Pain Management: Lifesavers

I kept falling asleep while I wrote this…and when I tried to proofread it, the same thing happened. So, oh well! It is what it is.

Remember how I mentioned pain management last time? How I said I’d had to call, almost immediately after surgery to say, “Yo, this medication isn’t cutting it, can I take more?” And then, I had to go see them, again, to say, basically the same thing?

Being bed-bound has its advantages. Look at my companion. Like the cats, he never leaves my side. He thinks that the headphones make him look like an official “gamer,” and he made me take his photo.

Being bed-bound has its advantages. Look at my companion. Like the cats, he never leaves my side. He thinks that the headphones make him look like an official “gamer,” and he made me take his photo.

 

Well, I had to call again. It still wasn’t strong enough. I was told to take a different combo of the same meds, at a different time. Because of the amount of meds this would require, I needed a refill almost immediately. I know, I know, it sounds like I might be a giant baby. Or, I am craving my Dilaudid and Oxy combo, and becoming some kind of fiend. Or, the most likely scenario, the whimpers and sobbing that came out of me, as the meds wore off, are indicative that the medication is both not strong enough, and not lasting long enough.

 

So, now I was on visit/call number FOUR, to pain management. This time, I was scheduled to see the actual doctor, not her PA. This was the big time. I was both afraid, and excited. I was afraid, because I knew I had to tell her that I’d been taking one extra pill per dosing period. I knew that was important for her to know, so she could dose me properly, when she adjusted meds; but, this was the first time I’d ever taken more medication than I was prescribed. To put that in perspective, I’ve been on opiates of some kind since 2014. In five years, I’d never taken a single extra pill. That’s how brutally painful this surgery has been. So, this scared me, because I was afraid she’d think I was taking them for the wrong reasons. In reality, if I didn’t take them, I was shaking in pain. I was excited too though, because I thought that she might be able to help me. There is nothing, nothing, nothing that will ever shake my optimism about seeing a doctor when I’m truly sick. I continue, perhaps blindly, to believe deeply in the curative power of the white coat, and the deep humanitarian desire to help others that they all share.

 

Doing homework, with my judgemental pal. He helps me do well, otherwise he has an opinion about it.

Doing homework, with my judgemental pal. He helps me do well, otherwise he has an opinion about it.

Sitting in the waiting room was brutal. I’d gotten close to my dose time while we were sitting there, so I was in agony. It isn’t that I couldn’t take my meds while I was at the doctor; they have water, and I packed my pills. It was that I couldn’t take them for another hour or so; I was only close to my dose time. Close means my meds had worn off, and I was suffering. The worst part was that we had sat there, patiently, for forty-five minutes past our appointment time, before we asked the front desk if something had gone wrong.

 

They, of course, said I was next, and I’d be called momentarily. You could see them scrambling behind that little window. Someone had clearly misplaced my chart. I’d never have been called, had Bryon not gone to the front desk and asked about me. They called me back, almost immediately…to what amounted to a spare stock room, not an exam room. Sure, I was next. It was absolutely planned this way. Except that the tech that called me back profusely apologized for misplacing my chart and causing the whole thing. I do love when people apologize for messing up when they are in a face-to-face customer service industry, it makes all of the difference in the world. I was immediately no longer frustrated.

Loki’s opinion of my homework is far less strict. He feels that as long as I do my best, he’s cool with it.

Loki’s opinion of my homework is far less strict. He feels that as long as I do my best, he’s cool with it.

 

Anyway, when the doctor came in, a doctor who I’ve never met, yet who is the doctor I’m billed under every time, this is how the beginning of our conversation went:

Now that Bryon has gone back to work. Collin is my day nurse. I usually don’t wake him up until the God forsaken hour of 10 am. But, even then, it’s too early for him, and he comes dragging into my bed for these precious snuggles. I had to break my leg for this, but it might have been worth it.

Now that Bryon has gone back to work. Collin is my day nurse. I usually don’t wake him up until the God forsaken hour of 10 am. But, even then, it’s too early for him, and he comes dragging into my bed for these precious snuggles. I had to break my leg for this, but it might have been worth it.

 

R: I don’t know you. (yep, this is how I greeted her). I mean--sorry. Probably should’ve said something else, it’s just that I have been seeing someone else. Maybe---

 

Dr: Probably Diana?

