(What Paul Krugman suggests we call this—sounds like the simple truth to me, at least in regard to the United States—rather than the “Chinese virus.” As to why Trump and his team “denied and delayed,” that’s obvious: They literally don’t care if 99 percent of Americans die, as long as the very richest never experience a moment of anxiety or lack. Wait until they find out we are all connected and that whatever happens to the rest of us will eventually happen to them.)
I heard Hammett vomit during the night last night and figured it was more of the thin white juice he has thrown up a couple of times in the past day or two. He remains thirsty enough to slurp a little water a couple of times a day, but then it seems he is vomiting it right up. This morning, I saw that the vomit was green: bile. Later I guess he had a little water, and then there was more green vomit.
Dad and I spoke at some length this morning, which was an absolutely lovely one: clear and sunny and cool. And it was the first day of spring, one day earlier than usual! That seemed auspicious. I pictured myself saying, “Yes, he died on the first day of spring. What a beautiful day it was.” But then I decided that was a stupid reason to euthanize a cat if it really wasn’t quite time yet.
I called his vet, weeping, to make an inquiry. “So, if a person brings a cat over to be euthanized—preferably her own cat—is it possible to bring the cat home afterward to lie on ice in state until the next day, and then to bring the cat back for cremation?” (I actually have no intention of using ice in this scenario, because I have friends who always let their departed cats lie in state for three or four days, surrounded by flowers, and they assure me that even that length of time presents no problem, with no ice.) The kind person who answered the phone thought for a moment and said that would be fine. I asked what the latest was that I could arrange euthanasia today, and she said to call by 3 p.m.
Hammett was lying in his bed by the radiator and I noticed a mild, unpleasant smell in the area, which honestly could just as easily be me as him at this point, but it was him. I also saw that his breathing was very faint: we had both had the good idea about a peaceful death during the vernal equinox!
I tidied up the room a little, and turned both phones off, and did my stretching. I wanted the atmosphere to be calm, orderly and quiet. After I stretched, I meditated, and devoted the whole 30 minutes to metta, for me and then Hammett: “May my body be filled with peace. May every cell of my body be filled with peace. Hammett, may your body be filled with peace. May every cell of your body be filled with peace.” And so forth. May I know that I am loved. Arriving in this spot, letting go of this spot. Arriving in this body, letting go of this body. Arriving in this life, letting go of this life. May I fully experience this moment.
“May I let go fully and gracefully (as best I can). Hammett, may you let go fully and gracefully.”
I didn’t need to add the qualifying phrase for him because he doesn’t have the problems with this that I do.
By the time I was done meditating, I felt very at peace, saw that Hammett was still alive, and went out for a walk. Most people were leaving a good amount of space between themselves and others. I saw just one group of three people walking close together; maybe they live together.
Nearing the end of my walk, I came upon a man and woman walking side by side a few feet from each other. They continued in that manner as we drew near. I could not go any farther to the right because of the houses there, and so was forced to pass within two or three feet of the woman, at whom I directed a murderous glare. I don’t actually think she put me in any detectable amount of danger. It’s more the principle of the thing, and mainly, it is having a chronic case of frayed nerves at this point, or always being very near that point. Like, I am under the impression that I feel fine, but when I get that angry about something that small, it tells me there was already something stewing under the surface. As I imagine it is for nearly everybody.
A block later, I saw an oncoming pedestrian veer to her right to leave as much space between us as possible. I smiled and said, “Thank you for the six feet! Be well!” She smiled and said, “You, too!” and we both offered a thumbs-up.
Next time I encounter the former situation, I will say, "Stop! Please arrange yourselves so that we will have six feet of space. Perhaps walk single file for a moment."
I have a neighbor, a youngish man, who does this three times a day, give or take: Steps out his back door, takes a hit off a joint, hawks up a giant ball of phlegm, and spits loudly onto the ground. It is the most revolting noise, one which I have been listening to for six or seven or eight years or maybe longer, because no one with a rent-controlled apartment in this neighborhood can afford to move. He will never move, I will never move.
Oddly, yesterday the most charitable thought I’ve ever had about this crossed my mind: Maybe he has cancer and uses marijuana for related symptoms. (But no; he wouldn’t have had cancer for so many years.) And today I lost my temper more than I ever have about this. I heard the usual sequence of events, and yelled, “SHUT! UP!” My window was open and he could certainly hear me. Honestly, if everyone else can do their phlegm-related operations in their own bathroom, so can he. Maybe at some point he’ll get nervous about coughing where 50 people can hear it. I understand that some people are calling 911 when they hear someone coughing. That didn’t really surprise me, but learning that the authorities are actually responding to such calls did.
Oh, as for Hammett, I honestly thought he was going to die while I was meditating. I honestly think he will be gone when I wake up tomorrow. However, I am sure that if I were to put him in his carrier, he would protest. He smells bad. I am sure he is not having a huge amount of fun, but as best I can tell, I think he wants to be in his own house. I don’t think he is suffering unduly.
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