Au revoir, ma petite

I got to take her home this morning for what would be her last day. I'm glad we had one more day at home and a chance to enjoy the rare treat of sun streaming through the windows.

The trip into the city to see the radiologist was long in every sense of the word. The sun setting, a fog rising, the sense of the curtain being drawn not just across the window or the day but a time in our life.

Her pain laid out in black and white on the monitor. Cancer. Not in one big mass but in lesions all over. 

We were going to wait until morning to say goodbye but couldn't.

So this ordeal that started 48 hours ago but feels like a lifetime is over.

All we can do is hold each other...

Waiting...

Amy is still the same--very weak, having a hard time breathing. The blood tests show her liver and kidneys are functioning normally but she's anemic. We're still waiting for an analysis of the fluid they pulled from her chest yesterday, but it was very bloody so we know she's bleeding internally. The analysis will show if it contains cancerous cells and if she has an infection.

The doctor suspects she may have a tumor on her heart. We can't see her heart on an x-ray because of all the fluid in her chest. The vet is trying to find someone who can do an echogram on her today so we know exactly what her problem is and whether there is any reason to hope she might recover.

I'm off to go visit...

Thank you all so much for your comments and kindness. I know there are far bigger problems haunting the landscape in many of your own lives now, and I appreciate you finding empathy for the heartache in my corner of the world at this moment.

---V

Worried about Amy

Who’s Amy? She’s the member of the household that is almost never mentioned on the blog because she distinguishes herself by her easy-going, low-key personality. Amy is my 13-year-old tortoise shell tabby cat.

The year after my parents died, I had two dogs but a cat-shaped hole in my heart. I went to the SPCA and told them I wanted to adopt a cat. They asked, “What kind?” I didn’t have a preference for appearance, but I told them I wanted “one of those lovey-dovey cats.”

“Ah,” the shelter worker said knowingly, “You want Amy.”

She walked into a big room filled with cat kennels from floor to ceiling, opened the one she was looking for, and handed me a petite six-month-old cat, who immediately snuggled into my neck and started purring.

I never even looked at another cat. Amy was The One.  She arrived with the perfect personality and a name to match—it means “beloved” or “friend.”

I filled out the paperwork, signed a contract promising to have her vaccinated and spayed, never have her declawed, and keep her indoors always.

She’s been the most low-maintenance pet we've ever owned. In her 13 years with our family, she’s never had to visit the vet for anything other than a yearly physical and vaccinations. She has no bad habits, is a little shy with strangers, gentle with children, and sweet and affectionate with family.

When we moved to Belgium, I allowed her to begin sleeping with us in our bedroom. Every night right after I climb into bed, she walks up the length of my body, lies down next to my chest, and then after 10 minutes or so, walks to the bottom of the bed and curls up by my feet.

When she performs that routine, it's like she is tucking me in.

Last night she seemed subdued and not herself. Her  breathing seemed a bit labored, which made me think she was uncomfortable. She had a hard time getting up and around and we ended up settling her into a posh cat bed on the floor for the night so she wouldn’t be jostled by our movements and could easily get food and water.

Without her on the bed, I couldn’t sleep. I stared into the darkness with anxiety stabbing at my heart knowing that Amy is cruising toward her 14^th birthday, that last night her spine felt too prominent when I ran my hand down her back, that she’s even more reserved than normal.

In my life as an animal lover, I’ve realized that so many psychological issues become enmeshed in caring for or losing an aging pet. We see the inevitability of physical decline and the indignity of it, even for animals. We feel helpless and know there’s only so much we can do, and when we say goodbye we mourn not just the pet we loved but the era they shared with us. It’s not just the end of their life but the end of another chapter in our own. If you’ve ever lost a pet, you know what I mean.

So it’s off to the vet today. I know from experience with other cats in other times and places to expect blood draws and tests on kidney function. I don’t know what her prognosis will be, but I know what’s inevitable given her age. And I know that I am not ready to have an Amy-shaped hole in my heart.