 

R: Yes! Diana!

 

Dr: Don’t worry. I oversee all my patients. I’ve read your chart from top to bottom and I just reviewed it now. I see your meds are fucked up for this. Tell me about your surgery. It looks like hell.

 

R: (Shocked pause….then told her about the surgery).

 

Mew is enjoying my convalescence as well. He spends a lot of his day hiding under the bed, so now that there is someone IN the bed that he hides under, he is quite pleased to have a visitor.

Mew is enjoying my convalescence as well. He spends a lot of his day hiding under the bed, so now that there is someone IN the bed that he hides under, he is quite pleased to have a visitor.

I thought I would never find a doctor I loved as much as Doctor W in California, but she’s quickly becoming a close second. She swore, so goddamn much, I was impressed. I’ve never seen a doctor behave like that. But, It wasn’t he swearing that I liked, it was the matter-of-fact way that she dealt with my situation.

 

More homework. This is my general plan-ish for my big paper. It took me days to come up with this plan/idea that looks like a mess. Going to start working on it this weekend and see if it falls flat.

More homework. This is my general plan-ish for my big paper. It took me days to come up with this plan/idea that looks like a mess. Going to start working on it this weekend and see if it falls flat.

When I told her that I was taking an extra pill at every dose, she wasn’t mad, she didn’t judge me; she said she was glad I told her because she needed that info for her math to figure out how to plan to dosing for what she wanted to prescribe next. She was pissed that her staff of PA’s didn’t think of putting me on a long-lasting opiate, instead of short-acting ones, that work, but have the nasty tendency to provide peaks and valleys of pain relief and absence of pain relief for patients in acute pain.

 

More joyous cats who are happy I’m in bed.

More joyous cats who are happy I’m in bed.

I told her that I’d specifically asked for an extended-release opiate when I came in, before my surgery, and we discussed the plan for pain relief. The doctor got angry when she heard that. A few “F-bombs” were dropped. I explained that, based on my brain surgeries, I knew that had been what worked the best for me, for serious surgeries; so, it was my best guess here.

 

Now, four weeks in, I was up to 80 mg of oxycodone, and 16 mg of Dilaudid a day. That is an insane amount of opiates. It was enough to be getting dangerous, especially when combined. The worst part was that I was still in pain, despite the massive amount of drugs I was taking. It seems impossible, but I was. I could kiss my doctor for telling me that it wasn’t, and that it was perfectly reasonable to be in this kind of pain with short acting meds, after this kind of operation.

 

She scribbled on a piece of paper for several minutes doing all kinds of complicated math. She mumbled half addition and multiplication problems randomly, drew arrows all over my intake page, crossed-out, and finally came up with an answer. She prescribed an extended-release opiate, in the 36 mg dose, which happens to be the largest it comes in (the pharmacy had to order it). I take it twice a day (every 12 hours). Additionally, she prescribed a short acting opiate for breakthrough pain that I’m allowed to take up to three times a day. Viola, a plan that should work.

A rare sight: all three cats in the bed, in close proximity to one another. Homer hates Mew, and Mew harasses Homer. It’s all very social dynamics of cats, in real time, developing. I’m always reprimanding them, and giving them serious lectures about how to treat our friends. They don’t listen.

A rare sight: all three cats in the bed, in close proximity to one another. Homer hates Mew, and Mew harasses Homer. It’s all very social dynamics of cats, in real time, developing. I’m always reprimanding them, and giving them serious lectures about how to treat our friends. They don’t listen.

 

She ended the appointment with this:

 

“You call here if there is a shitstorm, and we’ll fix it. This amount of pain is unacceptable. Un-accept-able. We’ll get through this. Together. I promise.”

 

There’s no way of explaining how awesome it is to feel like your doctor is totally on your team. I felt like I could pick up the phone, at any time, call, and say, “it still hurts, help,” and she’d drop everything to call in something new. I needed that feeling, right then, after struggling for so many weeks.

 

So far, for the last few days though, I think we may have found the right balance. The problem will be that getting off the extended release opiates is a different story than getting off short acting opiates. It is a whole different animal, and a pain in the ass. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again, but ugh. All I can say is that at least it’s not Fentanyl.

