Some actions are impulsive, some are planned, but most are in between. And so it was with the planning of our great adventure.
Julie was the healthy one in our family—the marathon runner who came from a family where people lived into their three digits. I was more of a couch potato whose favorite pastime was sitting in a chair and learning something new. But all of that changed two and a half years ago.
Julie developed physical symptoms that didn’t abate despite medical treatment. Further tests revealed a serious medical condition that required surgical intervention and significant post-surgical treatment. Those post-surgical procedures led to physical consequences. And those physical consequences have resulted in limitations that Julie experiences to this day.
Despite the above, we have both gone on to live an everyday life, or at least a life that we call normal. However, there has been one area where we have faced a continued challenge: vacations.
You see, I’m only a partial couch potato. I’m also a closeted adventurer, and nothing pleases me more than exploring places and hiking in the wilderness. In 2018, I built an adventure van, which I have continuously modified with the help of my friend and expert builder, Tom. That vehicle gives me immense pleasure, and I have traveled all over the country with “Violet the adventure van.” Violet is the clubhouse that I wished I had as a kid, and the escape fantasy that I dreamed about when I was working 60+ hours a week. She isn’t a passing fancy, and she gives me as much pleasure today as when we built her out for camping.
My travel plans were on hold when Julie got sick, but after she recovered and wasn’t ready to camp, I went on a few adventures; some solo and others with my son. As time went on and Julie became stronger, we attempted some trips, but there always seemed to be a disaster that required a trip or two to the ER, ending the adventure.
If you have read any of my past blog posts, you know that both of us are problem solvers. It is what we do for a living. In this case, the solution was obvious. On our previous trips, there was an assumption of normalcy. In other words, it was assumed that since Julie had improved, we could conduct business as usual. We could return to our adventures as we had in the past. That was not the case. Limitations had to be accepted, plans had to be modified, and new procedures had to be implemented if we were ever going to have a successful trip. Plans were put into action.
Julie brought up the idea of an extended trip out west. She did this for a few reasons. Several of her friends had taken extended trips, and she wanted to experience one for herself. She also wanted to prove to herself that she could do it. Lastly, she felt that her medical issues had curtailed some of my retirement wishes, and she wanted to give me an extended trip. I was all for it, but there were complications, the biggest of which involved our very aged cat, Mercury.
We had adopted Mercury as an adult when she was between 2 and 4 years old. When we visited the adoption agency, the volunteers observed how our family interacted with the animals. They wondered if we would consider Mercury, a jet-black cat with a bit of a history. She came to the agency pregnant and was taken into a foster home to deliver and wean her kittens, which she did. However, before she could be neutered, she escaped, became pregnant again, and then returned to the foster home on her own to find a secure place to live. Mercury had a mind of her own, and she knew what she wanted. After her extended stay in foster care, she was ready for adoption, and the agency thought that we could be good candidates. We accepted the challenge.
In the early days, Mercury would escape our house only to return with gifts: birds, bunnies, and once a full-sized rabbit deposited in the middle of our living room. We understood her good intentions, but did everything in our power to discourage her actions. As time passed, she grew content to remain within the confines of our home.
She quickly became the center of attention. She was 100% cat in her actions, yet very sweet and affectionate. If we grabbed her and put her on our lap, she would quickly jump off. However, after a few minutes, she would return to us, as any lap sitting had to be her decision. She refused to be our pet; she was an equal member of the family.
Mercury always wanted to be around us. I would feed her at dinner time, but she would wait until we were eating before she started to eat. That was the polite thing to do. She would come to the front door to greet us when we would return home and when one of us would go out she would wait until they left, then run to my study window and stretch herself to her full height and watch as that person left, as if she was making sure that they were safe.
Her actions seemed to follow cat etiquette. She was always appropriate and proper. Because of this, we started to refer to her as Miss Cat, a title that fit her behavior.
As she aged, she stopped eating her dry food and lost a tremendous amount of weight. It dawned on me that it was too hard for her to chew the dry food, so I switched her to canned food. Initially, I followed the can’s feeding instructions, but eventually, I was giving her three cans a day, as her appetite was ferocious. Yet, she remained skinny. She was likely dealing with thyroid issues, but she was happy, interactive, and living her life. We decided to intervene only if she appeared to be in distress medically. We didn’t want to subject her to tests or procedures that would traumatize her, as she was now in her 20s.
Her breakfast meal was at 6 AM, and I was typically the one to give it to her. If I were a few minutes late, I would hear loud and insistent meowing at our bedroom door. If that didn’t work, she would start to bang on the door, and if that didn’t work, she somehow would open the door and sit right out of my reach, mewing loudly, “Get up, you lazy bum, it is time for my breakfast.” If I had the nerve to then go to the bathroom before feeding her, she would walk into the bathroom, look at me as if to say “pay attention,” and then walk out of the room in a “follow me” gesture. She would repeat this action, Lassie style, until I finally complied.