January 23, 2005

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. www.v-grrrl.com

Cures for ennui

Ennui is one of those words that sounds like the concept it describes. Without hard consonants, it’s flabby and shapeless and has an indistinct beginning and end. It is the perfect word to describe the post-holiday, midwinter mental landscape.

I have a tendency to keep to myself and stay home, but last week I did everything I could to keep from sliding into a mood as dim as the Belgian skies. I started my mental health program with a long walk on Sunday morning to take advantage of a rare bout of sunny weather. I tipped my face up to the sky and prayed the UV radiation would get my serotonin levels up and not give me wrinkles. On Sunday afternoon I attended a stamping workshop to learn some new techniques. Masking, rolling, kissing—who knew paper crafts were so sexy? I ate loads of Kim’s fiery salsa because y’all know I can’t leave the hot stuff alone.

Monday I dedicated a good chunk of the day to cleaning, because the only thing more depressing than being stuck at home is being stuck in a dirty house. I didn’t get the whole house clean but I did get enough done to keep the too-much-clutter blues away.

Tuesday Di met me “under the elephant” at the African Museum. She took the train and tram over from Antwerp and we spent the day here at Chez V putting together a package for a friend, discussing books and movies, eating soup and sandwiches, talking business, and doing what expats do best in winter—complaining about the bloody weather. I introduced her to white chili, forgetting that unlike Americans, kiwis have delicate palates and digestion. That little bit of cayenne in the soup encouraged her stomach to join in our post-lunch conversation. Oops. Sorry Di.

Wednesday I spent the morning writing a piece for www.expatica.com, and then I dashed over to Jen’s house for lunch (Mexican food, of course) and another stamping workshop. We made Valentines and got far rowdier than you’d expect from a bunch of surburban Grrrls. We talked entirely too much about sex, train hopping, and shopping. Don’t tell our husbands. We’re only supposed to be trading recipes and discussing our perfect children at these get togethers. And those checks we wrote to Kim? We like to employ a “Don’t ask, don’t tell policy” regarding all purchases of paper, ink, and stamps.

Every Thursday I spend about an hour in the morning helping elementary students with their creative writing endeavors. My group of first and second graders is writing about mermaids, bears, and “if I were the President.” Kyle informed me he’d be a couch potato president and play Nintendo all day at the White House.

Friday I spent a big chunk of the day with the lovely Javacurls, a fellow expat and blogger here. It’s been about a year since she first sent me an e-mail regarding her impending move to Belgium, launching an online friendship. She arrived last August but because of all I had going on last fall with school, health, and family issues, we weren’t able to meet until now. Being crafty Grrrls, we visited an art supply store together, window shopped, and then enjoyed a very looooong lunch.

Our orders at the cafe were taken promptly and we received our drinks but then time seemed to stand still. After we’d been waiting on our soup and sandwiches for, hmmm, about an hour, Javacurls cornered the waiter and asked him as politely as possible, “Where is our food?”

He replied without a hint of sarcasm, “In the kitchen.”

Oh, of course, our food is in the kitchen! Silly us? Why didn’t we think of that?

Sigh. Living the multi-cultural life is not always easy.

At least we had lots of opportunity to laugh and eat fresh sourdough bread while we waited for our lunch to find its way from the kitchen to our table. By the time I got home and threw a load of laundry in, it was time to meet the school bus.

Friday night we attended our first ever Quiz Night, a fundraising event that involved playing something similar to Trivial Pursuit in a public forum with people we didn’t know very well. It was alternately fun and painful. During the World Geography round, I wanted to go hide in the bathroom. But hey, I rocked the movie trivia and wasn't so bad on current events. I surprised myself by tanking on the art and literature category.

The weekend? Well, considering I’d spent more time and money on art supplies this past week than I had on groceries, it made sense to pull everything out and make some cards as well as a big, honkin mess. Nothing like covering the dining room table and floor with boxes of stamps, papers, watercolors, and inks to drive away the ennui. And now I get to clean again on Monday!  It's the circle of life.