 

Alas, this is where we are at, at the moment. I’m finally on extended release opiates, and I just started PT, which is brutal. I cried yesterday, but she didn’t stop. I think she liked watching me writhe. I am still taking my Harvard class, and kicking ass in it. Yeah, that’s right, broken leg and all, I’m doing awesome. Nothing brings me more joy than school. I’m crazy, I think. I wish we had class every day. I can’t wait for next semester, when I have two classes. It will be a dream!

 

I am up to being encouraged to bear 25 lbs. on my broken leg, which doesn’t sound like much, but the goal is to be off the crutches in about a month. So, between the exercises that PT has me doing at home, the massages that they want me to do, and just regular aches and pains of healing, my leg is giving me a run for my money. Thank goodness for new pain meds, and a pain management doctor who cares about pending shit storms.

And a Partridge in a Pear Tree

Everyone knows how much of a bleeding heart I am when it comes to animals. To be honest, I’m a bleeding heart when it comes to anything, frankly. I cup most spiders in my hand, to release them outside. It still counts as kindness, even if you shriek in terror the whole way. And, lest you believe I prize the animal kingdom over mankind, I got quite irate today, over our current sense of nationalism and arbitrary borders, when discussing the nearly 1,500 children missing from ICE detention centers after family separations, based new immigration policy. When will we realize that humanity is equal across borders, despite nationalism?

Anyway, back to animals? Right?

There is an adorably sweet black and white cat that lives in our neighborhood. She tends to chill at the back side of our block, for the most part. Whenever we go for a walk, she spots me, a sucker, saunters over and follows me home, because she knows I will stop every two feet, when she mews for attention, and pet her for ten minutes.

Apparently, she marked my address in her little kitty brain, because about three weeks ago, she started showing up at my window, meowing for both food and attention. She sleeps on my soft patio chairs, waiting all day for me to visit her. Half the time, she doesn’t even want food, she just wants someone to come pet her. It’s the sweetest thing you can imagine, if you are a cat lover, like I am. Plus, because I am home alone all day, and I spend a large portion of my time carrying on intense conversations with my feline friends, I find it adorable to add another one to the mix, especially this rag-tag rapscallion who just wants to be loved.

I'm sure you knew where this was going. Obviously, she came inside!

I'm sure you knew where this was going. Obviously, she came inside!

This means I’ve been begging Bryon to figure out a way to take her with us when we move. This is, of course, a totally unreasonable plan. His reasons are logical, and are, as follows:

  • She’s not ours, as indicated by the fact that she wears a collar (but no tags)
  • Homer will hate a new cat
  • She’s an outdoor cat and may not adapt to being indoors
  • We have two cats
  • Homer will hate a new cat
  • Moving a new cat, across the country, is insane
  • Homer will hate a new cat
  • What will Loki think of a new cat?
  • Homer will hate a new cat

So many variables!

Still, as you know, my husband is a wonderful man, and he tends to support me, no matter how crazy I am. Although, today he might have had a moment of weakness brought on by the tears I shed at lunch, when I asked him to consider just how much it breaks my heart to imagine her sitting out there, pining for us, after we left. The image of that lil’ girl, meowing into an empty house, made me sick to my stomach. I wasn’t doing a Little Match Girl routine, it actually does nauseate me. Bleeding heart here. Bleeding. Dripping.

So, we brought her in. So far, so good. She goes to the vet on Tuesday to get cleared. We’ve posted to the neighborhood to see if she actually does belong to anyone, but so far no one. Bryon says I have to leave the ad up all weekend. I think twenty minutes is sufficient. Marriages have differences of opinion.

It's so hard to take pics of black cats! But, this is Mittens getting to know my gmail. Clearly, I have a problem with deleting unread messages.

It's so hard to take pics of black cats! But, this is Mittens getting to know my gmail. Clearly, I have a problem with deleting unread messages.

She’s been inside all day, and if someone claims her, I think I’ll be devastated. I’ll also be angry that they take such shit care of their cat. I mean, c’mon cat owner! Half of me didn’t want to post it the ad at all, because if she does belong to someone, they don’t deserve her. But Bryon says we cat be cat-nappers. Ugh, doing the “right” thing is the worst, sometimes! 

My theory, though, is that she did belong to someone long ago, but when they moved, they just opened the door and let her out. Nice military folks tend to do that, just abandon their pets. That’s how I got my first dog, who was the greatest dog I have ever known. Gotta love folks like that. Apparently, pets are disposable, like garbage, and immigrant children (according to the U.S. Government). 

