Kilkenny Cat’s Victim: Her Story

I’m typing without pain. We shall call it “minimal discomfort.” No, but really, I’m doing much better.

So yes. The Headmistress has told most of you that I had both my hands bitten and scratched by a feral cat at work. We have christened the cat Edwina Scissorhands, as that is what my boss was reminded of when she saw my hands a few moments after the fight.

(I was still finding my blood all over the shelter when I went back to work two or three days later.) It was my fault for being stupid. As recompense for my sins, I have to wear gloves all the time at work for a few weeks to prevent infection, I am on antibiotics, I’m supposed to treat my hands with betadine and hydrogen peroxide three times a day, Epsom salts twice a day, and a saline solution three times daily.

I’ve also been sentenced to the series of rabies vaccines, which FOR THE THOUSANDTH TIME is not the same shot you get when you know you’ve been exposed by a rabid animal. It is a different immunization that is preventative.

The board was considering making me get it even before Edwina Scissorhands. I actually had to be taken to the ER by a board member, and I’m relatively certain I
will have no more say in the matter. So I’m just Doing It. =P

Oh yes, the ER. I was taken immediately the hospital in town. If you ever find yourself in this particular facility, the surest solution is to shoot yourself and
save the doctors their trouble. I’m sitting on my gurney eating an Arby’s sandwich as best I can with hands that look they’ve been through a shredder, my mom is eating her sandwich a few feet away, and she glances at the floor and inquires casually “So, um, is that your blood on the floor?” “I wasn’t ever in that
end of the room. It isn’t my blood.” O_o


Clearly, the standard of care is not the best at our local clinic. Later, therefore, I went to our regular doctor half an hour away and had them look. The finger that was bitten the most is infected, hence the Treatment Plan given above. I got my tetanus shot yesterday and my first of the three rabies shots today. Very soon, I shall resemble a pincushion. It is the tetanus shot, in the thigh, that is causing me
most discomfort at the moment. There is, of course, also the matter of my new corrective retainer to be considered. It’s like having braces all over again.

You should be aware that by 9:30 am I & my mom had dropped my sister off at her college, been to a Pharmacy in an unsuccessful attempt to get my saline, been to my
orthodontist appointment, and were on our way to a bookstore? I got up at 5:30 am. On my day off. *collapses*

I feel as if I did nothing over a 48 hour period except sit in waiting rooms in hospitals or pharmacies. I now have an account with three pharmacies. I have a Workmen’s Comp papertrail a mile long to keep track of.

I am exhausted. There are many other things I’d planned to say, but they will remain unsaid.

[Deputy Headmistress notes: this is from a few days ago. Equuschick is doing great; her hands are healing well, and Edwina Scissorspaws shows no sign of rabies.]

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Historical Revisionism

The Belmont Club tells us about the implications of airbrushing out cigerettes from photographs of Jean Paul Sarte. Read the whole thing, and check out the links, too.

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The Canadian Map

Canadian Provinces I’ve visited (and one I lived in)

create your own personalized map of Canada
or check out ourVancouver travel guide

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The Map

States I can remember visiting or living in.

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or check out ourCalifornia travel guide

Picked up over at The Tulip Girl, again.

November 05, updated to reflect our drive to D.C. last May and I remembered another childhood vacation.

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Quality of Life, Quality of Mercy

In a previous post I told about a conversation I had with a friend who claimed that God never gives us pain.

That same friend told me that if I just had enough faith our daughter Cherub would be ‘healed,’ and thus, more glorifying to God. The Cherub’s primary diagnosis is retardation. So what my friend was saying was basically that were the Cherub smarter, God would be more glorified by her existance than He is now. Now, I could be convinced that if my friend were smarter (or wiser?), she’d be bringing more glory to God than she is now, but I’m not convinced that Cherub is a total loss in the God glorifying department.

Why isn’t she, in her happiness and laughter and mischief and unique self, good enough to glorify God in my friend’s eyes, or valuable enough to live in the eyes of many pro-choice types? Are our other ‘normal’ children more pleasing to God, more acceptable somehow? Are their lives worth living, and The Cherub’s is not?

My friend admitted that she was, in fact, assuming that God somehow placed a higher value on a certain level of intelligence or mental developmental level, to use a convoluted phrase.

I’ve given up long ago on using “PC” words about this. The Cherub is brain damaged, mentally retarded, developmentally delayed, handicapped, handicapable, mentally challenged, special needs- I use the words I think communicate best in any given situation. They are all just words, words to describe one aspect of who my daughter is. They each have their uses and functions and I take no offense at any of them, and The Cherub cares even less what words are used, as long as somebody gives her a smile, a hug, or a cookie. However, sometimes certain words are used with the intent to devalue The Cherub and her life.

Some people who have just met us will often tell us over and over again how sorry
they feel for the Cherub. It tends to be the most unobservant, or perhaps self-absorbed, people who feel so sorry for her. We can tell, because sooner or later, they will draw attention to their self-absorbtion by saying something like “I wouldn’t want to live like that.” I find this sadly amusing, as the Cherub is generally a pretty happy soul, and is perfectly content with things as they are (although there could always be another cookie, another song, another hug, another joy ride on a golf cart). I’m pretty sure that I would not want to live my life as a self-absorbed fool, either, but I don’t tell them it would be better if they’d been killed at birth just because I would find it unsatisfying to live life as they do.

To those with a heart and mind to learn, the Cherub has some lessons to teach- just by her existance. It’s hard to stay self-absorbed around somebody who has so little, but loves so much. We tend to feel sorrier for those who do not have a Cherub in their lives.

Christopher Nolan, Irish poet, author, and a remarkable mind is also extremely physically disabled. He wrote a book called _Under the Eye of the Clock_, an autobiographical account of his childhood. We highly recommend this book- it is real. It’s a bit gritty in places, some language, that sort of thing- but this is really a book worth reading.

Mr. Nolan points out that one of the greatest ironies of this age is that now, when technology opens up opportunities and chances for life for the disabled that nobody could have ever even imagined 200 years ago, the ‘opportunity’ many of the able bodied are most anxious to share with the disabled is the chance to kill themselves, or to have the deed done to them under medical supervision. Neither Mr. Nolan nor our Cherub pose a threat to anybody. Neither of them can harm, maim, or kill another human being. So why would some prefer to see people like them aborted, quitely put to sleep, or, as in the case of Terri Shiavo, denied food and hydration?

UPDATED 3/13/05 to correct some typos, most especially the embarrassing one where I said I *would* want to live my life as a self-absorbed fool instead of I would *not*. What a difference is made by those three little letters, eh?

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