Christmas is a little over a week away and as usual I’m struggling to get everything bought. This year I’ve decided to make several of my gives to my friends and family. I may end up being that person that no one wants a gift from next year but it is what it is. I made my wife and kids Christmas ornaments honoring my cat that just recently passed. I’m really hoping that everyone likes them.
My wife and I are still dealing with the loss. We’ve also noticed that our other cat, Sophie, has started acting differently. I think it’s her way of dealing with his absence and the solitude she experiences when we’re not here. We’ve talked and I’d like to go ahead and get another little kitten but we’re not sure how Sophie will respond. She “tolerated” Clyde and was not really the best of friends but they got along for the most part. I think my wife will eventually agree but it will take some time for her to come around.
This will be Clyde’s marker for his resting place. I’ve been real busy and haven’t took the time time to get the marker done. If the truth is known, every time I sat down to work on it I got upset and couldn’t bare to think about it. There is currently a little wooden cross that my wife placed there until I could get this made. Once I have the marker in place I think this will be the closure that I will need. I will place the marker tomorrow after I get home from my oncologist appointment tomorrow afternoon. Maybe the rains will have moved out by then.
I’m sure I’ll post again but in case I don’t, I hope everyone has a happy holiday and a Merry Christmas.
I haven’t posted about my health in a while, so here’s your semi-regular episode of “What’s My Body Doing Now?”
First up, the oncology report: still no detectable blast cells for about eight months. 🎉 I’m not throwing a party just yet, because last time I got excited, my labs basically said, “Surprise!” and did their own thing. But for now, we’ll call it a win.
Iron levels? Yeah… those are still on strike. I’ve officially been diagnosed with chronic anemia, which explains why I’m always freezing and walking around the house like it’s January in Alaska. I’ve had so many iron infusions I’m pretty sure I’m 3% metal at this point. Waiting on Marvel to call.
And then there’s the potassium situation. Apparently my potassium levels have been creeping up. My oncologist thinks it’s tied to the kidney failure. Meanwhile, I barely eat any high-potassium foods, so my best guess is that my body is just freelancing at this point.
Skin cancer update: I had a melanoma spot and another bonus cancer removed from my left arm a little over a month ago. They left some lovely scars, which I now refer to as battle wounds because that sounds way cooler than “my dermatologist wanted a closer look.”
Now they’ve moved on to my back. I had a spot removed Tuesday that they think might also be melanoma. We’ll know more when the biopsy comes back, but let me tell you… back pain is a whole different universe. I slept approximately 12 minutes that night because I couldn’t get comfortable. Tylenol and I are in a committed relationship now.
Anyway, that’s the latest episode. Thanks for tuning in. Same time next month for whatever plot twist my body decides to add next. 😅
Thanksgiving has a way of making you pause and take stock of what really matters. For my family, it’s more than just turkey and pumpkin pie—it’s about showing up, keeping traditions alive, and sometimes surviving the chaos that comes with it. Yesterday was no exception. Between navigating crowded tables, debates over who’s bringing what, and the inevitable “pass the mashed potatoes” shuffle, I found myself thinking about why we bother with all of it. And the answer, as always, came back to one simple thing: family.
Why I Write
It’s been a while since I’ve written this much on the blog. Lately, sitting down and putting my thoughts and feelings into words has been surprisingly therapeutic. I’ve always said that this space isn’t really for anyone else—it’s my diary, my outlet. If I gain followers, that’s great. If I lose them, that’s fine too. This is for me, and that’s enough.
Family Gatherings: Love and Logistics
For my family, Thanksgiving is one of those holidays where we make an effort to come together around the table. Mostly, we do it for my mom. Honestly, if she weren’t around, I doubt very seriously that these gatherings would still happen. It’s funny how one person can be the glue that keeps everyone connected, isn’t it?
We also try to celebrate birthdays together. Usually, a date during the month is picked for a small get-together. But, for some reason, we never seem to meet in August for my birthday. I’ve never quite figured out why, but I’ve stopped letting it bother me.
I don’t mind the big holiday gatherings like Thanksgiving or Christmas, but birthday get-togethers can start to feel like a logistical challenge—expensive, time-consuming, and sometimes exhausting. Sometimes it feels like we’re traveling every few weeks, and, of course, the house we end up meeting at is always the farthest from mine. I swear, it’s like my GPS secretly enjoys making me drive in circles.