What do you do to beat the midwinter blues?

January 21, 2007

Ramblings on reproductive rights

When China recently changed its guidelines governing foreign adoption, it generated a lot of discussion in the U.S., the primary adoption destination for abandoned Chinese babies. China will no longer accept as adoptive parents those who are single, overweight, have been treated for depression, are over the age of 50, married less than two years, or divorced and remarried for less than five years.  There's plenty of speculation on what's really driving these changes but the official line out of China is that they're meant to protect the children and speed up the adoption process for "well qualified" parents.

In the U.S., the newspaper I read in Virginia tracked the story of a middle class couple as they went through a foreign adoption. I was expecting a heartwarming story when I began following the series. Early on, there was nothing noteworthy about the couple except for the fact that they were adopting three older children at once (biological siblings), from Russia or a former Soviet Bloc nation (I don't remember precisely).  A reporter followed them through the process and continued to cover the story even after the children entered their home.

Shortly after the children arrived, it became clear this couple might be dealing with some real mental health issues. The woman was clearly obsessive-compulsive, having every MINUTE of EVERY DAY planned down precisely for herself and every member of the family. She had an elaborate system to keep everyone on her extremely detailed schedule. I think it even involved bells. She also had an equally rigid plan for "how their life was going to be" long term.

The children had only been with the family a short time when the husband, the breadwinner, unexpectedly quit his well paying job because HE wanted to stay home with the kids too. This was not in HER plan and the tensions in the story were palpable. The family quickly fell into extreme financial hardships, and when the series of stories ended, they were selling their very nice home and preparing to move to Florida to look for work. They did not have any contacts there or any specific leads; they were going there because they'd once been to Disneyworld and it seemed like a good place to live.

In that last story before the move, the woman was carefully digging up one or more jars from her backyard where she'd buried the "remains" of her miscarriages.  Oy.  Can anyone envision a happy ending to this? Do these people sound rational and stable to you? Is this a good home for those kids? Who decides?

When single Angelina Jolie adopts children from Cambodia and Ethiopia, the public deems her mature, unselfish, and saintly--a GOOD parent. With an Oscar on her shelf, no one worries about her past mental health issues, addictions, history of cutting, or bizarre behaviors. When Madonna and her husband, who already have two children, seek to adopt a child from Malawi, she is deemed selfish, egotistical, and BAD.  She's adopting the wrong way for the wrong reasons.

When the UK restricted access to fertility treatments provided by their National Health Service with the intent of putting  limited resources toward the cases most likely to yield successful pregnancies, there was quite a lot of outrage as many couples saw their chances of having a child evaporate because of their age.

And yet when a 60-something-year-old woman receives extensive medical treatments and gives birth to a child, few people applaud. The words "unnatural," "selfish," "ridiculous" enter into the conversation. There's a sense that something has gone WRONG in the world. It is socially acceptable for old men to conceive children with their young wives, but old women are scorned when they have children.

So who draws the line and where do we draw it? When are we too old to be considered good parents? When are we too fat? Which health issues are acceptable and which ones are not? Who has the best marriage? Who offers the best home, the best future, the best prospects to a child?

When placing orphans, everyone looks at the parents and tries to evaluate what will be best for the child. Yet it appears that more often than not, who gets or doesn't get fertility treatments has nothing to do with what will be best for a child but whether the parents have the money to pay for the treatment. So many people and so much money controls this corner of the reproductive universe while the rest of it runs out of control.

Day after day, biological children are born for many reasons and no reason at all. They arrive wanted and unwanted to married and unmarried parents; rich, poor, and middle class; healthy and unhealthy; happily married or not. Good circumstances, bad circumstances, and all the grey area in between. It's all left to chance. Biological kids get what they get in life, and only when things go terribly wrong does anyone intervene. Parents have lots of rights regarding their kids. Kids have very few rights regarding their parents.

The only common thread in this whole rambling discourse? EVERYONE believes they have a right to have a child if they want one.

But do they?

