I developed Chronic Bronchial Asthma when I was 25. I got a cold and went to the doctors who gave me so many different drugs -- all with the same actions and efficacy (I found out too late). In those days doctors got paid by the healthcare system based on how much the prescribed to their patients.... I was given at least three different types of NSAIDs (non steroid anti inflammatory drugs, e.g. Tylenol/Paracetamol, Ibuprofen, etc.) and other dubious cocktails of dihydrocodeine phosphate, antibiotics (gram negative, gram positve, and broard spectrum). The works.
My body at that point decided to just say "nope, can't process anymore of this. I'm going on strike." And that was that... I developed Asthma as an adult as an allergic reation to the drug coctails given to me....
I have always been a fairly active person all my life. I love to run, to swim, to go hiking, but now I was handicapped. I would walk less than 50m before some little old lady with a walking stick would overtake me!!! At 25 I was walking slower than an octagenerian.... I could not breath like everyone else. I have called the ambulance on at least 3 occations only for them to find me passed out by my front door when they arrive, because I lost consciousness waiting for them... In short, I was fucked.
As time went by I my health was improving, but so was my weight (it was too much for my already weak knees from the initial cortitosteroid treatment....) OK, DWR, time to do some exercise like the doctor suggests, start off with a simple walk, then a jog. After living with chronic asthma for 1.5years, I decided that I wanted to run slowly again. I used to jog in a small park around the back of my home -- the jog was probably no longer than 1.5km, but everyday was a struggle to draw air into my lungs and to expel it (did you know, readers, for asthmatics it's not drawing in the air, it's breathing it out that is sooooo much more difficult!) as I took nearly 40mins to run that 1.5km.
On Oct 28th 1999, I was jogging as usual. The weather was turning from autumn to the beginning of winter. The cold air would often trigger a mild attack, but I used to suck on my Salbutamol and keep going. The air was cold, but not cold enough to leave it's mark when you exhaled. I ran past a rubbish collection area. There were all sort of rubbish there, mainly from people's homes, but that day there was something different. There it is was. A meow. A loud persistent meow coming from somewhere in the rubbish dump.
Being a curious person, and a lover of cats, I went up to the mountain of rubbish, and found at the bottom of it a small cardboard box that was meowing to me.
Shit, there are cats in here, and they sound like kittens!
I opened the box gingerly so as to not scare the creatures inside the box, and there they were: three kittens. One, a white one, was already dead and was slowly being eaten away by maggots, the others, a ginger Tom, was laying on the other side of the box grasping for air just like I had been for the past year and a half, and there was the lone tortoiseshell, crying her lungs out. She was the one that brought me to their coffin. None of them had their eyes open.... I took the box and ran as fast as I could to the nearest vetinarians. I knocked on a few doors, but was refused coz the didn't "consult out of hours". After my third attempt I found Watson's Animal Hospital. They opened their doors to me when I told them that I found kittens that needed help.
The vet was a kind man. He gets subsidised by the local authorities to take on cases like my kittens, but he was so saddened to see the dead kitten. I asked him how old he thought they were. Oh, less than a week old. Their eyes are not fully open. Let me see what I can do.
For the next three weeks I went to see the remaining two kitties everyday. Unfortunately after the third day the ginger Tom died. All we had was the strong, vocal tortoishell female that lead me to her and her brothers...
In the end, after three weeks of multiple blood tests, and health checks I found that the tortoishell female was as fit as a fiddle! The vet asked me if I wanted to put together an adoption poster for his office. My answer was no. She came to me. I'll look after her. She chose me, and now, I am choosing her.
And that is how I got Belle. Bouncy Belle, for she was born without a tail so unlike most cats that I have seen, she bounced (or still bounces) like a rabbit.
Bouncy Belle.
My body at that point decided to just say "nope, can't process anymore of this. I'm going on strike." And that was that... I developed Asthma as an adult as an allergic reation to the drug coctails given to me....