The Chaos Is Worth It
Despite the chaos—the crowded tables, the debates over who’s bringing what dish, and the inevitable “pass the mashed potatoes” race—there’s something special about these gatherings. Being around family, even if just for a few hours, reminds me of what really matters.
The laughter, the shared memories, the small moments of connection—they’re worth every mile traveled and every effort spent. Even when someone accidentally drops the cranberry sauce on the floor, or Uncle Joe tells the same story for the hundredth time, it all adds to the experience.
Reflections on Gratitude
The best part is that no matter how hectic it gets, or how many extra servings of pie I have to endure, we’re all still together. These little imperfect traditions are what anchor us. They remind us that family isn’t about perfection—it’s about showing up, supporting each other, and sometimes laughing at ourselves along the way.
So, as I sit here reflecting after Thanksgiving, I feel grateful. Grateful for my family, for my mom, for the chance to keep these little rituals alive, and for this blog that allows me to put my thoughts into words. Sometimes, writing is the best way to understand what really matters—and right now, family, chaos and all, is at the top of that list.
It’s been a little over a week since my wife and I said goodbye to our little buddy Clyde — and even now, it still doesn’t feel real. The house is quieter. Our routines feel incomplete. And the space he once filled in our daily lives has become an unmistakable emptiness we carry with us everywhere we go.
Losing a pet isn’t just losing an animal. It’s losing a tiny familiar heartbeat that anchored your mornings, evenings, and even the simplest moments in between. Clyde didn’t just live with us — he lived in us. And that is why the silence left behind is so loud.
The Questions That Follow Loss
Grief invites doubt to the table whether you want it or not. In the days since losing Clyde, I’ve replayed memories and asked myself the kind of questions only guilt-ridden love can produce.
Did I fail him by not rushing him to the vet that morning when I knew he felt off? Could a vet have even helped him, or was his final moment simply his time, no matter where we stood when it came?
And then, unfairly, I asked myself even bigger questions.
Did we deprive him by loving him indoors his entire life? Should we have forced adventure on a cat who once sprinted away from his own reflection? Did we rob him of butterfly chases and bird pursuits, even though the world outside the glass clearly felt too vast for his brave-but-tiny soul?
The hardest twist of all is this:
Now that he’s gone, Clyde rests outside in the very outdoors he avoided his whole life. His body lies in the earth, a couple of feet underground, beneath open sky he never trusted long enough to explore. And somehow, that irony stung deeper than the loss itself.
But grief has a way of writing stories backward. We judge ourselves not on what a life asked for, but on what it might have wanted if it had been someone else’s.
The Challenge We Loved Through
The older Clyde got, the more life asked of him — and of us.
He developed heart problems and thyroid issues that, if left untreated, triggered seizures. He depended on daily medication. Three pills a day, one so bitter it had to be hidden in a capsule like contraband medicine you smuggle past a taste border.
My wife, endlessly patient and unshakably devoted, became his pharmacist, caretaker, and protector. She never missed a dose. Not once.
As arthritis stole his ability to handle stairs, we improvised with litter boxes everywhere upstairs… which Clyde promptly judged as unacceptable. His counter-proposal? Our bed. Repeatedly. His negotiations included tarp treaties, blanket peace accords, and enough towels to open a small linen kiosk.
Deep sleep brought bladder leaks. Mobility struggles required strategic towel placement. Planning ahead became second nature. Laundry day became every day. And love translated into accommodation after accommodation.
Yes, Clyde was a challenge. But challenges don’t leave holes this big — connection without conditions does.
We didn’t put up with him. We adapted for him. Because loving him was never the question. Protecting his comfort was the answer.
The One Time He Went “Outside”
One memory has surfaced more than any other this week.
Years ago, my wife and I sat on the front porch enjoying the evening when I noticed Clyde inside, parked at the glass door like a museum curator observing a world exhibit titled “Nope.”
I opened the door, fully expecting him to reconsider.
He stepped onto the porch as if crossing an international border without a passport. Cautious. Curious. Politely concerned. He sniffed around like an overworked detective suspecting a plot but gradually accepting the peace of the moment.
