Every Day is a Gift

Now What?

I'm 36.

There. I said it. I'm 36 years old. I may not look 36 but I am. I'm 36.

Now, if someone would just tell my reproductive organs that I'm ONLY 36 and going through early menopause (or "Premature Ovarian Failure") is not something I'm keen on doing at the moment since I haven't decided yet if I want a child or not.

Menopause.

That sounds so old. I figured I still had at least 5 years, if not more, to make a decision concerning children. I'm not ready to do that now. I don't want to deal with that now, not when I've got a dying cat, an easily-stressed husband (who isn't handling the dying cat issue very well), a looming apartment renovation (2 new baths, painting, carpeting, flooring, etc) and a job that I'd like to move forward in. And did I mention the dying cat?

The high cholesterol, I can deal with and, happily, it's come down 48 points since April.

The thyroid, I can deal with, even though it can't seem to make up its mind - "Hmmm, do I want to produce more? Do I want to produce less? Let's keep 'em guessing and change it for every blood test!"

Early menopause? Premature Ovarian Failure?

I can't deal with it. I can't even think about it. I can't even begin to think about TALKING about it.

But, I have to. Talk about it. Because at 36 I've learned that just because I don't talk about something, doesn't make it not exist.

Merlin

My cat is dying.

I make jokes about it and laugh about how he’s acting and how spoiled he is because I cook him food three times a day and bring it to him and feed him by hand, but it doesn’t change the one essential fact.

My cat is dying.

Merlin is a good cat. A handsome boy. A rabid Stephen King-like creation at the vet and a total mushball at home. He chose me to take care of him and I’ve done the best I can. But now…

My cat is dying.

And my heart is waiting to break.