Bryon has already started coming around on her though. I can tell because he wanted to name her. If anyone remembers the movie, Bolt, there was an abandoned black and white cat named, Mittens, that travelled cross-country, on a road-trip with Bolt. She’d been left by her family, to fend for herself, too. I think the name suits her. Plus, it gives her lower status than our Gods and legends: Homer and Loki. We can’t go letting her believe she’s higher up in the pecking order, right? Good name: Mittens.

For anyone keeping count, that’s three cats, now. Two of which Bryon vehemently objected to. Oh, and we’ll also be moving a hamster that has grossly outlived his lifespan yet refuses to die. He’s vibrantly healthy, despite my son’s consistent mistreatment and lack of attention to his pet, via “forgetting” to feed him for days on end, and “forgetting” to give him fresh water.

Awwww........

Awwww........

How that hamster has survived boggles my mind. Nay, if that hamster is indicative of all hamsters, how hamsters have not taken over the world, as a source of constant awe to me. Again, this is coming from the most bleeding of animal-loving hearts, a person who though she wishes the hamster would go into the light, snuggles him, makes sure he gets attention (that the boy is negligent of giving), and ensures he does, indeed get fed.

Homer has one rule: Rachel's lap, and anything lap-adjacent are his. There was a growling episode. Homer, clawless wonder that he is, won, and Mittens fled. Loki has been here over a year now, and Homer is only just NOW STARTING to tolerate lap sharing. Mittens, you have. a long road to hoe before you can sit near me if Homer is anywhere near.

Homer has one rule: Rachel's lap, and anything lap-adjacent are his. There was a growling episode. Homer, clawless wonder that he is, won, and Mittens fled. Loki has been here over a year now, and Homer is only just NOW STARTING to tolerate lap sharing. Mittens, you have. a long road to hoe before you can sit near me if Homer is anywhere near.

So, it looks (hopefully), like we are heading out into the great icky yonder (yes, VA is icky to this California girl) with three cats and a hamster. Wish us luck that we get to keep sweet little Mittens! And, wish us luck that another kitty doesn’t catch my eye before we leave. I have no self-control.

Willow Bean

Our local animal shelter is precariously placed between our nearest Target and the car wash. Because I like my car clean, and because there’s always a reason to go to Target, I have learned that I must take alternate routes to get to both places to avoid the shelter. If I don’t, we would end up with a menagerie. I’ve seen a chickens and goats there! I’ve told myself that I just want to go in and pet the cats and dogs, but I can’t keep that promise to myself.

This September, I randomly stopped in, on a day I’d lied to myself about petting cats. They had so many kittens that, frankly, I’m surprised I didn’t fill the whole car. Instead, I adopted Willow, a cat that they’d not bothered naming, and that the entire staff came out to thank me personally for taking. I’m pretty sure that it was his last day, and they were grateful someone saved him. Not only was his adoption fee free, when I tried to make a donation (which I always do when I adopt a “free” animal), I felt like they wanted to refuse it.

At the right angle, he is pretty cute, isn't he? Even though he's ancient, he looks like a kitten because he's so itty bitty. Who'd know he's the equivalent of an 88-year old man? With this photo, I argue that many would have adopted him as well - so long as they couldn't smell him.

At the right angle, he is pretty cute, isn't he? Even though he's ancient, he looks like a kitten because he's so itty bitty. Who'd know he's the equivalent of an 88-year old man? With this photo, I argue that many would have adopted him as well - so long as they couldn't smell him.

He wasn’t in a cage; he was a free-roamer, with about fifteen other cats, who are considered social enough to be allowed to wander the cat room. Willow decided he was going home with me the minute I entered the cat room. He followed me from cage to cage, meowing until I picked him up, and then promptly fell asleep in my arms, purring. If I put him down, he cried at my ankles and started the whole process all over again.

Good gawd he could be cute.

Good gawd he could be cute.

I’m certain he was trying to explain that despite his offensive odor, and hideous appearance, he would make a great friend, and to please take him home. He was far too thin, to the point that you couldn’t just feel his bones, you could feel every bone, and I’m pretty sure his organs. His long fur was matted and dirty. And, you could smell his cheesy, leaky ears from the parking lot.