And then — overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of everything existing simultaneously — he retreated indoors at high speed.
Because that was Clyde.
Brave in pixels. Overstimulated in 3D.
He didn’t want the outdoors. He wanted the safety of observation. The comfort of closeness. The reassurance of familiar floors, predictable humans, and climate-controlled affection.
And we gave him exactly that.
The Truth Beneath the Guilt
Here is what I finally realized once the guilt’s microphone ran out of batteries:
Clyde wasn’t an adventure cat. He was a heart cat. A soulmate with paws. A small emotional support mammal who didn’t read self-help books, but did master deep listening through silence and presence.
We didn’t confine him. We protected his peace.
And maybe the real guilt isn’t about the outdoors he missed.
Maybe it’s about the world not getting more time with the little cat who quietly made ours better.
We miss you, buddy. More than you ever would have understood. And exactly as much as you deserved.
This has got to be one of the hardest posts I’ve ever had to write. Around 3:30 p.m. today, my buddy Clyde crossed the rainbow bridge.
The day began with the first sign that something wasn’t right. Every morning for as long as I can remember, Clyde would wait for me to get out of the shower. That was his way of letting me know he wanted to be picked up and placed on the bathroom sink so he could drink from the faucet—his little daily ritual. But this morning, he didn’t come.
Instead, I found him lying on the kitchen floor next to the air vent, his head down. When I reached down to rub his head, he didn’t give his usual loud purr. That told me more than anything that he just wasn’t feeling good. My wife mentioned that he’d eaten a little, but nowhere near his usual amount.
I had a craft fair to prepare for and some coasters I needed to get printed. Between the power going out mid-print and the rush to get everything finished, I didn’t get the chance to check on Clyde again before leaving. But once I arrived at the fair, I called home. My wife told me he had eaten a bit more and was lying at the end of our bed, where he always slept. Still, something in the back of my mind whispered that we might be nearing the end. I told my wife she should let our daughters know so they could come spend some time with him.
They did. And after helping me load up my things when the fair ended around 2 p.m., they headed home but didn’t stay long.
Around 3 p.m., my wife was watching the Alabama game from our bedroom. Clyde was asleep at the foot of the bed. He woke up, stood, and looked like he wanted to go somewhere but wasn’t quite sure how. He took a couple of steps toward the edge of the bed—and then fell over.
My wife picked him up and placed him gently on the floor, but by then, he was already gone. It happened so quickly. She ran to get me, but the moment I saw him, I knew his precious spirit had already left.
We called the kids and, while they drove back, I went to the backyard to prepare his resting place. When the girls arrived, they spent nearly an hour with him—crying, talking to him, soaking up one last moment with their lifelong friend. Then we placed him in a box with his favorite towel, his favorite toy, and one of his favorite snacks (that one was my daughter’s idea).
Clyde now rests behind the shed, and we plan to place a marker after we get home from church tomorrow.
If he had made it to January, he would have been 21 years old. These last few years were challenging for him—and for us. He was on medication twice a day and had completely lost control of his bowel movements. Our bed was lined with tarps and towels so he could sleep comfortably during the day, and we had to rearrange everything at night so the wife and I could still sleep without worrying. He loved sleeping between us, so we created a little system of towels to protect him—and us—from the inevitable accidents.
It wasn’t easy. But we did it for him. He depended on us, and we loved him.
Because of his declining health, my wife and I haven’t taken a vacation in more than five years. It didn’t feel right to ask anyone else to manage his care. Boarding him was completely out of the question. With his heart condition, the stress alone would have been too much.
Now, with his passing, a huge hole has been created in our lives. The routines, the sounds, the small rituals—all suddenly gone. It’s going to take time to heal, but we’ll get there.
What I know for sure is this: Clyde was loved deeply. And he gave us more love in return than we could ever measure.
If you’ve known me for more than five minutes, you know I live by my calendar. It’s not just a planner — it’s my Bible, my life map, and my emotional support spreadsheet. I color-code, I plan ahead, and if something’s not on the schedule, it’s basically not real.
So imagine my stress level when my mom landed in the hospital and my siblings decided we all need to “take turns sitting with her.”
