Reflections

I came into the New Year at 51.7kg. This week, 51.3 (113 lb, BMI 15.5). Slowly, slowly.

Quitting alcohol has really changed everything. Losing the booze weight was my main motivator, sadly. Nothing else mattered. I didn't care about the health concerns, physical or mental. I just needed the weight gone.

February 26th will be One Year Sober. Crazy. I started last year at 62.8kg, and was still 62.5kg on the day of my last drink (138 lb, BMI 18.8). Since then, the weight has been coming off. 11.2kg in just under 11 months.

The weight gain started with the alcohol, back in 2016. That year, I was still sitting at a low weight. That February, I was 42.2kg (92.8 lb, BMI 12.7). I had six years of sitting consistently around BMI 12-14, after hitting my lowest at 41.3 kg (90.8 lb, BMI 12.5).

I hit my 'highest weight' (not including pre-ED) in 2020. I was terrified of hitting the 70s, and came far too close for comfort. My highest weight was 69.8kg (154 lb, BMI 21.0), and it scared the shit out of me. I spent a lot of that time purposely avoiding posting my weight here - I was so ashamed.

After hitting that high, the weight loss slowly started, while I kept on drinking. 7kg across 4 years, frustratingly slow but consistent. Slow enough that I didn't really notice, until I looked back at the graph over a longer time period, or old body check photos. 

Since I quit drinking, the weight loss picked up the pace. I don't really see it as a problem. I see it as getting back to my 'normal' weight. I'm halfway there. I don't care if it's slow progress - it's still progress. I'm finally starting to feel good about my body again (keyword starting), even though I have 10kg to go to get back to my low weight. I'm itching to get back into the 40s. I just need to push.

For the most part, I'm in a little honeymoon phase, and I'm just riding the wave. Restricting feels good, and effortless. I spend a lot of time in the mirror, turning and examining. In the right light, I can see my chest bones again, and it's the most amazing feeling.

Sometimes I feel like I still look like I did 15kg ago, and I have to get to the mirror to make sure that I'm not. No one ever comments on my weight (except for my dietitian, obviously, but she comments on the number, not how I look), which I can kinda understand, because it's a known issue to everyone, but it makes me question if I actually look different or not.


(As a note, I'm calculating my old BMIs with my current height. I was slightly taller back then, as my last DEXA scan put me at 182.1cm. I don't know exactly when the height loss began, so I may have been slightly taller for some of the old weights, which would lower the BMI a smidge)

* * *

After The Great Disembowelment, although I initially dropped a few kilos quite quickly after the swelling/water retention was gone, my weight then hit a plateau for a couple of months, and really only started dropping again in November. The majority of the weight loss happened before the surgery. I think it's partly because I feel like I never quite got my energy and activity levels back to normal following the surgery. I still feel so tired all the time. I'm more sedentary than I've been in years.

As for how all that's going, I've still been getting pain and nausea after eating, that seems to come and go. It'll be okay for a few weeks, then come back with a vengeance, and I start relying on liquid calories again. My GP isn't particularly concerned by this, and it might just be one of those things I have to deal with now.

I'm still trying to find the right balance of fiber supplements (which I've taken for well over a decade anyway) and osmolax, guided by my GP. Without getting too TMI, my bowels are unpredictable, swinging from one end of the spectrum to the other. Again, just something I might have to deal with.

I was warned that I may have trouble absorbing nutrients since I'm missing that section of bowel. I finally got a blood test done a month ago. I'd been putting it off, not wanting to deal with it. My B12 and Vitamin D have been consistently low for years - that's to be expected - but now I'm also low on Folate and Iron. Which probably doesn't help with my energy levels.

I've talked about it before, but supplements are a difficult thing for me. Fiber is the only exception. For me, it's not just about calories (though that is the main thing), it's also about simply not wanting to nourish my body. I can't take vitamins because it is giving my body nutrition, even though I know it's not going to contain calories or affect my weight. The idea of nutrition is difficult for me. Even the blood tests themselves can be triggering. Every number affects me, not just calories and weight.

Mentally, I'm starting to come to terms with the fact that I did this to myself. Sometimes it still hits me hard, but it doesn't keep me up at night. But I do have a lingering unease with knowing how truly ready I felt to die when I crashed after the first surgery. It's scary to not have that fear of death, if that makes sense. It's something that I'm slowly unpacking with my psychologist.

* * *

My wonderful GP, who I've been seeing for 13 years, is retiring at the end of February. This is a major change, and I'm dreading it. It took so long to build a healthcare team that works for me, and works with me. I had some nightmarish experiences with other GPs before I started seeing her, and I don't care to repeat them.

I still haven't settled on a new GP. There's a few options, staying at the same clinic I've been at my entire life. My GP says they're all good with mental health, but I'm waiting to ask my dietitian's opinion when she gets back from her break. I need someone who will be understanding of eating disorders, and most importantly, be on board with harm reduction as opposed to pushing active treatment. Even when I started seeing my current GP, I spent the first few years maintaining around that BMI 12-14 mark, and she was always good about it. 

I have 3 appointments left with her, and time is quickly running out. I've known it's been coming for a few years now, but I'm still not ready. She's been with me so much, and it'll be so sad to say goodbye. She's become like family to me.

* * *

Christmas sucked. Worst one yet. I didn't question my sobriety, but I did question laxatives. I'm so over it. 

