I woke up this morning and took Dewey to the vet for his post op leg check thing. He’s doing remarkably well-the vet says he’s a week farther along in recovery than he expected, and he has 70% use of the leg. All good news.
The bad news is that since Dewey is “such a good cat” in the vet’s words, we get to start doing PT with him.
That’s right. Cat physical therapy. TWICE A DAY.
This is my life.
Have I mentioned that I’m morally opposed to declawing? Oh the scratching that will occur. The carnage-the sheer carnage!
I mean, this vet may THINK he knows my cat-but he really doesn’t. Dewey is on his best behavior at the vet. He flirts with all the girls and gives the vet his sad and pathetic doe eyes
I know better. I’ll be lucky to survive the next few weeks.
In other news, there is no other news. I go for a recheck of the recheck of the recheck tomorrow to see if the follicles grew any. Chief and I worked out in the yard yesterday and got it looking really nice. I had severely neglected my garden this year. Working two jobs and having weekly appointments at the fertility clinic sucked up all my time, money, and energy. But my once beautiful gardens just looked so rough. I couldn’t take it anymore. I spent more money than I should have on it, but I feel so much better about it. We also got the soaker hoses set up underneath the mulch AND put them on a timer, so they just come on automatically at 6:00 am for thirty minutes. It’s so nice knowing that everything is getting watered without actually SEEING the hoses strewn about.
Also, I had a breakdown yesterday about my clothes not fitting. Sobbing, ugly, breakdown. I’m not blaming it all on fertility drugs. It’s totally a combination of fertility drugs, a bit of depression, working too much, not working out, and not eating right all the time (although I would say most of the time). I’ve gained back twenty of the sixty pounds I lost. Chief and I resolved to start working out three days a week which I know will be hard, but I can’t stand to lose all my progress and I hate feeling bad about myself.
Of course, that didn’t stop me from eating a bag of chips left on my desk. Baby steps. I know this issue is a common one in our circle. I talked to my mom about it last night and the words “I feel like my body is not my own anymore” came out of my mouth without me even thinking about it, but they’re true. I don’t have much of a say over my own health anymore. I can’t even exercise the same way I used to (according to my doctor, “moderate exercise three days a week is best, no high aerobic activity while going through treatment”). No zumba, no fast elliptical. I’m hoping I can still get away with step aerobics, but I have to watch my heart rate-that’s key. When I work out hard my HR gets up around 180. The doc is adamantly against this. So basically I’ve just been using it as my excuse to not exercise at all. Unacceptable.
I just finally thought of a cute name for my doctor (not that I ever get to see him anymore): Doctor McLadyParts. Sort of like McDreamy or McSteamy on Grey’s Anatomy (which I’ve never actually seen-don’t judge).
Doctor McLadyParts it is.