Now, before anyone clutches their pearls — she’s fine. She’s getting great care from an entire team of professionals who actually know what they’re doing. The woman is being treated better than most people at a five-star resort.
Meanwhile, my siblings and I are out here acting like we need to take shifts in case she suddenly decides to join the Hospital Olympics. Spoiler alert: she’s not going anywhere.
The thing is, I’ve got a craft fair coming up next weekend, and that means I need to be creating — not sitting in a hospital room pretending to enjoy watching nine hours of nonstop news coverage. Nine. Hours. I don’t even like watching nine minutes of the news. I can only listen to so many “breaking” stories about things that broke three days ago before I start questioning my life choices.
But there I sit, smiling, nodding, pretending I’m not slowly dying inside while she argues with the TV. I could be home making candles, painting signs, or doing literally anything that doesn’t involve election updates.
And when I say, “Hey, my schedule’s packed,” my siblings look at me like I just said I’m skipping Christmas. Listen, I love Mom. I’ll visit. I’ll call. I’ll even bring snacks. But she’s being well cared for — by actual trained professionals — while I’m over here trying to figure out if I can make fifty more gnomes before Friday.
So no, I’m not heartless. I’m just scheduled. And if loving my mom and respecting my calendar at the same time is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.
The older I get, the more I realize that time doesn’t stand still. It seems like almost every week I hear about someone I used to go to school with or work with who has passed away. Just the thought of it can be depressing.
This past Saturday, I did a craft fair and happened to run into one of my high school classmates and her sister. We had a chance to catch up for a bit, and somehow the conversation turned to the classmates we’ve already lost. Sadly, cancer seems to have claimed most of them.
I’m 62 now — older than many of my classmates since I was held back a year — and although my health hasn’t always been the best, I count myself lucky to still be here.
Most of my classmates already have great-grandkids. Me? None of my three kids are married yet, so I’m not even a grandparent. Only one of the three is dating anyone right now, and I’m not sure when or if the other two will. That’s okay, though. I don’t ever want them to feel pressured. Still, before I go, I’d love to see all my kids married and maybe even get the chance to hold a grandbaby or two.
My parents, who are both in their mid to upper eighties, would love to see great-grandkids too. I have to remind my mom not to put pressure on my kids — she has a way of speaking her mind about things like that.
As I’ve mentioned before, I have a form of leukemia called CML. Right now, it’s under control. Sometimes one of the markers the doctors watch goes a little wild and sends everyone into a panic, but eventually, the numbers settle back down, and all is well again. I’ve come to accept that nothing I do can change the fact that I have CML. All I can do is take my daily pill, stay consistent, and be thankful that the medicine is working. Worrying won’t change the outcome.
Are you the worrying type? What’s the main thing that weighs on your mind — your kids, your health, your future, or something else? I get my worrying honestly; my grandmother on my mom’s side was a worrier, and my mom’s the same way. I guess it just runs in the family.
I know—it’s been a minute since I’ve posted anything. Honestly, I don’t even remember what I wrote about last time, so forgive me if I repeat myself a bit.
My weight loss journey has finally leveled out—or at least I think it has. My original goal was 190 pounds, but I’ve actually surpassed that by almost 20. I weighed in this morning at 174 pounds and have been hovering there for several weeks now. That’s over a hundred pounds lost in total, which is still hard for me to wrap my head around sometimes. I’m pretty happy with where I’m at.
I don’t regret having the surgery one bit—if anything, I just wish I’d been able to do it sooner. That said, there are a few side effects I could do without. I get these hunger pains unlike anything I’ve ever felt before—sharp, deep aches around my stomach area that only fade after I eat. And since they removed my inflamed gallbladder during surgery, well, let’s just say I have to stay close to a restroom after meals. What goes in tends to come out quickly, and sometimes with little to no warning. Sometimes it’s 30 minutes, sometimes hours later—but when the tummy starts to rumble, it’s a do-or-die situation. I’ll let your imagination fill in the rest.