It was heavy. I was dreading it. I usually do some baking (which I rarely do anymore) around Christmas, family recipes, and a roast on the day to fill the freezer with leftovers. I bought the ingredients for grandma's caramel slice and mum's chocolate truffles, and they're still sitting in the pantry. It's just been going through the motions since mum died, and every year I ask myself "Why am I doing this?"

I broke down in tears a few days before. I'd decided to do lamb this year, which I used to make a lot with mum, though I've only done chicken since I've been doing Christmas solo. The only lamb roast S could find at the shops was kind of pathetic. It was such a small thing, but it broke the dam. She kept talking about Christmas, and asking what I was going to do, and I broke down completely.

"I don't know whether it's more sad to cook that pathetic lamb, or nothing at all."

When the day came, I decided on nothing at all. I didn't cook my roast. I didn't eat. 

Even at my worst points, I have always eaten on days like Christmas and birthdays, when we used to go out for birthday dinners, even if I didn't really want to. So to me, it was a stupid little symbolic thing. To show that I'm done with Christmas. It's not special enough to force myself to eat.

The only highlight of the day was getting an email notification that I had a comment from Shelby on here, saying they were thinking of me. It gave me my only smile of an otherwise lonely and empty day.

* * *

I also had yet another move in October. Packing ahead of the move was a real push. Physically, it was the most difficult move I've had yet. Thankfully it was timed well, and I got the '60 day's notice' right around the time the 'no heavy lifting' restriction passed. It was still hard, but at least I wasn't at risk of damaging something or causing a hernia.

Now, I'm struggling to get the new house unpacked, as evidenced in the backgrounds of my photos. Some days, even staying on top of regular housework has been a struggle. Everything just takes so much effort, it's all so draining. 

It was also my first time moving sober. I wasn't sure if I was going to get through it. I didn't even pack up my alcohol until about two weeks before the move (yes, I still brought it with me - I'm not quite ready to completely let go of it yet, but it's now packed away in the garage), because I was worried I might crack. It definitely got a lot easier once I secured a new place, though there was still so much to do.

Through the move, Miss Sephi has been unwell. Thankfully, it's nothing serious - we ran the full gamut of tests to rule out the serious issues, including the Big C. It still feels so recent that Misty passed, and I was terrified I was going to lose Sephi too. I wonder how I would deal with grief sober.

It turns out that the stress of the move triggered a stubborn bout of Stress Cystitis. Basically, when cats get stressed, their bladder can become inflamed and cause behavioral urinary issues. It started a week before moving day - just the packing and boxes piling up was upsetting her, and she was straining to pee every few minutes. I panicked, and took her to the vet that day.

Since then, she's had half a dozen more visits. Anxiety meds twice a day, anti-inflammatories, and even an antidepressant - the latter of which will be a long term thing. She's starting to wean off the anti-inflammatories (she had a few short courses at the start, but went backwards when they stopped, so she's been on them for a solid month), and we're going back next week to check in and see if she can start coming off more of the meds. But for now, she's doing okay. She's now settled into the new house, though it was a slow process.

Summer vibes

As you might notice, I did a thing to my hair! It's the first time since 2011 that I've had black hair. I had the dye sitting around for months, waiting for the courage and impulse to strike. I'm not sure how long I'll keep it for, but I like it more than I thought I would. I've recently done my eyebrows a bit darker, too.

A couple of months ago, a couple of kilos higher. 

I dug through my clothing tubs, where I store my different sized clothes, trying on dozens of items. I was ecstatic to find that most of my size 6 (AU) clothes fit again.

I got dressed up to go out for lunch with my writing group (that I've been in since I was a teenager). A bunch of people came down from Melbourne to go to somewhere local to me. Definitely outside my comfort zone, but it was nice. We did it in 2024 as well - the first group event I'd been to in person in over a decade, since I can't get to Melbourne anymore. We're planning to do it next year too. I can't remember the last time I'd seen a friend who wasn't a support worker.

The full fit. I look a bit rough because I didn't take photos until after the lunch - not my best decision (I should've at least brushed my hair! It was windy out). 

It's difficult trying to balance wanting to choose clothes for fashion, when my main concern is trying to look thin (or at least, not bigger than I am)

(sorry for the awkward photo formatting - I’ve realised that putting photos side-by-side makes them weirdly squished on mobile view, and I’m yet to figure out a better option. It’s also currently 4am, and now is not the time to figure it out, but at least I’ve finally gotten this post done)

Much love to you all. Thanks for sticking around. It means more to me than you could ever know.

xxBella

Action, meet Consequence

I’m currently recovering from having half of my large intestine surgically removed. Even staring back at that sentence, it feels surreal. Reality still hasn’t sunk in yet.  You always think that it’ll never happen to you. Or, if it does, it won’t be so bad. Courtesy of an on-and-off relationship with laxatives, a few weeks ago I found myself needing emergency surgery.  Life has not been good lately, but the reasons don’t really matter right now. What’s important is that I wasn’t coping. I want to make it clear that I know laxatives don’t affect calorie absorption or weight loss beyond water/waste weight. It’s never been linked to my food consumption - there’s no correlation between calorie intake and laxative use. For me, it’s a form of self harm. To spend a day or two writhing in pain, going between bed and the bathroom. If it didn’t hurt, it wasn’t enough. It’s been an on-and-off issue for a long time, sometimes going 6 months to a year without touching them. But throughout July, I was taking heavy amounts of bisacodyl 2-4 times a week. Now, after these past few weeks, I never want to experience gastrointestinal pain again.   One morning, I woke up at 5am in excruciating pain. A 6/10, peaking to a screaming-crying 9/10 every 5-10 minutes. The worst pain I had ever felt. I hadn’t even taken laxatives for about a week, which was my first indication that something was seriously wrong. I considered an ambulance a couple of times, but that felt like an overreaction. S was going to be here at 11 for supports, and surely it could wait until then. Part of me actually thought (hoped) it might stop. At the emergency room, it took a while for them to figure out what was wrong. Was it my appendix? Ovaries? To be fair, I didn’t disclose my laxative abuse immediately. It could be entirely unrelated, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Silly me.

