So they are going to keep him for a few days and try and get on top of the problem. We are worried about kidney damage, and his chemicals going way out of wack. And bladder rupture.
And I am thinking about history-- because it is a habit with me, perhaps. And tying the present to the past helps me feel less anxious. I came home from the vet, sans cat, I hated leaving him there. And I went to cut up on onions on a wooden board. So that task was one that might have been performed by any woman in the history of ever. But I did it while fretting about the cat's potassium levels. And I had a moment of clarity and gratitude, and a laugh at the weirdness. I am pretty sure they can cure my cat. And I have no doubt therefore, that curing him must be attempted. . They can scan his belly, and know the state of his kidneys, they can open him up and close him again. They can intervene. Knowing that gives me a security that people in the past did not have.
My family lives because of medical intervention. C of course-- over and over, and me, but also the rest of us.
One time, at sea, Mike got a fragment of metal in his eye. This is when he was on a repair ship. They took him away in a helicopter, to the aircraft carrier, and sucked the metal out with a magnet. Then they sanded the rust away with a special burr wheel made for eyeballs! (Rust formed quickly because of the salt acting on the metal. Salt water makes things rust as any sailor will tell you!) Then they popped him back in the helicopter and drove him back to his dowdy little ship, and his tiny little bed. He had the next day off, which he was indecently gleeful about.
So I have not done any writing in some time. I will again, as soon as things get sorted out. I can feel the words burbling under the surface. Thinking of you all. Goodnight.