I remember getting into a debate with one of my brother’s college friends when I was around 9. He had taken an animal behavior class that taught him the animals did not think; they relied only on instinct. I remember telling him that all animals, including humans, rely on instinct, but that doesn’t mean they don’t also think. It was clear by observation that my childhood dog, Bowser, thought, planned, and problem-solved. Perhaps she wasn’t solving Calculus problems, but that didn’t mean she didn’t observe and apply that knowledge to modify her behavior to get her needs met. In those days, some people still believed that humans were completely different and unique from other mammals. Even as a child, I felt that we were on a continuum with other animals rather than in a completely separate category. Animals do think, and Miss Cat was a master at getting her needs met.
Now that she was 22, she required more care and attention. If we were to go away, we needed someone in the house to care for her. We would not board her out or have a stranger look after her. That would be too traumatic. This fact determined when we could go on vacation. The only time we could be assured that one of our kids would be available would be in June. We quickly moved to make the trip happen.
I transitioned into planning mode and spent a considerable amount of time preparing Violet, the adventure van. I had her serviced, washed her inside and out, and performed the numerous other tasks required, including recharging all of her USB devices and ensuring that her emergency satellite communication system was in working order. We sometimes find ourselves in remote areas without a cell phone connection, and I want a backup way to reach someone in an emergency. As usual, I bought too much food. So much that I couldn’t even fit it all into Violet’s kitchen storage. I suppose that’s part of my Eastern European heritage.
Since we had little time between our decision and departure, it would be difficult for Julie’s patients as there would be no transition period. It was decided that she would offer a remote session every Friday for those who wanted them. Many did, so on those days we stayed at a hotel where she would have the comfort of a real desk and air conditioning. During the other days, we camped out in Violet and developed a rhythm that worked well to accommodate the two of us in Violet’s small space. We had to work as a team. She had to accept my need for order, and I had to acknowledge her love of the Coke Zero that filled Violet’s way back and our little fridge. It worked out.
We focused on what we could do, rather than what we couldn’t do. Yes, it would be impossible for Julie to go on a hike where she would be scrambling up boulders, but many hikes didn’t require that. In turn, I needed to be aware and observant of her behavior, as she often reached her limit but would continue onward anyway. I knew from the past that these could be peak times for falls and injuries. The emphasis was on how to maximize our experiences while remaining safe. It was not about pushing the limits; it was the opposite. Neither of us is 20, and we both have to accept that.
Additionally, Julie can only drive a modified car, whereas Violet is not. I would be responsible for 100% of the driving, covering a trip of approximately 4,000 miles. Lastly, Julie, like most, doesn’t like to be told what to do. However, I informed her that I would announce when we were approaching a rocky surface, incline, or other hazard, even if she was aware. I let her know that I wasn’t infantilizing her; instead, I would be a secondary warning system, as it was these situations in the past that often resulted in trips to the ER.
With the above accepted and in place, we set out for a 3-week adventure out west. Our trip was cut short, but it was still a complete success. We hiked in five national parks, climbed a sand dune, toured historic Santa Fe, explored the “UFO crash site” in Roswell, and visited the wonderful Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs. With our main goals accomplished, we began our journey back to Chicago.
We planned to make several minor stops along the way. Our first was going to be to Lindsborg, Kansas, the most Swedish town in America. We made the trip to Salina, Kansas, our stopping off point, which is about 20 miles from Lindsborg, when we got a text message from our son. “Mercury has suddenly taken a turn for the worse. She isn’t eating and can’t walk; she doesn’t seem to be in any pain, but I think this is the end.” At 22 years, this wasn’t a shock.
My two daughters returned home to be with Mercury and to help support William. After some discussion, we all came to the conclusion that it was time to let Miss Cat pass with dignity. The kids arranged for a home vet visit as they comforted our little family member.
It was going to remain in triple digits that night, and we decided to stay at a hotel even though we had booked a campsite. We were feeling the trauma of our impending loss. That night, we were in constant communication with our kids as the process unfolded. By 8 PM, Miss Cat was gone. We all grieved and cried, but knew that she had a wonderful life. We loved her and she loved us. We will not forget her.
I wanted to return home to be with the kids, but I told Julie that I would continue to Lindsborg if she wanted that. She said, “No, let’s go home.” I decided to make the journey in one day and drove from 8:00 AM to 7:00 PM. Being home was the right thing to do.
I am incredibly proud of my kids and how they handled the situation. They came together, worked together, and problem-solved together. What more could a parent want?
Although we cut our trip short, it wasn’t because of a visit to the emergency room this time. The trip was a great success, and we have demonstrated that future trips are possible as long as we maintain our focus and recognize our limitations.
Although I’m sad about losing my good pal, Miss Cat, I’m happy that she went from a street cat to a home where she truly was queen—a place where she always had food, love, and attention. A place where she would live until she was 22. She gave us as much as we gave her, likely more. Rest in peace, Miss Cat. We love you.