Part of my bowel had twisted around itself, and the tissue was dying. A volvulus. When they first told me it was a cecal volvulus, I just sighed, and finally told the doctor about the laxatives. 

“Yep, that’ll do it.”

Even after that, the surgeons went back and forth.  “It’s a cecal volvulus” “No, you might just be really constipated, we’ll monitor you overnight” “It’s definitely a volvulus, you need surgery now" The lead up to the surgery was scary. They talked about the possibility of a stoma. But at that point, I would’ve done anything just to make the pain stop. In the morning, I went in to surgery. I needed a right hemicolectomy. They removed a total of 33cm (13”). And because they need a large opening to actually get it out, they couldn’t do keyhole surgery, so it was a full open laparotomy. From end to end, the incision measures 17cm (6.7”), ignoring the curves. So I'm going to have one hell of a scar. Unfortunately, that was not the end of it. While in the ICU after the surgery, my blood pressure was getting dangerously low. My hemoglobin levels kept dropping. Until the next morning, when it all came to a head. My blood pressure hit the dirt. Six nurses rushing in, clear the room, hit the alarms, get the doctor. They gave me two units of blood, more albumin, more fluids. It feels dramatic to call it a ‘near death experience’, but I honestly thought I was dying.  What a stupid way to go. Even then, I hate to admit, I couldn’t help but think “so this is how anorexia will kill me, and I’m still going to die fat”. But there was no panic. No ‘please help me’. Just a quiet “thank you for taking care of me”.  I felt an overwhelming sense of calm. Apart from a regret that I was going to die ‘fat’, I felt ready. I was happy that it was a result of my anorexia that would kill me, even if I wasn’t at my thinnest. I always thought I would panic when facing death. That I’d be scared and try to fight and bargain and plead, that I’d be suddenly full of regret for my actions. But I just felt calm and truly ready.  And that’s kind of terrifying now to know. I am 32 years old, and I am ready to die.  After 45 minutes, they stabilized me, then confirmed on CT that I was bleeding internally. So, back to surgery to fix the leak, along with five more units of blood.  I was in the ICU for five days, followed by a week on the surgical ward. I spent the first 2-3 days vomiting dark ‘coffee grounds’ blood. I couldn’t sleep, it was so constant. They would usually have an NG tube placed to aspirate the stomach contents, but when I woke up with one after the second surgery, apparently they had to hold me down to stop me pulling it out, and eventually agreed to remove it.  The pain was intense. I didn’t think the post-surgical pain could be worse than the volvulus itself, but I was wrong. The first time getting back on my feet had me in tears. But each day, it got a bit easier.  They only had me on liquids for less than a week, though I needed a bit of a push to start attempting solids again, even though it was the best way to get my bowels working again. I was so afraid it would make the pain worse. Everything felt like lead in my stomach. It felt like everything was so swollen, there wasn’t any space for anything.  It took about 10 days before my bowels starting moving again. I won’t go into too much detail, but the first week was incredibly painful and difficult. Things have since settled down, but they said it’ll take a few months before I find my ‘new normal’. Because the large intestine, pulls water out of the stool, BMs will be more watery. It'll take some time to figure out how things will be different, and a lot of it is 'wait and see'. I’ve been home for a couple of weeks now, and I’m struggling. The pain is mostly manageable with over-the-counter painkillers at this point, but I’m so incredibly exhausted. I can barely bring myself to get out of bed. Apart from it being a major surgery, and open vs keyhole, I think needing the second surgery has also affected how long healing will take, not to mention being at a sub-optimal weight and intake. I have been eating a little more since I came home than I was beforehand, but still no where near where it should be. Even for protein intake, my dietitian said that healing from surgery I should be getting about 80g a day! I rarely even hit 25g. It's been a main focus with her for quite a few months now. I still can’t bring myself to work supplement shakes into my daily intake, even though I know they would help.  My weight has been dropping since I stopped drinking. This past Tuesday, I hit 6 months sober, so I guess I have that going for me.  For a quick recap, I initially gained a lot when I first started drinking in 2016. I spent a long time bouncing around the 60's range. Around 2020, when I first started cutting back on the alcohol, it started slowly coming off. Just a couple of kilos each year, nothing drastic.  Since I stopped drinking completely, it’s picked up speed. When I had my last drink, I was 62.5kg (137lb, BMI 18.8). This week, I hit 52.1kg (114lb, BMI 15.7). Over 10kg now. I felt like I was doing okay with it before the surgery, but now, I’m really feeling the effects. I'm trying to process everything that’s happened in the past few weeks, and I can’t shake this nagging thought, knowing that I’ve done this to myself. The nights have been the hardest. When the world is quiet, there’s nothing left to do, I’m worn out both physically and mentally, and it’s just me and my thoughts. I knew the risks. I knew this could happen. And I did it anyway.  My body will never be the same again, inside or out. And it’s all my own damn fault.  This isn’t the first time I’ve been hit with the permanent effects of anorexia. I’ve had osteoporosis since I was 21, and have already begun to lose height (at my last DEXA scan, I was 182.1cm). I don't bounce back in the same way I did when I first got sick. Not to mention the myriad psychological effects after 15+ years of this.  But this, this is the most drastic. It’s not even just the scar. My bowels will never work the same again. It will effect me every single day for the rest of my life. And while it could’ve been worse, and I was lucky to avoid needing a stoma, it’s something so needless, something that could have been easily avoidable.  I did clear the house of laxatives within the first week of being home. I don’t think I would’ve touched them again anyway, but best not to find out. Even in that last month when I was using them heavily, I was often vomiting them up. I would take them over the course of an hour, have sugar-free mints to suck on in between, anything to try to combat the nausea. It was like my body was trying to tell me something, but I refused to listen.  For now, my GP wants me to get bloods done more often. Although most of it was my large intestine, they did remove 10.5cm (4.1”) of my small intestine, where nutrients are absorbed. So she wants to keep a closer eye on things, because it can be unpredictable. Beyond that, I’m still not sure what the future will look like. Some questions I’m too afraid to ask (will it increase my risk for other bowel issues in the future?), some things it’s just ‘wait and see’.  So, I guess that’s it. I really fucked up this time. 

