Today was a kinda heavy day.
Chaos started at noon, in the hospital. A dog—a black lab, obese—died. They were doing CPR, giving oxygen, steroids—everything. And still nothing worked. The owner was wailing. Like actually wailing, on her knees. It was my first time losing a living being right in front of me—like the whole process of trying so much and still nothing working. I have rescued animals in the past and not been able to save them all, but this one—life slipping out right in front of me—felt different.
I was already shaken from that.
Then I brought Tripod (aka bridge kitten) in to get her bandage removed, thinking okay, at least this part is routine, we’re moving forward. And then, as the bandage was removed, we realised her wound had dehisced. Skin and subcutaneous. After 15 days post-op. After I thought we were past the worst of it.
So now we’re back to square one. Sutures again. Restrictions again. Stress again.
And in between all of this, I was already dealing with my own emotional mess about this guy I scared away with my intensity (sober me would have calculated my moves better).
And I have this important appointment tomorrow that I can’t reschedule, but now Tripod needs to be taken care of again. And the cat situation isn’t working very well with my roommate. I missed medicine class because she got her wound resutured. I came back to my dorm and at one point I just broke down. Like properly. Sitting on the floor, crying out loud, not even trying to hold it in. I kept thinking—being “intense” is such bullshit. People romanticize it like it’s some beautiful trait. It’s not. It’s the reason I get myself into situations like this. It’s the reason I scared him off. I was so convinced of that in that moment.
I kept thinking: “Why does everything go wrong when it comes to me?” “Why am I like this?” “Why can’t I just be normal, just a little bit in the middle instead of this all-or-nothing mess?”
I actually hated myself in that moment. Fully.
And then… I looked at Tripod.
She was just sleeping on my bed. Completely peaceful. After getting her skin resutured without any sedation. After all the chaos, after me losing it right next to her. (No, she wasn’t interested in comforting me.)
And I noticed how I felt.
Not even a little bit. Not even close.
Then I knew I had to find a way. For her. Because the day I snuck her inside the uni dorm in my tote bag, breaking rules, she became my child.
I ordered brown bread and cat litter (because I needed more litter to keep her indoors for another week or so). Then I ate dry bread straight out of the packet, texted whoever I could think of hoping someone would say “yes, we will foster her”—and someone did (I’m so grateful). I went out, bought her meds, moved her to her new foster home.
Look, I’m not saying “Oh, I’m so great,” but I am someone who is intense, who falls apart and still gets things done.
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