January 18, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com

For Pete's Sake

The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.---Ghandhi

The residents of the low income apartments in Koekelberg were told they might lose their homes if they cared for the cats in the neighborhood, even though many of the strays in the area had been neutered and vaccinated. Two women from Brussels, Martina Mueller and Sylvie Prouveur, responding to a report that the neutered cats were “disappearing” at an alarming rate, went to investigate and rescue the remaining strays.

They found the black kitten under a trash can in Le Foyer Koekelbergeois. A pitiful sight, his eyes were infected and crusted over, his tiny body covered in maggots. At the age of four weeks, he was near death.

Rushing the kitten to Dr. Jacques Rauis, they were told he might not live through the night, but with diligent, round-the-clock care, he survived and his vision was restored. Three weeks later, Martina and Sylvie were puzzled by one lingering question on his condition: the still small and somewhat fragile kitten never purred like the other cats and kittens in their care.

We adopted this kitten in early December and named him Petey. The first night in our home, he slept with my 11-year-old son and in the middle of the night my son was awakened by an unexpected sound: it was Petey purring loudly with contentment.

When I told Martina the next day, her eyes filled with tears.

Approximately three months old now, Petey is the sleek and healthy object of our affection and cure for our expat winter blues. We ooh and ahh over his shiny coat and good looks. We laugh over his acrobatics and playful spurts of activity. The children argue over who gets to hold him and love to buy him toys. Sweet and cheerful, easy to handle and calm, Petey’s demeanor belies his traumatic history. He is one of Martina and Sylvie’s success stories.

Part of an informal network of cat lovers in Brussels, Martina and Sylvie estimate they rescue 80-100 cats a year, with Sylvie doing most of the physical hands-on rescues and care and Martina working to secure supplies and services and support her efforts. The animals receive food and veterinary care, are neutered, and are placed in good homes (or at least improved situations) whenever possible. The women and their friends often keep the hard-to-place adult cats indefinitely in their own care.

Martina reports that many of the larger shelters in Belgium are so overcrowded and overwhelmed that they euthanize large numbers of cats and dogs. She estimates that three-quarters of the cats and about half the dogs in these shelters end up being put down. Because of these disturbing numbers, individuals and informal groups have dedicated themselves to doing what they can with their limited resources to help homeless, neglected, and abused animals in Brussels.

Cats who are not neutered and not fed regularly lead a miserable life in the city, often becoming victims of car accidents, predators, kidnappers, or cruel people who enjoy mistreating them or killing them in masses because they consider them a nuisance. Martina, Sylvie, and their friends work hard to try and break the cycle of overpopulation and abuse and are always ready to train people in their work.

They urgently need permanent homes for the cats currently under their care, including Titou, a lovely red cat; Blanchette, a modest, mostly white cat; and a beautiful black and red long-hair female looking for a name and an owner. They invite those who cannot give a cat a permanent home to consider providing a temporary home to a cat or to support their efforts by donating food or driving pets to veterinary appointments etc.

Because Martina and Sylvie are not part of a formal organization, they do not accept monetary donations. However, these are a few of the places in Brussels that help animals that can use financial support as well as people willing to adopt abandoned animals:

Le Fanal des Animaux is a small shelter. Telephone 02 734 60 29, bank account number 068-2058091-69.

Chats Sans Domicile asbl. Telephone 019 69 96 06, bank account 068-2302724-68

My Dream asbl. Telephone 071 76 02 85, bank account 350-1037004-96

You can reach Martina at 02 649 15 81. Call her for Pete's sake! 

January 17, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Cranky because...

...the very first week the kids are back to school after a two and a half week Christmas break, they have a three day weekend!  In the last month, they've gone to school for maybe five days, and my son was home sick two days last week. I am tired of nonstop eating, nonstop cleanup, and nonstop “Can so-and-so come over?” I made them go to bed at 8 p.m. tonight. Give. Me. Some. Space.

...I need a pair of black dress pants. The ones I have don’t fit anymore (grrrr!), and the ones I tried on on Saturday were too big in one size and too small in the next size down. Skinny, trim, or chunky—whatever shape I am, I am ALWAYS between standard sizes.