xxBella

Sobriety, Surgery & Other Musings

It’s been almost 9 weeks since my last drink. 8 weeks and 6 days, to be precise.

I’m not too sure how it happened. It wasn’t really a planned thing - it started off unintentionally. A couple of times I was planning to drink, I ended up not feeling up to it. Then, after the first 10-ish days, it seems to start to get easier. I start feeling good about it. I start going through days without even thinking about it.

Then, I realise I’ve set a new personal best, and I want to keep it going. Three weeks became four, became six, became eight, and here I am. Last year, I went 15 days without a drink after I had my wisdom teeth out, and that was the longest I’d gone in many years (probably since 2016, when I started drinking heavily), but I hadn’t been able to repeat it. I fell into a comfortable routine of moderation, drinking once a week, maybe twice if it was a bad week.

Of course, it helps when I start to see the scales move. For the last 8 or so years, there hasn’t been a lot of movement, after the initial big gain when I started drinking. Looking back at my records, I seem to have lost about 2kg a year since then, with a few years that didn’t have much movement. But the losses have been so incredibly slow, it doesn’t feel like much.

Then, when I stop drinking, I start to see the lower intakes add up. I start having weeks where every day had an intake of three digits. And I liked seeing that in my log. I start to see the scales move, faster than they have for years. So far, for this year, I’m down 4-5kg - and it’s basically all been in the time since I’ve stopped drinking. Dietitian is keeping a close eye on me, and is Setting Goals again, but I’m not particularly worried. 

The less calories I consume, the less calories I want to consume. And the idea of wasting 1,000+ calories to get drunk just doesn’t seem worth it.

My birthday is tomorrow, and it’s looking like it’ll be my first sober birthday since I was maybe 16. Between the years of smoking, and the years of drinking, it’s been a long time. Usually, I would buy something different to drink for birthdays and Christmas etc, a nice little treat instead of my usual wine and spritzers. I haven’t even bought anything, not wanting to tempt fate. I figure that if I do decide to drink on the day, I can just get same-day delivery, but at this point I have no plans to. It’s always a sad time of year, especially with mum’s birthday next week, but it’s just one of those things I guess I need to figure out how to navigate without always leaning on alcohol. 

I always say that it’s not forever. That’s too much to consider. The goal has always been moderation, not abstinence, I’ve always wanted to be able to just have a couple of glasses of wine with dinner, but I don’t really know if I can. Maybe I could. But part of me just doesn’t want to break the sober streak, I want to see it get to 10 weeks, to 12 weeks. There is something about streaks that I never want to break, whether it’s MyFitnessPal (5,216 days as of today!), Duolingo, Wordle, or my sober streak.

The other recent news is that, about three weeks ago, I ended up needing surgery. 

I’d had a tiny lump for maybe a couple of years now. It was barely noticeable, a tiny bump, perhaps the size of a pea under the skin. So I never got it checked out, because it wasn’t causing any issues, and I didn’t feel comfortable having it looked at as it was situated on my butt cheek. It seemed like the most embarrassing thing. So I just assumed it was a harmless little cyst, just chilling.

Then, in the space of a few days, it blew up. Day by day, it slowly got worse, going from the size of a pea to an egg in less than a week, the pain increasing in step with the size.

I realized it couldn’t wait two weeks to see my regular GP (bad timing for her to be overseas!). I started to worry about things like sepsis, and my anxiety started to peak. Thankfully I was able to get in to see a female doctor, at least. She gave me two antibiotics, but said it would probably need surgery, and if it wasn’t improving within 24 hours, I would need to go to the hospital. 

The next day, it was still getting worse. Thankfully, I had my bestie support worker, S, that morning, so she took me to the hospital. I saw a doctor within 15 minutes, the surgeon an hour or two later. I was in surgery 6 hours after arriving, and home almost exactly at the 24 hour mark.

The concept of surgery and general anesthesia makes me incredibly uncomfortable. It squicks me out, more so than worrying about the pain. I hate the idea of going under. It’s always scary to me, and it was my first time doing it completely alone. When I had my bronchoscopy, I had mum there to hold my hand. When I had my wisdom teeth out, S was there the whole way until I was out. I had a bit of a teary moment when the staff moved me down to get ready for surgery, just a little sniffly. When I woke up, I just cried for a while. I don’t know why I always cry when I’m coming out of anesthesia.

