Moribund Among the Amoxidrops

Hammett and I did see Dr. Press last Tuesday afternoon. Dr. Press said first thing that I must be freaked out that my new cat has the same symptoms as my old cat (who died), which was very thoughtful of him, and he also said that young cats often have this kind of thing and it doesn’t necessarily mean anything is seriously wrong.

A couple of times lately, I’ve seen Hammett do something that looks a bit like the gulping Thelonious did for two or three years before she died, though it’s much less pronounced in Hammett’s case. It is worrisome, though. I am afraid that he has some chronic ailment that will make him die young.

Dr. Press said if five days of Amoxidrops caused Hammett’s diarrhea to abate for two weeks, ergo more Amoxidrops are needed. But if X days of Amoxidrops makes the diarrhea go away for X times 3 days, does that mean he will have to take Amoxidrops three months out of twelve? And why does whatever it is keep coming back?

The Amoxidrops have to be given via syringe twice a day, and, now that he’s a little bigger, it’s more than twice as big a dose as he was taking last time. (He now weighs eight pounds, ten ounces.) So it is a bit of a project, but he’s very good about it, and will even come over to me when it’s medication time. We are about halfway through Hammett’s 14 days of Amoxidrops.

I saw the lovely Stefano at Vertical Clearance last week for the latest revision of my hairdo; my concept changes every time: “I’m growing it long.” “I’d like it bald on the sides and tall on top so it comes to a point, like an ice-cream cone.” “I want it to look like James Dean’s.” “I’m growing it long.” “It should be smooth here and here and achieve a sprouting effect there and there.”

After my haircut I went to El Toro for my customary tofu burrito with half refried beans and half whole pinto beans, a dab of hot salsa, and double extra avocado. Several workers there now know what I want before I describe it, which makes me feel like Donald Trump arriving at some fancy New York restaurant.

To make sure the last, key, point gets across, I always add “Doble,” which makes the burrito mistress think I speak Spanish; she then addresses me in Spanish, causing me to have no idea what she’s saying.

I walk over to the cash register while burrito construction is underway; the cash register person beams and asks, “Tofu burrito, doble avocado?”

I spent the weekend watching movies, eating junk food and sleeping. By the end of it, I felt quite depressed.

In the theater, I saw Notes on a Scandal (now I want my hair to look exactly like Judi Dench’s in that movie) and The Queen. One odd thing about The Queen is that they went all out to make Helen Mirren very like the real queen in appearance, and then hired some guy to play Prince Charles who doesn’t look the first thing like him.

On DVD, I saw All the King’s Men (which I liked a lot), 40 Shades of Blue, Factotum, and Inside Man.

Thelonious never took the slightest interest in the TV, but Hammett settled down on the back of the chair and watched two movies with me. When there was a sex scene, he rested his paw on my shoulder and in his round green eyes there was an expression of genteel shock: “Oh, my, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

All my life, there have been periods where I overate and felt awful about it. Now that my official policy is that it’s fine to overeat if I need to, it’s like the ante has been upped and my whole life has to fall apart temporarily to achieve the same effect. Now I overeat plus don’t shower one night or even two nights in a row (I haven’t crossed the three-shower threshold yet) plus let the sink fill with dirty dishes plus skip my weekly cooking plus stop stretching, etc.

Sometimes it feels like narcolepsy, in that I might even want to do some of these things, but I just can’t get out of bed. Once in a while there is a moment where I think I could get up, but if the impulse isn’t strong enough or if I don’t act on it immediately, there is likely to be five more hours of sleeping.

I imagine the whole thing is a manifestation of depression, or else it is me trying to get my own attention about something.

I’ve lost faith in therapy, so my protocol for this syndrome is just to do the best I can—to take as many constructive actions as possible—and to try not to make things worse by thinking dire thoughts.

One nice thing is that this is extremely fluid and can turn on a dime. I can be ready to throw myself off the bridge one moment, feel perfectly cheerful an hour later and remain cheerful for weeks. A simple thing like taking a shower can make a big difference, but it’s amazing how hard it can be to do even that sometimes.