Much is afoot these days. I recently adopted a kitten, as many among my esteemed colleagues already know due to my overgenerous sharing of her (objectively adorable) face on various platforms. I named her Sharon, in what I believe is a comical departure from the usual archetype associated with such a name. It’s also just hilarious to refer to a cute, pocket-sized fuzzball, who’s never raised children or held a 9-to-5 desk job, as Sharon. Unbeknownst to me, sweet Sharon was aboard the express train to Struggle Town; I found out quickly after taking her home that the cruel hands of fate had dealt her both respiratory herpes and a bacterial infection. She worsened quickly over my first couple of days with her, and upon coming home from school to find her oozy-eyed and shaking with fever, Amanda in a Panic (2017, oil on canvas) threw her into her carrier and turned to Google to look for a vet nearby. With the most inexplicable feeling of relief, the first picture to pop up on my search featured a storefront that I had seen all too many times— it was right across the street, mere spitting distance from my flat. When I arrived, despite efforts to keep my cool, it was the most classic of uncomfortable situations. Locking eyes with the first person I saw, I said, in English, “I think my cat is very sick,” while holding out the bag of random meds that were given to me when I got her. It turned out I was indeed speaking to the veterinarian, who got up from his chair after a brief pause and began asking me questions (by grace alone, he knew English as well). How old was the cat, when did the symptoms start, what were each of the medications I was holding, et cetera— and to all of this, all I could answer was, I don’t know, I just got her from a friend. And I quickly realized how incredibly stupid that sounded. After examining the cat, he threw the aforementioned bag of meds in the trash and diagnosed her with the herpes virus and resulting infection, for which they would be totally ineffectual. The kitten had a high fever at the time, and I watched the head atop the doctor's tall, intimidating form shake back and forth while he reached for a pair of scissors to shave her leg and stick a catheter into her paw. He told me to warm her with a water bottle, wash her eyes out, feed her baby food through a syringe, and come back in 2 hours so he could measure her temperature again. I felt overwhelmed by his instructions, ashamed that I had brought in such a sick cat, and completely unable to explain myself. At one point he asked me if I was trying to take her back to America, and I was so confused by the question that I answered both yes and no while trying to figure out what he meant by it. When I left, I thought of what a dunce I must have seemed, barging in and speaking English with a sick cat that I didn’t know how to handle. I barely crossed the street again to reach my door before mother nature’s waterfalls of frustration began to leak from my eyes. Through sniffles, I called two friends to tell them how incompetent and overwhelmed I felt. That helped a lot; just being able to say what was going on made my chest feel lighter. I couldn’t stand watching Sharon shiver and wheeze through her tiny, clogged nose; she was suffering and I couldn’t do a darn thing for her, and that just doesn’t make for a happy situation. I also couldn’t un-hear the vet’s warning that her immune system might be too weak to fight the virus off, nor could I un-remember the humiliating and graceless nature of my interaction with him. After a lot of negative thought (Why did I have to go and adopt a cat? I didn’t think this out all the way, etc.), I decided to cool my jets and try to change my frame of mind about what was going on. I did think it out, and I did everything (within reason) that I should’ve done to prepare for getting the cat. A part of me has known since I got here that I wanted a pet to keep me company; living alone is abnormal, and it certainly has its perks, but it also gets quite lonely. And add onto that the impossibility of making friends with any neighbors due to the language barrier— my interactions with them are limited to an occasional dober den! in the stairwell, and that’s not a lot, all things considered. I didn’t know my new feline friend would be so sick, and the best I can do is keep my head and try to help her get better. For now, that means fighting her tiny fidgets and squeals to push food in her mouth and drops in her nose, and letting the vet stick shots into her infant booty every day until she gets healthy again. I can’t imagine how parents of actual humans must feel in a crisis situation. But things are certainly looking sunnier now than they were at week’s beginning, and I believe Sharon's ending will be a happy one. Her catheter is out, and she’s begun to eat on her own and move around a lot more. She even beats me up a little bit with her tiny talons and baby teeth, and I’m not sure at what point this should be considered abuse, but I will report back. To everyone with whom I’ve talked throughout the week about Sharon’s struggle: thank you. It’s been a knot in my stomach that I wouldn’t be able to deal with on my own. Outside of kitty-related matters, school has been moving a mile (ehem- kilometer) a minute. Many extra-curricular things are picking up at once; the BEST team (Bulgarian English Speech & Debate Tournament) is beginning preparation for a competition next month, and the school’s Christmas production is in the works. Regarding the former, I will fulfil the traditional role of the Fulbright English teacher in coaching this team for the year. It is made up of extremely motivated and talented students, and I predict that I will learn far more from them than I will give in return as a coach. As for the latter, I have been assigned both a singing and a piano part in the production, and I am positive that I am very far out of my wheelhouse. Again, the talent among this cohort of students is magnificently plentiful, and I’d just as soon remove myself from their company with my off-key singing voice and poisonously dusty piano knowledge. The pieces include "Ludo Mlado," a traditional song in Bulgarian (for which my pronunciation is, needless to say, laughable), and Frank Sinatra's "Fly Me to the Moon," which has reminded me of my inadequate recollection of basic piano chords. But it’s what I’ve been asked to do, so I keep telling myself that I’m in this one for the adventure. Its humbling to watch these students pick up guitars and casually strum beautiful melodies as if it were common knowledge, or jump into a song with perfect rhythm and tone as if they had been warming up their whole lives. Overall, spending time with students here has been nothing short of uplifting. I enjoy seeing them outside of the classroom, learning about what they like to do, and hearing their perspectives on life. They're mature and funny and surprising, and they treat me with kindness and welcome. Because of them, I really do feel like I'm in the best place possible. Of course I also occasionally miss home. On my walk back from school yesterday, a mindless listen to a song by Needtobreathe (my very favorite band) was interrupted by the realization that that night was the night they were playing a show at the House of Blues in Orlando— a place that I have been so very many times, but was so very far away from at the moment. Of course, I was saddened for a bit on remembering this; I would have loved to be there right then. Some of my fondest memories involve seeing them in concert, and the thought of not being there when they were so close to my home made me shrivel up a little bit inside. But when I take stock of everything, I think it’s excusable. I’m in Bulgaria— cool air (with the signature hint of cigarette smoke) coming in from outside, Needtobreathe playing honorarily through my computer speakers, and a tiny cat on my lap. I have students I get to teach every week and places I get to travel, dances I get to learn and mountains I get to see out the windows, and perhaps I’m just trading one good experience for a different one.
2 Comments
Mom
10/16/2017 09:47:39 am
I love you. And Sharon. You're both beautiful raviolis too good for this world.
Reply
Mama Harding
10/17/2017 03:52:27 am
I LOVE YOUR BLOGS....and you too!❤️
Reply
Leave a Reply. |
A play on blagodarya
|