But at least it’s done. It immediately felt so much better, even though I now had a big gaping open wound. When it was first done, I could see the layers of fat. I just wanted to stick my fingers in and rip it out. 

All that to say, I’m feeling much better now. The first 3-5 days home were pretty bad, and I tried to avoid  movement as much as possible. It took about a week to get my energy back and start getting back on my feet and back to my normal routine. It’s mostly better now, as long as I don’t sit directly on it. I’m out of the woods now, but boy, that was a hell of a week.

Shameless hospital selfie. I always feel so weird without piercings 

The cats are getting along well, most of the time. I still separate them if I’m not around to supervise them. Zazu constantly wants to be around Sephi, but she just wants to be left alone, which does sometimes end with her bapping him across the face. But most of the time, they are co-existing in peace, and that’s all I can ask for. 

Nurse Sephi taking good care of me post-surgery 

xxBella

Cat Distribution System

Misty’s prescription food sat on the cabinet in the entryway, as the weeks turned into months. One of the final lingering momentos of her illness.

It had been the hub of supplies when she was sick. The leftover medications had been disposed of, the syringes for her hourly feeds packed away among first aid supplies. The array of regular foods, bought in the neverending quest to find something she would eat, had been given to Sephi. But the prescription foods, designed specifically for oncology patients and syringe feeding, remained.

I always knew where I wanted to donate it. The organization who took care of both Misty and my late dog Billy when I was in temporary housing, back in 2018/2019. They help vulnerable people - the homeless, the elderly, the disabled, the sick - to take care of their pets. I felt that they would be sure to get the specialty food where it was most needed.

Even as I packed in preparation to move house, as the landlord was planning to demolish the one I had lived in for the past two years, the food still sat there. A week before the move, I finally contacted the organization, asking if they would be able to take the donation. Then, with my support worker S, we made the 35 minute drive to drop it off.

It was hard. It felt very final. But I couldn’t put it off any longer. While we were there, the strangest thing happened. As we chatted with the staff - about Misty, her illness, about Sephi - another staff member came out, and immediately asked if we were there to meet Zazu.

I’d seen him before on their Facebook page, an orange boy looking for a home. But I was not planning to meet him. It was too soon. But as they talked excitedly about him, I began to come around to the idea of just a quick visit.

“Maybe we can do a detour to give him some company for a bit, since we’ve already come all this way.”

And off we went to their cattery. During the short drive, I told S to not get too excited, that I was not going to be adopting him, that it was too soon, and that I was moving the next week, and I just wanted to visit him. But when I did meet him, my heart melted.

We sat in the play area with him for an hour, running well over our scheduled support time. This beautiful little guy was still so happy, despite his circumstances. He was playful, loving, incredibly sweet. As we left, I asked the staff what the process would look like if I was looking to adopt, which I wasn't, and an application form fell into my hand.

It was a long process. After the application, there was phone calls, then a home check, and finally a two week trial before permanent adoption. On top of moving house, the person who did the home checks was away, so it was a few weeks before that could even happen. So for four weeks, S and I went to visit him twice a week.

The staff told us on that first day that he takes a while to warm up to people, and that he prefers to hide away. So, on the second visit the following day, I almost cried when he walked up and climbed into my lap, flopping down and purring. That was when I knew.

I was not planning to bring in another cat so soon. I wanted to wait at least a few more months. If the adoption for Zazu didn’t go ahead, I would’ve waited longer. But for him, I had to. I felt that we needed each other. 

Miss Sephi had developed some behavioural issues after Misty passed. To cut a long story short, on the rare occasions that I would leave the house, she would become aggressive when I got home, growling and hissing, biting and scratching. She was not coping with being alone. She was put on medication, just for those days I left the house, and over time, it helped. 

After the move, she had been a perfect sweetheart. She no longer needs the medication. She hasn’t hissed or scratched once. I feel like the change of environment was good for her. Perhaps she wasn’t ‘expecting’ Misty to be here. This made me a lot more confident in bringing in a second cat, as I was unsure if I could while she was having issues. Maybe a new friend will even be good for her. I still had a phone consult with her vet first, just to get advice on bringing in a second cat. But it has been going well. They are not best friends yet, but they are tolerating each other, which is as good as can be expected.

Adoptions are not in this organization's MO. They have only ever adopted out a couple of cats. So when the timing lined up for me to have to donate Misty’s food, and Zazu having just been listed for adoption days earlier, perhaps it was just meant to be.

There is not a great deal known about his history, and what is known is quite sad. I’m not sure if I should share it here, for the sake of his previous human, but I will say that he has had quite a journey to get to where he is now. He's around three years old - a little younger than Sephi, who will be five in a couple of weeks. It took six months living at the cattery, with their care and love, to rehabilitate him to the point that he could be adopted.

I just wanted to give him the safe and happy home that he deserves, and I feel truly honored that they agreed I was a good match for him. When they came out to do the home check, they immediately said that they had seen the photos of me with him (S insisted on showing them), and that the visit was just to tick the boxes, because they already knew they were going to give him to me.The day I brought him home was the happiest I’ve felt in a long time. Contented.

Happy New Year to everyone in our little blogosphere. I’ve been trying to stay up to date with reading, but my reading list page seems to be broken, making it difficult. It shows a couple of regular posts, and then jumps back to posts from 9 years ago, and longer, no matter how far I scroll. (Is anyone else having this problem?) Hopefully it is fixed soon.

See you all in 2025.