From the moment he came home, he only left my lap when either he, or I, had to use the bathroom, or he had to eat. I got used to the smell. I guess, at the shelter, he was trying to clue me in to his plan after all.

From the moment he came home, he only left my lap when either he, or I, had to use the bathroom, or he had to eat. I got used to the smell. I guess, at the shelter, he was trying to clue me in to his plan after all.

At least his presence in my personal bubble kept the lonely women away. Did you know that the cat room at your local shelter is a beacon for single women? I guess this should’ve been a no-brainer, but I didn’t realize just how common it is for women to just swing by and pet cats. Say, on the way home from the gym, on their lunch break, or just because they were sad. Very, very sad. I can’t criticize too much, because that’s exactly what I did that day; but there was a twinge of something “else” about everyone else there, especially since they all came and went without a cat, which made it weird.

Anyway, note to single men looking for a gal: cat room.

As we all know, there’s no such thing as a free cat (or dog!). Willow went to the vet, in his short time with us, more times than Homer has needed to go, in the past five years. He got extra food, special litter, and prescription medication that had to be applied daily. He was brushed, combed, and even got a special haircut. He was adored beyond measure.

By me.

Hideous headache picture, but adorable scarf-cat picture. He really liked to be carried around and worn like this, for some reason. I've never seen such a thing! By the way, Chiari sure can make you ugly on pain days, can't it!? Look at that facial swelling! Yikes!

Hideous headache picture, but adorable scarf-cat picture. He really liked to be carried around and worn like this, for some reason. I've never seen such a thing! By the way, Chiari sure can make you ugly on pain days, can't it!? Look at that facial swelling! Yikes!

Only me.

The other cats were displeased with Willow’s alley cat ways, and his strange ability to convince them that they should be relegated to only the back bedrooms. They were as confused as the rest of us about his powers of persuasion, considering he was a Lilliputian. Collin was Collin about him, and found him less interesting than the Wii, but more interesting than the carpeting.

Willow took a keen interest in Collin's new favorite food, Cambell's instant cup-o-soup. When we pointed out that they smell a lot like cat food, Collin wasn't amused.

Willow took a keen interest in Collin's new favorite food, Cambell's instant cup-o-soup. When we pointed out that they smell a lot like cat food, Collin wasn't amused.

 

Bryon, of course, was indifferent to the fact that another animal joined the menagerie, despite his protestations that we didn’t need another cat.

Bryon was building Lego sets. Willow wanted to be a scarf. You'd think a cat wouldn't like to be held this way. You would be wrong.

Bryon was building Lego sets. Willow wanted to be a scarf. You'd think a cat wouldn't like to be held this way. You would be wrong.

Willow refused to give up on Bryon though. Like all adorable and pathetic creatures, he used this lack of power to weaken Bryon, who was eventually defenseless against fuzziness. Bryon grew to admit, at least, an affection for the little scamp, too.

Willow was napping atop the couch while Bryon was working. In his snoring state, he literally fell off, and into this position, where he stayed, snuggled between the couch and Bryon's back, purring away, because he was next to a warm body. That cat was so weird.

Willow was napping atop the couch while Bryon was working. In his snoring state, he literally fell off, and into this position, where he stayed, snuggled between the couch and Bryon's back, purring away, because he was next to a warm body. That cat was so weird.

Like all animals, we are charmed by what they do that’s frustrating, as much as what they do that is adorable. Willow, perhaps because he weighed only what his fur and bones weighed, was always seeking warmth. He slept not on your lap, but on your face, or wrapped around your neck, like a scarf. He sought to sleep, at night, curled against your face, or curled under your chin, sucking up the warmth from your breath.

As adorable as that sounds, remember that smell I mentioned? Turns out that his ears were filled with benign, inoperable tumors. They stank, and continued to stink. They collected all manner of airborne bacteria. No matter how clean we kept them, and no matter how good we were with the medication, he was still stinky. Really, stinky.

Willow and I "enjoying" a nap.

Willow and I "enjoying" a nap.

So, his refusal to be moved, his digging is claws into the pillow or into my hair was truly a lesson in love. He taught us, and especially me, that loving something challenging reaps rewards we aren’t expecting. Willow stank, and I held him close anyway. I knew he was old, and probably wouldn’t last long, and no matter how much I tried to keep myself from falling all the way in love with him, he wound his way deep into my heart, anyway.

How I woke up most mornings when Willow lived with us.