Did I mention how hard it was to face my reflection in the dressing room with the fluorescent lighting turning my skin a ghastly blue color and casting deep purple, cadaver shadows under my eyes? If I’m going to have to view myself as a Zombie Woman or some horrid Pod Creature, I should have at least been rewarded with a pair of nice trousers that fit. But nooooooooo. Instead the pants are sloppy around my waist and make my ass look like an overstuffed piece of carry-on luggage.  Whose idea was it to put those FLAPS on the rear pockets? Some skinny bitch designer--that's who!

...I chatted online with a customer service rep for Lands End, certain they would come through for me with a pair of black pants. I'm such a little fool! There was ONE pair of dress pants available in any style in my size—and they were navy. I don’t do navy, even when I’m desperate. Apparently Lands End is “between seasons” so the new line of pants isn’t available yet and the old line is picked over. Bottom line (pun intended):  there are no pants left.  I am forever V-Grrrl in the Middle—STUCK between sizes and now between seasons. But I have other reasons to be cranky, because...

...there was an art debacle at Chez V today, the second one in six weeks involving newly purchased artwork. I bought my husband framed prints by a Belgian artist for Christmas. We hadn’t hung them yet, and they were propped against the sofa in the living room this morning because I was cleaning the spot where they had been laying flat. My son and his friend were playing and knocked them down to the CERAMIC TILE floor and broke one frame in two and dinged the other. I was SO PISSED. 

...this is the same son who was told to stay in the car while I quickly walked his sister into a building for an extracurricular activity this afternoon. Did he stay in the car? NO. I caught him inside the building at a snack shop buying two big packs of candy. Did I mention he bought and ate an entire box of Girl Scout cookies on Saturday plus two regular size packages of other candy? And that he bought more sweets on Sunday at a bake sale? And that I just had to order him HUSKY SIZED pants for the first time EVER? I don’t forbid him sweets, but his consumption of them is out of control. Between the binge eating and sitting on his butt with his Game Boy, he’s going to turn into a mental and physical BLOB.

And then he’ll be just like me.

GAH!

See, I told y’all I was cranky.

January 15, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com

Letter to My Godson

(My godson is graduating from high school in May, and last week he attended a retreat. I was invited to write a letter to him that would be incorporated into one of the sessions. In considering what advice I could offer him at this stage in his life, I had an opportunity to consider how my own faith has evolved.  I thought I'd share the letter with you.)

When your parents asked me to be your godmother, I considered it a great honor. Living on the opposite coast (and now the opposite continent!), I knew from the beginning I wouldn’t get to watch you grow up nearby, but your mom kept me abreast of your activities, and I enjoyed the times we had an opportunity to visit. I watched you grow up in the photos, letters, and newspaper clippings she sent, and while I had no right to be proud of you, I was proud anyway, especially when you made Eagle Scout.

Now as a senior so much of what you have worked toward has been accomplished. Your classes are nearly completed, your high school athletic career drawing to a close, your friendships with your peers, teachers, coaches, and mentors have matured. Up to this point, life has moved along in a neat linear series of grades and milestones, each marking your progress, but things are about to change in a big way. New adventures and new challenges await you, and success will be harder to measure.

Remember the board game Chutes and Ladders? Just when you’re closing in on the 100^th square, you might find yourself on a slide that takes you back down toward the bottom of the board. College will be like that and so will life as a young adult. Faith is like that too. There will be moments when your confidence may falter, when the tasks before you seem overwhelming, when not only will you not know what comes next but you won’t even be sure what you WANT to come next. It can be disconcerting to deal with all the questions and unknowns that adulthood brings.

My advice is simple: learn to live in the moment and embrace the questions that faith and life present. Seek answers and don’t fear your doubts. We serve a God that is bigger than anything we can conceive—allow Him to reveal Himself bit by bit in the people, events, and places you experience. It’s tempting to grab easy answers to the big questions in life and uncomfortable to admit that sometimes we’re not sure exactly what we believe and what it all means. There are moments when life and faith don’t make sense--and that’s OK. Your role is to soldier on. Cowards use doubt as an excuse to do nothing, but the wise keep seeking answers and God’s presence.