That first time he sat in my lap
He is a long hair, but had a hair cut a few days after I first met him.He was very matted, and was not tolerating being brushed.He's still a cutie, even if he looked a bit goofy at first.
Settling in at home
When Misty eventually returned home




xxBella

There is nothing permanent, except change

This post is long overdue, but as it tends to do, life has kept getting in the way. 

A couple of weeks before Misty got sick, I had my 31st birthday. And for the first time since mum passed, I actually did something. 

For the past few years, my birthdays have been much of a non-event. I used to enjoy going out for dinner with my mum and brother, although we only did it for a few years. But it became something that I really enjoyed.

There’s a new-ish restaurant in town. I actually went last September on the night they opened. It was my first time out for dinner since mum passed, and I went solo (which I’d only done once before). I wasn’t originally planning on it, but a week before, I booked a table for one. I’ve always said that going out for dinner is like my version of going partying. Not only because I indulge in a decent amount of wine, but because I just find it a fun way to spend the evening. 

tl;dr, I met my favourite celebrity chef, Fangirl-ed, got an autograph, but drank far too much and lost it on the way home. Ever since, S - bestie, support worker, godmother to my cats - has been wanting to come with me for my birthday. 

I was nervous. I hadn’t really eaten around her before. Hell, I haven’t eaten around anyone since mum passed three years ago. For me, there is always a lingering worry, and I’m not even exactly sure what it is. Maybe it’s that my dining companion will think I’m fat or gluttonous. Maybe it’s a fear that I’ll eat more than them. And what if they make comments about health or diet related things?

Thankfully, dinner went smoothly. We had focaccia and a tasting plate to start, then I opted for a filet mignon while S had gnocchi. On the side, wagyu fat roasted potatoes, and roasted carrots with labneh and pistachios. 

I’d never had labneh or pistachios before, and I also tried olives and pickled onion for the first time. When I went in September, I tried pickles for the first time (I know, I know, it only took me 30 years) as well as different mustards, horseradish, chimmichurri, and the various cured meats on the tasting plate. For the past four or five years, I’ve been wanting to try different foods. I just seldom get the chance to. It’s not often that I’d just buy something like a jar of pickles, but if it’s in front of me, I’m willing to try a nibble. It’s just rare that these situations actually occur. 

The house still feels very empty without Misty. To make things worse, Miss Persephone has been struggling without her big sister. 

She would always get upset when I took Misty to the vet. They thought it was something to do with the ‘vet smell’. But it was manageable, and just meant keeping them separated for a bit after getting home. 

A couple of weeks after losing Misty, I went out to visit my great aunt. When I got home, Sephi was completely feral. It didn’t take long to realize that it was never the vet that was the issue - it was being left home alone. 

It should’ve been an easy fix, given that I rarely go out. But then I found out I would have to move soon, as the landlord is demolishing the house. After a handful of inspections, I have somewhere new lined up, but every time I went to look at a new rental, it would upset Sephi. Now, it’s progressed to the point that even opening the front door for S means that Sephi gets upset.

She’s always been such a sweet girl, but now will spend hours hissing, yowling, attacking. I took her to the vet a couple of weeks ago, and they gave her some medication to take before I go out. I tried her with it for the first time last week, and it didn’t seem to help at all. Apart from a higher dose, the next steps would be a behavioral specialist and/or daily medication for life. It’s heartbreaking, seeing her so distressed. 

It feels like the obvious solution would be to introduce a new friend for her, but she has become so unpredictable and aggressive, that it just wouldn’t be safe. I’m going to do everything I can to help her, but some days it just feels so hopeless. I’ll be checking in with the vet this week, and I just hope we can find something to help her before the move in October. 

Apologies for the selfie spam. This is really the only social media I have, apart from Facebook, and I very rarely post on there.

xxBella

"What Greater Gift Than the Love of a Cat?"

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"I think it's time..."

It's Tuesday. In the past six weeks, it's become Chemo Day.

I give Misty her morning meds, spaced out between the hourly syringe feeds. I get dressed, and book a taxi. The address of the specialist veterinary hospital has been burned in to my brain, 3 minutes away. I sit on the edge of the bed, coat and shoes already on, Misty in my lap. When I hear the taxi pull up, I place Misty into her carrier, nuzzling herself into the warm towel, fresh from the dryer, to try to keep her warm on yet another cold winter's morning.

I'm prepared for the Quality of Life discussion. I've known since day one that all treatment was purely palliative. And they thought she might have a few weeks, at most. She has exceeded expectations. But even though it was hard to measure, with the constant ups and downs, it was clear that in the past week or two, things have taken a turn.

We have a consult with the oncologist, who we've gotten to know all too well. They immediately remark that she looks like she's lost more weight. I give them all the numbers for how much food she's been taking, how much water, how often she's using the litter tray. We'd been doing well with the syringe feeds -  better than any of the weeks prior. It still wasn't enough. The cancer in her intestines simply wasn't allowing her to absorb it.

They take her back for the routine bloodwork, to see if she's still okay to have chemo.

The doctor comes back 15 minutes later. They sit down, and tell me that Misty's condition is really not good. That the ups and downs have become a steady state of decline.

That they think it's time.

And I know it's been coming. I've been prepared. I've had arrangements planned for six weeks. From day one, the only goal was to try to get her - and me - a bit more time. They weren't even sure she'd make it through that first week. But I still burst into tears

She was never going to get any better. I knew that. And it'd been hard to objectively measure her decline. She'd have a few good days, then crash, and we'd be rushing to the vet at 11pm. Then, anything seemed like an improvement. I'd been waiting for them to tell me it was time.

