Hi Darling Ones,

I lost my shit this morning and now I have guilt. And I’m super weepy on top of that. Today’s not so great.

My mornings have been starting later and later since the relapse. The time change doesn’t help. Neither does staying up past 1 a.m. most nights. I’m lucky if I’m downstairs making breakfast by noon.

Today was no exception. Getting such a late start to my day makes me a little anxious. It makes me feel like a teenage slacker. I have no reason to be downstairs before noon. There isn’t much work to be done. And, well, I’m tired.

So I was finally ready to get the day started. My coffee, yogurt, breakfast sandwich, and water precisely balanced in the basket of my walker. Since I can’t walk and carry things, I use the basket to haul stuff. It’s the medical equivalent of the wicker-basket little girls used to put on the handlebars of their banana-seated bikes.

I turned from the walker to weed out some dead stalks from my green onion garden. It feels like my way of sticking it to the man, re-growing the green onions I buy from the grocery store in a pot of dirt on the counter. Free(ish) onions! Because I can’t stand for more than 90-seconds I have a wheeled stool I use in the kitchen. I was wheeling to the garbage, my back to the walker when I heard the crash.

Mortimer, the little acrobat, had jumped on the walker basket upsetting my delicate balance. My sandwich flew under the Sadness Garden cart, coffee and water rolled under the dining room table, and in his attempt to flee the scene of the crime Mortimer knocked the adorable mushroom plate I won at Rock & Roll Bookclub to the ground, shattering it.

That’s when I lost it. I threw the spoon I had in my hand into the sink and screamed “Fuck” as loud as I could, scaring all three cats.

“I AM SO ANGRY,” I shouted as I began to clean up the mess. “I’m angry at you,” I said to Mortimer who had calmly folded himself into a loaf in the middle of the kitchen floor.

“STOP!” I yelled at Fergus as she tried to lick the remains of my breakfast sandwich. “I’m angry,” I said in a more normal tone of voice as the anger quickly dissipated.

Because they are cats they did not care one fig about my hissy fit. Because I am human I did care about yelling at them for acting like kittens. It’s not their fault.

Losing my shit had little to do with the ruined breakfast or the shattered plate. It was just the very last thing I could take. I exploded for reasons. Good reasons, I think.

Yesterday I had a follow-up appointment with my primary care doctor. My Physical Therapist had messaged her expressing concern about my relapse. My doctor was also concerned and asked if I would come in.

Of course I did because I’m a goody-goody even though I think the concern is misplaced.

While I was there I showed her my new “party trick” where my right arm shakes uncontrollably unless I really focus on it. Then I can get it down to a barely discernible twitch.

“I think you should see a neurologist,” she said.
“Really?” I asked. We had discussed this in a telehealth appointment and at the time we both agreed it was probably unnecessary.
“Yeah,” she said, nodding her head. “I really dug into your records for the last year after our last appointment, and while I feel less worried that you can control the tremor with focus, I want to make sure there’s not something we missed.”

So she’s referring me to a neurologist for further testing. AND that was the second to last thing I could take, and why the breakfast catastrophe broke me. There’s something about seeing a neurologist that feels big and scary, somehow more serious and dire than, you know, a stroke.

Emotionally, I’m a precariously balanced walker basket.

I’ve been handling the relapse pretty well. When I had my physical therapy evaluation last week we discovered I had backslid quite a bit from where I was in September, but I had not slid all the way to where I was at the beginning in July. I even improved on a couple of things.

But still, it’s SO ANNOYING. And you put that on top of the grief of losing the relationship with my best friend and the money woes and what’s going on in the world and being a human, and well, something has to give.

In most ways I’m better off now than I was in March 2023, but damn I could really use a good break.

Thanks for listening,
Jodi

P.S. If you have any spare money you’d like to share with me I’d gratefully take it. I only made $225 last month and that doesn’t even cover my ridiculously cheap mortgage.

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Hey Darling Ones,

I desperately wish I were the kind of person who, after going through something something tragic, like, you know, a debilitating stroke that leaves you basically disabled and wondering if you’ll ever get your life & body back would come out the other side as a person who is relentlessly positive and encourages you to find joy in the beauty of two kittens asleep on a yellow sweater.

I want to be the kind of person who would reflect on my trials & tribulations and then impart tons of relatable yet wry wisdom people would want on coffee mug.

Maybe I’d be like a wellness coach or a guru of positivity or I don’t know some sort of influencer. I’d be both financially secure and beloved by thousands of adoring fans.

Instead, I’m a person who went through a tragic, debilitating stroke with serious vision problems who is cheerfully cranky about my limitations and how hard every fucking little thing is while reminding myself that I’m grateful for being able to do hard things.