I have always been a fairly active person all my life. I love to run, to swim, to go hiking, but now I was handicapped. I would walk less than 50m before some little old lady with a walking stick would overtake me!!! At 25 I was walking slower than an octagenerian.... I could not breath like everyone else. I have called the ambulance on at least 3 occations only for them to find me passed out by my front door when they arrive, because I lost consciousness waiting for them... In short, I was fucked.
As time went by I my health was improving, but so was my weight (it was too much for my already weak knees from the initial cortitosteroid treatment....) OK, DWR, time to do some exercise like the doctor suggests, start off with a simple walk, then a jog. After living with chronic asthma for 1.5years, I decided that I wanted to run slowly again. I used to jog in a small park around the back of my home -- the jog was probably no longer than 1.5km, but everyday was a struggle to draw air into my lungs and to expel it (did you know, readers, for asthmatics it's not drawing in the air, it's breathing it out that is sooooo much more difficult!) as I took nearly 40mins to run that 1.5km.
On Oct 28th 1999, I was jogging as usual. The weather was turning from autumn to the beginning of winter. The cold air would often trigger a mild attack, but I used to suck on my Salbutamol and keep going. The air was cold, but not cold enough to leave it's mark when you exhaled. I ran past a rubbish collection area. There were all sort of rubbish there, mainly from people's homes, but that day there was something different. There it is was. A meow. A loud persistent meow coming from somewhere in the rubbish dump.
Being a curious person, and a lover of cats, I went up to the mountain of rubbish, and found at the bottom of it a small cardboard box that was meowing to me.
Shit, there are cats in here, and they sound like kittens!
I opened the box gingerly so as to not scare the creatures inside the box, and there they were: three kittens. One, a white one, was already dead and was slowly being eaten away by maggots, the others, a ginger Tom, was laying on the other side of the box grasping for air just like I had been for the past year and a half, and there was the lone tortoiseshell, crying her lungs out. She was the one that brought me to their coffin. None of them had their eyes open.... I took the box and ran as fast as I could to the nearest vetinarians. I knocked on a few doors, but was refused coz the didn't "consult out of hours". After my third attempt I found Watson's Animal Hospital. They opened their doors to me when I told them that I found kittens that needed help.
The vet was a kind man. He gets subsidised by the local authorities to take on cases like my kittens, but he was so saddened to see the dead kitten. I asked him how old he thought they were. Oh, less than a week old. Their eyes are not fully open. Let me see what I can do.
For the next three weeks I went to see the remaining two kitties everyday. Unfortunately after the third day the ginger Tom died. All we had was the strong, vocal tortoishell female that lead me to her and her brothers...
In the end, after three weeks of multiple blood tests, and health checks I found that the tortoishell female was as fit as a fiddle! The vet asked me if I wanted to put together an adoption poster for his office. My answer was no. She came to me. I'll look after her. She chose me, and now, I am choosing her.
And that is how I got Belle. Bouncy Belle, for she was born without a tail so unlike most cats that I have seen, she bounced (or still bounces) like a rabbit.
Bouncy Belle.
Three blind cats, Three blind cats,
See how they run,
See how the cry,
They all got put in a carboard box,
N' they all were going to die that night
If you're jogging, would you have heard their voice,
Those thee blind cats....
Bob-Tailed Belle on her "Soap Box" (5 years later)
(no dear readers, I didn't cut off her tail on purpose, nor did the people who left her in that cardboard box did that to to here. Belle is unique. She is a bob-tailed cat. But her sense of balance is a lot better than George....)
(To be continued.... Part 3 George)
2 comments:
A three parter on cats huh? While I am not a cat person, I will read the third post, and try to be open to the idea of cats.
actually, it is technically 4 parts... but the message goes onto infinity. Now that all my posts are up there, do you now see the big picture? it's not about cats. It's about respect for life.
That's all...
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