They say it doesn't have to be today. That I could probably bring her home for the next few days, but within the next week, I'd have to say goodbye. And though I'm prepared for a Quality of Life discussion, I still wasn't expecting this. So I just tell them the same thing that I've told them - and the other vets, surgeons, internal medicine specialists, emergency doctors - for the past six weeks.

"I just want to do what's best for Misty."


On Wednesday, I ask S - support worker, bestie, godmother to my cats - if she would be willing to be here for the goodbye.

On Thursday, I sit and cry alone as my GP takes flowers to the cemetery for me, to mark the three year anniversary since my mum passed. Few things could keep me away on this day, but for six weeks now, I haven't left Misty's side.

On Friday, I take Misty outside for the last time. The winter has been harsh, and she wasn't supposed to be going outside while on chemo. But this week, I decided to throw caution to the wind, and take her out for a little bit each day. Her little harness hangs off her. For the first time this week, there's actually sun in the backyard for her to enjoy.

On Saturday, I wake up knowing that there's only a matter of hours left.


S gets here at 3:04pm, about 25 minutes before the vet is due to arrive. I think having the goodbye at home is more for my benefit than Misty's, really. We sit in the lounge room, but after a few minutes, Misty wants to go for a wander.

We follow her, slowly, through the house. She goes to the litter tray, and strains unsuccessfully for the fifth time today. Then to the water bowl, sitting and licking her lips, staring at the water for a while. She hasn't had any water by herself in six days - only what she takes through the syringe. As we go back to the lounge room, I update the notes on my phone.

3:21pm: litter 0 (strain)
3:25pm: showed interest in water (licked lips, didn't drink)

I mumble to S that I don't know why I'm still writing these things down. What does it matter at this point? In the past six weeks, tracking these things has become second nature. It's habit, routine. And, much like my own tracking, part of it gives me a sense of comfort.

At 3:26pm, my phone chimes, an automated text to let me know that the vet is approximately three minutes away.

At 3:31pm, the doctor arrives, here to help Misty take her last breath.


Sephi comes in to the room. She's never been good with strangers in the house, preferring to hide away. Not to mention, she is always a bit feral after I take Misty to the vet, towards both Misty and myself. Something about the smell. Even if I didn't spend more than a few minutes in the waiting room while dropping Misty off, Sephi would hiss and swipe and yowl at me for hours after coming home. 

But for this, she doesn't seem to mind. She walks up to the doctor, sniffing their hand and rubbing her head against their little bag of pills and potions. Then, she hops up on to her cat tower, just beside the couch, perching herself at the very top. She keeps a watchful eye over us, resting her chin on the little ledge of the bed

The doctor talks with us for a bit. I grab a tissue and wipe Misty's eyes for the last time. They've been constantly gunky for weeks now. Just a part of her being so unwell, they said.

And I know it's coming. I've been prepared.

She feels so warm against me. Although she's a shadow of her former self, her warm, furry little body cuddled up against me is still the best feeling in the world. Every morning when I first wake up, every hour when I feed her, I take in those precious moments, knowing that time is quickly running out.

The doctor gives the sedative, walking me through every step. There's barely a change. Misty has been ready for days, if not weeks. I pull her up close to me.

"It's okay, baby..."
It is not okay.

I ask how quick it will be, once they give the final medication. They tell me it's usually about 30 seconds, but again reassure me that they can give me all the time I need at every stage.

Eventually, it's time.
"Are you ready?"
I nod. I'll never be ready. But I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

I keep holding her, stroking her, kissing her fluffy little head. Telling her that I'm so sorry. That I did everything I could for her. That she's the best kitty in the whole entire world.

"I think she's probably gone now..."
They pick up the stethoscope and check her over. I try to stop sobbing, not wanting to make the task more difficult.
"...she's gone."

And I break. Loud, guttural wails, bursting from me uncontrollably. I immediately want to apologize for my hysterics, but I can't get the words out. I can't stop sobbing.

I should've been prepared for this.

The doctor excuses herself, saying they'll give me some time. The next half hour is a blur, until S opens the front door to let them back in. I'm still crying, but less desperately so.

Even after it's over, the doctor stays for an hour, maybe a little longer. We talk about Misty. Her life. About her funny little quirks. 

My back hurts. I try to reposition myself, reaching for the cushion behind me. But as I move my hand away, Misty's head lulls. I immediately move back to support it, mumbling an apology to her.

When it's time, after the doctor has been here for hours, they ask if I would like to carry her out. I wasn't planning to, but I couldn't just sit there and watch them leave. The doctor helps me to wrap her up in a plush blanket, bright red, and places her into my arms.

I carry her out. I don't care if the neighbours see me, crying in my pajamas. The doctor has a little bed in the car. I gently place Misty down, and tuck a lock of my own hair, carefully folded inside a tissue, into the blanket with her, to accompany her on her final journey, so that part of me will always be with her. I lean in and give her one last kiss on the head. I tell her how much I love her, and that I'll see her soon.

And then they leave, taking a piece of my heart with her.

And I'm left here.

Misty

26.12.2010 - 29.06.2024

xxBella

Four Teeth Less Wise

If there's one thing I get extremely nostalgic for, it's the combination of soup and jelly.