I’m the person who roared at the adorable kittens this morning because Fergus bit me hard while I was getting dressed and now I have two puncture holes in my arm and when I came downstairs to dress my wound I discovered they knocked over the garbage last night while I was sleeping and spread citrus peels, pistachio shells, and a bloody pork shoulder bag, all over the floor. They also broke the beautiful little saucer with violets painted on it my nephew Cade gave me, and they knocked over the lavender on top of the China cabinet, and while I was cleaning up all the mess Fergus & Mortimer batted pistachio shells around the kitchen in the pork blood and Wendell puked between the couch and the coffee table, which is really hard for me to clean up because of the aforementioned disability.

And I am not at all aglow with positivity or full of wise words perfect for coffee mugs.

I’m cranky that I can’t easily clean up the barf. I’m cranky they knocked over the lavender and I can’t right it because standing up and moving my hands above shoulder height makes me super wobbly and afraid I’m going to plummet to the ground.

God, I wish I could be the kind of affirmation-spouting, relatable person instead I’m just this messy-haired, bloody-armed, cranky old giant who is resentful about all the mess, but super fucking proud that I cleaned it up.

If you ever need someone to help you rage at the tiny injustices or minor inconveniences of life, I’m your girl.

Love,
Jodi.

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Hello Darling Ones,

Today is December 6th. I’m exactly 51.5 years old and it’s been nine months since the shitty, shitty stroke.

Nothing is new. My vision is still garbage. My brain still thinks my right side weighs a ton and is convinced every second of every day that I’m about to fall. I teeter on the brink of financial ruin.

I’m working to accept my limitations and celebrate all the things I can do. Lexapro helps with the money anxiety.

You may be surprised that the stroke is not what is slowly destroying my life.

It’s Fergus & Mortimer. Those adorable little jerks are trying to ruin everything I love and also my socks.

Getting two kittens while recovering from a stroke was my worst, best idea of all time.

Kittens are endlessly infuriating and fascinating.

Last night before bed, I sat for five minutes watching Mortimer try to sneak up on Fergus who was trying to hunt Wendell, who was sniffing something by the front door.

Dual, tiny, wiggly kitten butts nearly killed me.

It’s only fair. Yesterday while talking with the Tea Ladies, I told them if the cats ruined my Monstera (named Cub) I would ruin them.

The kittens are doing their best to kill off the Sadness Garden. Last weekend they knocked Joanie, a snake plant, off the half-wall between the dining room and kitchen. They keep digging around in Trevour, the lemon tree, and treating to tip over Janis, a pine tree.

Though, Janis seems to be ailing for her own personal reasons.

They love garbage and playing with it. When I shout “Los gatitos, ven aqui!” the come running. If Fergus wakes from a nap and can’t find me she walks around the house meowing until she finds me. Mortimer is Wendell’s kitten and I’m only a little bitter about being second choice.

This morning I sat on my wheeled kitchen stool and chased them while they played hockey with an ice cube that got away from me.

It’s so nice to have something new and cute and not at all depressing slowly destroying my life.

Your favorite spinster cat lady,
Jodi

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Darling Ones,

Supergenius, Inc. has doubled in size! Friday we added two new colleagues to our tiny operation.

Fergus and Mortimer came to from Sister #4’s house in Savage. Their mother, Patches, was a South Dakota stray who adopted by sister shortly before she moved back. One day before a thunderstorm, Patches appeared on her porch. She tried to find Patches’ humans, but to no avail. Patches had already made herself at home by the time my sister realized she was pregnant.

As my nephew Maxwell said, when she told us of the pregnancy, “FREE KITTENS!”

My intentions was to only bring Mortimer (he’s the black and white one) into the fold, but y mom used sneaky mom-tricks to con me into taking two kittens.

“They’re best buds,” she said. “They do everything together.”

And she’s right.

So I took in Fergus (the fuzzy grey one) too. Three cats to one human officially makes me a crazy cat lady, which was my destiny anyway. Why fight it?

The three cats have yet to form a trio. There’s curiosity on both sides, more so Wendell. His yearning to play with the kittens reminds me of how I felt when my sister wouldn’t let me join their fake band. I’m still bitter!

Pretty sure adopting two kittens while trying to recover from the stroke is the worst idea, but as Sister #2 said, “There’s only one way to find out!”

Wish us luck!

Crazily, catly, ladily yours,
Jodi

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Darling Ones,

I am still kicking
just busy and quiet
which is good because
I have negative money
but working and recovering from a stroke
is a lot.

I listen to the
new Lydia Loveless record
multiple times a day.

There’s a post in me
about the song
“Poor Boy”.

Also, one about how in love
I am with the Ratboys’ “The Window”
the way she sings
I don’t regret a single thing. You’re so beautiful.
slays me.

There are a lot of thoughts
to write if only
I weren’t so busy and bummed
about my knees.

Soon. Maybe.

Anyway, Mortimer
moves in next week.

So sweet and so cold,
Jodi

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