On a more personal note, my old buddy Clyde is still hanging in there. He’ll be 21 in January if he makes it that long. About a month ago, we found out he has a tumor on his liver. We don’t know if it’s cancerous, but because of his age, surgery isn’t an option. All we can do now is keep him comfortable and make sure his final days are filled with love. The vet couldn’t give us a timeframe, so we’re just taking things day by day. It’s tough to think about, and we’re trying to prepare ourselves mentally—but that’s easier said than done.
I’m still getting out on the river for some kayak fishing about once a week. I love it, but those 4 a.m. wake-up calls are brutal. I usually try to be on the water by sunrise to make the most of the day, and I’m typically done around 2 p.m. That’s a long stretch to be sitting in a kayak, but it’s peaceful out there.
As the temperatures drop, though, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to keep it up. I’m chronically anemic and stay cold most of the time. Anything below 76 degrees is jacket weather for me. In fact, my thermostat is set at 76, and I still wear a jacket indoors most days. I have a trip planned for this Thursday, but the forecast says 43 degrees in the morning. I can bundle up, but once it warms up, I’ll have to stash my jacket somewhere—and space is limited in a kayak. The front compartment is out of reach when I’m seated, so it’s always a bit of a puzzle.
But hey, that’s life. I’ll enjoy it while I can—cold mornings, creaky joints, and all.
I’m also going to try to stay more active on here, share a bit more often, and hopefully regain some of my old followers—and maybe even find a few new ones along the way.
Feel free to ask me anything about my gastric bypass journey, my buddy Clyde, or my fishing trips. I’d love to share what I’ve learned and experienced. And if you’ve gone through weight loss surgery, have a special pet, or just want to chat about your own hobbies, I’d really enjoy hearing about them too.
I love to fish, and with being laid up for over a year, I can’t go fishing enough. I’ve been going at least once a week for the past two months. There have been a couple of weeks that I’ve been twice in one week.
I’ve started trying to film my trips so that I can share my little adventures, but I’ve been having some bad luck with my GoPro. It’s an old one, and I need to purchase another one. On my first trip, the battery died before I caught my first fish.
I hope you enjoy this little video of me catching one of the two fish that were caught on this trip.
The day of the surgery started off on a bad foot and it didn’t end there. First of all, I was told to be at the hospital at 5am with a surgery time of 9am. At 5am it’s dark and my wife can’t see to drive in the dark so I asked if we could move the surgery time to a later time. 7am was the latest that I could get there and still have the surgery. We arrived at 6:30am and were told that I was way early and my surgery wasn’t scheduled until 1pm. There was nothing to do but wait.
A little after noon, I was finally called back. My wife and I were sent to a pre-op room where they tried three times before they were able to start an IV. I was asked several questions regarding my meds and my health. I was given a gown and told to undress and slip on the hospital gown. I was allowed to say my goodbyes to my wife and was rolled out of that room into the surgery room where I met at least three more nurses who introduced themselves and I don’t remember anything after that.
I was awakened by one of my nurses yelling my name telling me to wake up. I remember them saying that my oxygen was low and they were trying to get my bi-pap working. They were having a hard time because the had the hose hooked up backwards. In my drunken state, I had to try to tell them they had it hooked up wrong. Why they didn’t put me on oxygen I’ll never know.
One of the things I had asked the surgeon to look at while she was in my belly was a hernia. She informed me that her main goal was to do the gastric bypass and if she had time she would look at it. Well, that changed. Once she got into my belly, she found that my gallbladder was about to explode. It was full of inflammation and was bleeding. It was surprising that I hadn’t had any symptoms. The first step was to remove my gallbladder. With the gallbladder removed she noticed that my stomach had risen up into my esophagus. She then had to fix the stomach issue. Once she did that she fixed the hernia then she proceeded to do the gastric bypass. The surgeon told my wife that I was one sick puppy.
During surgery, they had to run a tube down my throat. I’m still coughing from that. My incisions are still a little sore, all five of them. I’m still in the liquid stage of my diet and I should start to be able to eat pureed food on Thursday. I’m so looking forward to that. I can’t tell if I’m losing weight because of the cast. I just had a new one put on yesterday and it feels heavier than the others. The orthopedic doctor fitted me with a Crow Boot yesterday so hopefully, I’ll graduate from a cast in a couple of weeks to a month. At least in a Crow Boot I’ll be able to walk some and climb stairs better than I am now.
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