Back in the early days of my eating disorder, Soup & Jelly was my go to. It used to be a hodgepodge of various different vegetables, cooked down and blended into a rather unappetizing sludge. Cabbage, cauliflower, broccoli, carrots, onions. It evolved from me grabbing random vegetables, and ended with those five. Plus a jelly cup for dessert.

At the moment, it's potato & leek soup. Even with a small amount of cream, it's still safe and comforting, and has become a daily ritual. Followed, of course, with sugar free jelly. Lemon, lime, pineapple, orange mango, or my all time favourite, raspberry. It's all wonderful, at a meager 7 calories a serve.

Here I am, four teeth less wise. When I had my wisdom teeth out in January, I thought that it was going to be a couple of weeks on soft foods. When I was recovering in hospital the next day, they said it would be six weeks. I don't know what I expected, really, and I should've probably asked prior to the actual procedure.

Despite the duration being longer than expected, I was fully prepared for the liquid diet. But I was not prepared for the mindfuck that it triggered. The mental obstacle course. To be thrown back in time to the era of Soup & Jelly. There's something about that combination that holds a special place in my heart. It triggered something that I wasn't expecting.

Now, it's been almost three months since the surgery. Initially, I was planning on doing a few days on a full liquid diet, then starting on soft foods. Three days became five, five days became seven... I tried for a while to do soft foods like scrambled egg or mashed potato (things that didn't really require chewing, but more 'squishing'), but found it more mentally taxing than expected.

Although I'm trying to keep solids in for a couple of meals a week, it doesn't feel good when I do. I've fallen back into the safety of liquids. Even when the calories don't differ much to normal, there's something about a full liquid diet that gives me comfort. It feels safer. I've also found that I have less 'food noise', which is wonderful. It's just less stressful.

My dietitian has been asking me to figure out exactly why I've stayed stuck on liquids. And I still don't think I have a proper answer. I don't know how to explain it, beyond that it feels Safe.


The procedure itself went well. Recovery was rough for the first few weeks. The swelling was insane, not to mention the bruises all the way down my neck. The teeth hadn't been causing issues (yet), which is why I was so apprehensive about the pain. It was more preventative, to get them out before they inevitably started causing issues. So, the aftermath was always going to be worse than it had been prior.

I couldn't stay away from my cigarettes. Within ten minutes of getting home, I sheepishly said to my support worker "...I think I might try a smoke". Very minimally to start with, with short, gentle, unsatisfying puffs. I probably barely even got any smoke into my lungs for the first week or so. I did get patches for the first week, which helped to some degree. In the past, I've either used gum or inhalers to top up the patches, as the strongest patches are only equivalent to about half of what I smoke a day, and I couldn't use either this time.

When I woke up with nightmares in the hospital, it was the absolute worst, as I alwaysalwaysalways have a smoke immediately when I wake up with nightmares. Instead, I had to make do with two lukewarm black coffees at 3am.

The surgeon let me keep the two teeth that he managed to get out without shattering them, which I'm chuffed about. I'll spare you the photos. I still have all of my baby teeth, so it's kinda nice to update the collection. Maybe I'll turn them into earrings some day.

I even had my 6-monthly check up with the regular dentist a few weeks ago. After a decade with no dental care, I'm determined to stay on top of it. I book the next one as I check out, and I put a few dollars into savings each week to try to stay on top of it.


Apart from that, there's few other life updates. I met with a new Occupational Therapist, who is wonderful. I'm still waiting to hear back about my NDIS appeal to restore my regular supports, with no idea when I might expect news.

With the aforementioned nightmares, my psych and I have been talking about maybe trying EMDR therapy. At this point, I'm willing to try anything, except actually talking about the trauma. She even asked if I've ever thought about psychedelic treatment, but I'm very apprehensive about it for various reasons. I've been on a medication to help with the nightmares for over a year now, but thus far it only tanks my blood pressure. My GP has given me the go-ahead to gradually increase the dose, as long as I keep monitoring my blood pressure. The nightmares can be incapacitating, and has messed with my sleep for far too long. When I wake up with nightmares, I immediately get up, move around, do anything I can to keep myself from falling back asleep until it feels 'safe' again. And I'm getting too old to function on so little sleep.

Miss Misty gave me a hell of a scare a few weeks ago. One morning, I woke up and she was extremely lethargic, barely responsive, and just not herself. It's hard to explain, but one of those things that when you know, you know. And I really thought 'this is it'. After an emergency consult with her vet and a day in hospital to run some tests, they found that thankfully it was just an infection. I was so grateful to be able to bring her home. She's doing better now, after a course of antibiotics and some rest. But it was one of the most emotionally draining days I've had in a long time. I really thought that it was going to be goodbye, that she wouldn't be coming home. And I know she's 13. She's an old girl. But I'm not ready to say goodbye, and it terrifies me knowing that one day I'll have to, sooner rather than later.

My potato & leek soup.  I've constantly had it around since the surgery.
Each batch varies slightly - the ingredients might differ +/- 10%, sometimes it's a bit thicker,
 sometimes it's a bit thinner, depending on how I'm feeling when I make it.

I won't bore you with the precise weights of everything. This is the recipe I use, with a few tweaks.

It's made with approximately 1kg of potato and x 2-3 leeks (350g, give or take),

 including 15g of butter and 100ml of light cream.

It makes about 10 cups of soup at roughly 110 cal per cup.

Cream soups have always been a bit of a fear. Cream in general, really.

100ml of this cream is 188 calories, so it adds about 19 calories per cup,

 which seems reasonable at the moment.

Obligatory cat photos, featuring Misty being a cuddly sook

(and Sephi!)



xxBella