Have I Mentioned I Hate My Mom's Cat?

Hello all, Forgive any typos (You'll know why in a minute). Thursday night I drove to my Mom's for a family dinner with an older uncle I haven't seen in years. (We'll ignore the panic attack I had, just this once). Then Friday I was to help my Mom take her cat (which is nicknamed Scratch Adams) to the vet, since my Mom cannot get her in the cat carrier. So, skilled cat wrangler that I am, I volunteered. I ended up having to chase the cat through the house, finally cornering her under my Mom's bed. I should have known better than to reach under the bed with no protective gear on, but, I was over-confident and we were running late. Several swears later, I pull the cat and my bloody hand out from under the bed, only to realize that the blood is literally streaming down my hand and I should probably deal with that rather than with the cat. So, I let the cat escape and I let my hand bleed over the sink while flushing it with some cold water. Then I pour hydrogen peroxide on it and apply the fifty-million bandaids to cover all the spots that are bleeding and I am ready to toss the cat into the cat carrier.

We make it to the vet's (the cat is perfectly fine and healthy) and my finger is throbbing. I offer to trade the cat for another one in the vet's office, but everyone simply laughs as if I were joking. We get home and the cat bolts out of the carrier and I go upstairs to change my bandages. I visit with my Mom for a few more hours before returning home to my condo. (Oh, my uncle, very well-meaningly, squeezed my bandaged hand as I was saying goodbye, causing me to just sob in the car on the way home.) Once at home, I relax have some dinner and call my best friend and tell her my tale of woe. During which I notice that my finger is about twice its normal size. She advises me to go to the ER. I tell her I would wait to see what it looked like in the morning.

The next morning, since the finger was only getting bigger, I drive myself to the ER. (Which of course, prompted another panic attack). There they tell me they will put me on antibiotics and they want to see me back in the ER the next day (today, Sunday) and if it isn't getting better I should prepare to be admitted for IV antibiotics. I ask about work on Monday (since it is a payroll week and I am the only one left who can process payroll). The doctor bluntly says: If you're admitted, you won't be going to work for a few days.

So this morning, I prepare a bag and notice that my finger (while still about twice the normal size) wasn't looking too bad. I prepared for the impending panic attack by taking my anti-anxiety med (it kicked in just AFTER the appointment) and drove myself to the hospital. At the hospital at 11am, I have a splint on my left middle finger (how appropriate), I am well into the throes of a panic attack so that I can barely sign my name with my "good" hand. Luckily, the verdict was that the antibiotics seemed to be working. I am released as long as I follow-up with an orthopedic doctor on Monday (since I still can't bend my finger).

All in all, I suppose it isn't all that bad, but I feel like crap and all I can focus on is that I am alone. Don't get me wrong, my cats have been marvelous with me the last few days. They know something's wrong and have shadowed me and slept next to me faithfully. Even my neighbor has been wonderful, offering to make me dinner or take care of the kitties. And friends who have already heard this saga have been sending well-wishes and checking in on me by phone, so I know that I am not really alone. But still, lying in bed, my finger aching, my stomach hurting from the antibiotics, I just wish someone human was there to tell me everything's going to be all right, and stroke my hair until I fall asleep. Is that too much to ask out of life?

PS Today I saw the orthopedic doc and I don't need surgery, the antibiotics are doing just what they should be. So another week or so of that (swellng and pain notwithstanding)and a bland diet and I will right as rain.