Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

That's About Right

These days it's getting harder for our Chooch to get around (the bald, pinkish mass attached to her side is a giant mammary tumor). Before it became a burden she happily bounced along, now she saves her energy because the growth is just too goddamn large to constantly pull/drag while moving. In the past few days I've noticed her over-the-top enthusiasm for things plummet; she's getting tired, I can see it in her dulling eyes.

(ARG, FUCK, I'M NOT ACTUALLY GOING TO CRY WHILE TYPING THIS, AM I? FOR FUCK'S SAKE...)

A few days ago I sat and angrily cried for fifteen minutes after coming across a Youtube video where an American-based vet talked about tumor removal like the process was no big thing. Four months ago, when her lump was just a fraction of the size it is now, we talked with two local vets who advised us against getting them removed because the mass was "too large" and "there wouldn't be enough skin leftover to close up the wound".

The rat in the video? Had a tumor about the size of the one Choney's carrying around RIGHT FUCKING NOW. It was operated on (and extracted) without a hitch; standard practice. But here in the UK? If the mammary tumor's larger than a fucking peanut M&M they won't fucking operate. I still have flashing livid moments knowing that if our address ended in a USA zip code we could've got Chooch's growth removed long ago and life would've been so much different - and so much fucking longer - for her.

More lumps are beginning to pop up like murderous mushrooms. The second largest one is on her other side, she has another swelling bud on her underbelly next to one of her back legs, a third's popped up freakishly close to her urinary opening, and another two have sprouted directly beneath her chin. As retarded as it sounds, it sort've feels like because the massive one hasn't killed her yet it's rebelled and sent its benign disease to vital parts of her body to take her down (straight for the throat, in two cases).

With an exception of her neurotic grooming habits Choney's otherwise been pretty cool about the restrictions that come with having a monster tumor stuck to the side of her fucking body. She eats with relish, enjoys basking in attention, chases crow feathers around (she's at war with the "chickens" of the world), rearranges her living quarters and still retains some of her former predatory instincts (I sometimes call her "Chark"; you ain't seen nothin' until you've seen Chooch unexpectedly shoot out of her hiding place all cobra-shark-barracuda-like).

Admittedly, it's hard watching Choney knowing that life could've been so much different for her (even if she's exceeded the average life expectancy for a rat). There've been points where I felt so fucking desperate I was two seconds away from shouting "GIVE ME EVERYTHING I NEED; I'LL FUCKING DO IT" at the heavens. She isn't unhealthy, she isn't unwell - she just has a bunch of fucking benign tumors wearing her the fuck down. It's maddening because it's a simple fucking problem with a simple fucking solution, but a solution we don't have access to so all Italics and I can do is watch our Chooch slowly succumb to something that shouldn't even be an issue at all.

What's that acronym all of the young kids today are saying to express an immense feeling of overwhelming disbelief, frustration and heartbreaking sadness over an utterly futile, unchangeable situation?

...FML (fuck my life)?

Yeah, that's about right.