As you graduate and move on, look for the places in your life and in the world where the mundane and the Divine intersect, where larger truths are revealed in everyday moments, where nature and circumstances reveal miracles. Even when God feels far away, work to better your corner of the world and appreciate the miracle of your life, your family, and those who love you.

Love,

V

January 14, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Raising a glass to creative women!

Photo by Di Mackey

Last fall I hooked up with Di, a fellow blogger and expat, and became involved in helping her launch a photography business here in Belgium. It all started with a simple request: could she photograph my family to add to her portfolio? Would we mind?

Mind? Only if we were crazy! I’d seen Di’s work online and was thrilled she was willing to turn her camera our way.

Di is from New Zealand and had been working in Turkey when she developed a relationship with a Belgian guy and ended up leaving Istanbul for Antwerp. I knew she’d endured many low moments during the immigration process, quipping that falling in love with a Belgian was an offense punishable by death through paperwork. Her determination to build a new life in cloudy Belgium and to venture into business in a new country impressed me.

What started with a photo shoot grew into something more when I offered to use my professional experience in marketing and PR to help her get her venture off the ground. Midway through the process, I contacted Char, a Web designer in the U.S., to see if she could help Di get a photography site up and running. Before I moved to Belgium, Char and I had worked for the same agency and partnered together on many Web sites and print projects.

Di picked out a general template, I wrote copy, and Char took the framework, sharpened the design, and pulled it all together. Di and her husband put in many hours selecting and formatting photos for the galleries.

The end result is a personal and professional product I’m really pleased to have been part of, not just because it’s a great site but because of the relationships and process that brought three creative women together sharing their talents.

Check it out here. And while you’re at it, check out Char’s professional site (I wrote the copy).

Cheers to the Sisterhood of Creative Blog Grrrls!

January 12, 2007

Tonight they sleep with the fishes

To the Tupperware container with tomato stains: I can’t bear to look at you anymore. You’re nasty and I want you out of my kitchen. Maybe I’m shallow, but looks matter. Don’t tell me I’ll recognize how much I need you when you’re gone. I don’t want to hear it. You’re an overpriced piece of suburban luxury plastic, but tonight you'll be hanging out with the recyclables. Bye-bye-bye!

To the ten single socks that have been in the bottom of the laundry basket for at least a month: What’s up? Where the hell are your mates? Were they sucked into another dimension? Victims of amnesia? Living a secret life in a drawer on the wrong side of the dresser? Sent packing because of holes in the fabric of their lives? Guess what? I no longer care! I am so tired of trying to find your partners and encouraging you to stick with your mates that I’m sending you on a singles cruise. Wait here in the nice brown bag. Pick up is at the curb. Have a nice trip.

To the eight different shades of brown eyeshadow in my cosmetics drawer: You look like lovely neutral shades of café au lait, milk chocolate, bronze, cinnamon, maple, and honey—but I've seen your true colors. You’re all secretly shades of  orange and coral! Really! And you know what? You’re going on vacation with the socks. Y'all belong somewhere tropical.

To the five different shades of berry lipstick: I don’t know what brought us together, but things are just not working out. You can go ahead and tell your friends that I left you for a tube of cheap Chapstick but really, Hon, I’m serious about the irreconcilable differences. You suck the life out of my face and make me look like a vampire. We’re just wrong for each other.

To the Mary Kay shower gel, the Bath and Body Works lotion, the Infusium shampoo and conditioner, and the Avon hair mask: We’ve been sharing a bathroom forever, but somehow we never seem to really click. I keep thinking things will get better between us, that we’ll spend quality time together, but the truth is I ignore you day in and day out. Don’t be upset. It’s not you—it’s me. It's time we quit analyzing our relationship and move on.

January 11, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com