How I woke up most mornings when Willow lived with us.

At every visit to the vet, we’d ask, “is he uncomfortable,” and “is he in pain.” And, every time, the vet would assure us that he wasn’t. I know what it’s like to be in so much pain that I’d wish for death. I know what it’s like to be sick. I watched that silly cat be old, but not sick. I watched him be close to the end and not particularly healthy, but not particularly unwell either. It was a strange little relationship we had.

He looks pretty comfortable to me, frankly.

He looks pretty comfortable to me, frankly.

Within his short time with us, he had a few slips into illness that we thought were his end. We’d take him to the vet, and we braced for the worst. But, that silly cat would just have had a flare up of his ear infections, get some antibiotics and some fluids and come home a Skeletor version of a kitten. He was strong, and suddenly frisky. For Willow, that meant harassing the other cats, briefly. Homer and Loki always seemed especially displeased to see the cat carrier return from the vet, occupied.

Poor kitty.

Poor kitty.

A few days after Christmas, Willow looked sick again. This time though, he didn’t look sick like he looked sick before. He was hiding under the Christmas tree; but, when he was coming out, his back end was dragging, or falling beneath him. He had a bad bowel movement, and dragged his back end through it, and then didn’t clean himself. The poor kitty needed a bath. If you’ve ever bathed a cat, you know they object; he didn’t. Nor did he object when I blow dried him to stop his little skeleton body from shivering. I held him for hours afterward, wrapped in a blanket, while he randomly quaked in what I can only assume was pain.

Sick kitty after getting a bath and a blow dry.

Sick kitty after getting a bath and a blow dry.

I knew it was time, but instead of being braced, as I was all the other times he’d gotten sick, this time, when I called the vet, I held out hope. By the time we got to the vet the next day, he couldn’t stand when the vet unwrapped him from the blanket he was wrapped in. His back end was completely unstable. My heart broke.

Three months, and Smelly Cat broke my heart.

They let me hold him in his Wonder Woman blanket while they did it. He was so sick, with such dead weight, that his little body didn’t even get heavier when he went. I held him for a long time, and just kept petting him, crying. We all did. When we left, we made sure to put him in a nice position, curled in a nice, napping position, instead looking like a cat corpse. I asked Bryon if he thought the techs noticed things like that, and he assured me that they probably did. I was afraid that, because of how awful he looked, health-wise, they’d think he was unloved; I wanted them to know he was.

I can’t believe how much I miss that silly little cat. Even more, Bryon misses him too.

Homer "tolerated" Willow, but they got along near the end, even being willing to snuggle together. Loki, on the other hand, refused to have any part of it.

Homer "tolerated" Willow, but they got along near the end, even being willing to snuggle together. Loki, on the other hand, refused to have any part of it.

Of course, Loki and Homer have had a freedom party. They have ganged up, since he’s been gone, and formed the BFF-Team. Formerly, they were the epitome of sibling rivalry. There’s been endless snuggling, and other such cat adorableness. Purring in abundance has made me feel guilty about how miserable they were with Willow’s existence. It’s weird to be sad for him to be gone, and happy that he’s gone, at the same time. Well, I’m at least happy for the other cats.

The "usual" relationship between the three cats,  if  they managed to be in the same room.

The "usual" relationship between the three cats, if they managed to be in the same room.

I know this whole post makes me sound like a wacko cat lady; and frankly, that’s what I am. I’m not so sure that I care, really. A big part of my life, is spent at my house now that I’m home, so my animals are important to me. Taking care of an old sickly one, resonated with me for obvious reasons. I’m so grateful for having known him, and for being the one who got to be the strong one, instead of the weakly one, in our relationship. He taught me a lot about unconditional love, just by being his stinky, snuggly self. 

Now, we have snuggles all over the place. Happy kitties. I swear that Loki is purring and happy. It's impossible to take a picture of a black cat. They always look shocked or angry.

Now, we have snuggles all over the place. Happy kitties. I swear that Loki is purring and happy. It's impossible to take a picture of a black cat. They always look shocked or angry.

Homer seems especially pleased. I can't seem to get that cat off my lap. Homer is my best friend, which may seem weird. But, he's been with me since 2003, and is just as old as Willow was. I worry every day about that boy, but I think he'll live forever, just because I can't make it without him.

Seriously.

Seriously.