raped and abused in ways that most would consider torture. Nine months later, she was found. Elizabeth Smart grew up, went to college and became a victims’ advocate for child abductions.

Smart married over the weekend.

Yesterday morning, I was listening as someone on your show referred to the event as her “second marriage.”

I was stunned. One, at the reference to her teenage ordeal as a “marriage,” and two, that no one on the show stopped to say, “Hey, man, that’s not cool.”

The comment doesn’t just show a lack of taste, but a disturbing lack of humanity and compassion for the victim of a brutal crime. Look, I get that it’s a bit. My husband reminds me about that almost every morning when I wrinkle my nose at some eye-roll inducing comment by Gordo, et al.  But this isn’t Kim Kardashian we’re having a big old laugh about. It’s a child rape victim. And whatever lines a person should or should not cross on the airwaves, I think mocking a child rape victim is one of them.

Morality is such a fuzzy thing, especially in the entertainment business. What’s right, what’s wrong, what makes a buck, what doesn’t. Believe me, I know. I think, though, that in this instance, it’s pretty clear that what was said wasn’t just wrong, it was gross.

Further, the segment went on to touch on “Lizzie Smart” and the emotional “baggage” she must have brought to that marriage. I will venture to guess that your hosts are unaware that statistically speaking, one in four women will have survived a rape or attempted rape by the time they are 14 years old. Your hosts are likely the husbands, brothers, uncles or fathers of a sexual assault victim. And yet.

Showing sensitivity to subjects like rape might not be entertaining, but it’s the right thing to do. It also makes marketing sense. Why?

Women are listening to your show. I’m listening to your show and I’m a pretty fair representation of the fastest growing demographic of sports fan. I’m a 30-something-year-old female sports fan, in charge of the household finances (and on top of it, a blogger with decent following). I’m one of three women in my department alone who stream the Ticket at work. Or women who did. After yesterday, I am not certain I will continue to listen. It seems like while sexism is simply an unfortunate part of the sports radio bit, yesterday crossed a line that made me realize I had a decision to make. Stand up or shut up.

I have chosen to stand up.

Thank you for your time, Jeff. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Heather Hunter

Here is his response:

Thanks Heather- I saw your blog. I have not had a chance to go back and review the segment and the comments myself. I did not hear them live yesterday.

Before I respond to your email, or address this with the guys, I need to hear it.

I appreciate where you are coming from–
thanks for the note
Jeff Catlin

What’s next, I suppose, is that he listens to the show and decides for himself whether the comment merits any discussion. Look, I’m not asking for heads on platters; I just want some respect for those who deserve it and for someone to acknowledge that rape is not ‘bit’ material.

I don’t know who these people are, but this is their wedding video and it is amazing.

Myra and Kenneth from Romantic Wedding Videos on Vimeo.

In the morning, while we’re getting ready for work, my and I husband listen to The Ticket – a sports radio station here in Dallas. The morning show, Dunham and Miller, ranges from sports chitchat to celebrity birthdays to news tidbits.

In general, I like sports radio. In general. But every so often, this show in particular crosses a line that gets my hackles up.  The ever-so-patronizing Women Say the Darndest Things About Sports segment, for instance, or more recently, the post-Grammy reference to Adele’s lineage as possible “chimney sweeps” because of her accent. But today. Today was not sexist or narrow-minded or crass. It was soulless.

It was beyond the pale, as Kimberly said.

Elizabeth Smart (who you remember was kidnapped at 14, raped and abused by a man who had taken her as his ‘wife’ before she was miraculously discovered wandering the streets nine months later and who went on to become a victims’ advocate) married over the weekend. Mazel tov!

The show’s host congratulated Smart on her “second marriage.”

I was stunned. In part, because the banter kept going without anyone pausing to say, “Whoa, man, that’s wrong,” like was done moments later when another voice piped in to question what kind of “baggage” a girl like “Lizzie Smart” must bring to a marriage. Frankly, I was stunned that someone could muster the bile to say that in the first place.

A million angry bubbles formed in my chest. Second marriage. Just like that. Like it’s Kim Kardashian we’re talking about and not a survivor of rape and systematic torture. The glibness of his comment, made from where he sits, behind a microphone, safe in the statistical unlikelihood that something bad (actually really bad – not like a scare at the dermatologist’s office) will ever happen to him, well, it makes me shake my head.

Because it’s disgusting. Arrogant and ignorant.

And just in case it needs to be said in regard to “Lizzie Smart” and her “baggage,” the statistics currently go a little something like this:

One in Four college women report surviving rape (15 percent) or attempted rape (12 percent) since their fourteenth birthday. And the lack of respectful dialogue about victims means that many, many more go unreported. You know what that says? It says Elizabeth Smart is not the only one bringing something heavy with her to a marriage. She may be in company with, say, the wife, daughter, niece or sister of a clueless sports radio personality.

Well, jeepers.

You guys. I’m sorry to be so absent, but I just don’t have anything to say. I’m not even interesting to myself right now and for the first time in a long time, don’t actually have a single story to tell. Everything in the last year was so full of turmoil or stress of one kind or another, my current day-to-day, in comparison, is so spectacularly dull. I mean, getting my very first ticket ever was this big nothing. I got pulled over. I got my ticket. I went on with life and because it wasn’t say, getting robbed or trying to save someone you love from starving themselves to death, the blemishing of my perfect record wasn’t quite the crisis situation I’d have imagined it to be.

My days go a little something like this: I go to work at a job I tragically, really like, so you know, there’s no drama to dig up there. I come home to  a husband I also really like. Sometimes we talk about his Chemistry homework. Sometimes we bake things. Most times we pile on the couch with our fur children and stay there real cozy like until bedtime. Lather, rinse, repeat.

See? Spectacularly dull.

You know Picasso’s Blue Period? Clearly this is Heather’s Lazy Period. And without the gift of retrospect, I have no idea how long it’s going to last. I do know that for someone who is (probably unhealthily) innervated by crisis, all this peace and quiet has been a bit disquieting. Naturally, I tell myself to enjoy it while it lasts but come on. Enjoy what? Seriously, give me a limping kitten to save or a dilapidated shack to renovate because, oh my god, I need something to do.

And then, surely, I’d have something to say.

This week, I flew halfway across the country to participate in an intervention for someone I love desperately. The intervention failed. We failed. I’m pretty sure that goes down in the books as the worst day of my life.

There’s a lot of brain energy – soul energy – that goes into an intervention. Weeks and months of worry and planning, so much heaviness hanging from such spindly threads of hope and then, in the aftermath, you’re left with so much nothingness. Food you don’t really taste and sleep that can’t leave you rested. And then there’s the anger, because everyone needs someone else to blame. Oddly, it feels like the dress rehearsal for mourning.