A No-Good, Very Bad Day

Apparently the god that I do not believe in is punishing me for whining on my birthday by showing me what a very bad day really is like.

It started with a cold shower and went down hill from there.
"Huh," I said. "Wunner why there's no hot water."

Went to work, texted my ex-across-the-hall with whom I co-own the co-op. Ex sprang into action, calling neighbors and plumbers. In the four years since we bought this apartment, three others in the seven-apartment building have replaced their boiler/hot water heating systems that were originally installed on the cheap in 1987 by a contractor who is, I kid you not, currently in jail for fraud. Evidence of his perpetration of fraud is everywhere: the winter we moved in we discovered the outside walls were insulated on every OTHER panel-- and the insulation that was there had been installed backwards.

I was not surprised when ex called me back to announce that we would probably have to replace the whole system since they, quite rightly, don't make boilers like we have any more. I then called my neighbor who had most recently replaced her unit. It cost about $6K altogether, she told me. "Yeah, it really sucked," she said by way of sympathy.

Just then my other line-- gf's work number came up. I switched over. "Yeah, so, um, Sophie's bloodwork is not getting any better, and I did a little research? This disease is bad-- it has about a 50% mortality rate." I cried a little at my desk and then shoved aside the boiler, the dying dog, the fact that my irredeemable byatch roommate is moving out and leaving me with five months' unpaid rent-- have I mentioned this?-- and tried to complete my workday.

When I got home, I gathered all the dogs from Ex, where they were staying whilst plumbers traipsed in and out of my apartment, and went to change my clothes. All the dogs were waiting by the door for me to come back and walk them. Then, suddenly, my two came racing back to the bedroom, leaving Sophie up front. "Hmmm," I thought. My dogs are tattle-tales. I knew from their scuttling that Sophie had done Something Bad. I had a pretty good idea what.

Sophie is on meds for her anemia that make her have to pee every four hours, day and night. I have been alternationg with gf the 3 a.m. shift, which has perhaps left me a little short on both sleep and temper.... So I went up to the door to investigate, and sure enough, Sophie had left the river flow forth-- right in front of the stairs that go to the door.

I took a deep breath, threw some towels on it, gathered the three of them, and started out for their walk. Just then gf was coming in (she lives with me now! She just comes in!) She threw down her bag and joined me, re-routing my usual walk to go past her house so we could pick up her miserable little dog. (I am biased. Dogs smaller than 50 lbs don't count as dogs to me. Especially if the lick themselves incessantly and eat kitty litter and pick trash.)

So off we went, gf choosing that moment to inform me that the architect estimated that his bill would come to around, oh, $10K. At this point I revert to my earlier prematurely cut-off freaking out about the boiler and the money it would take to fix it. And the fact that I have no hot water and my apartment is getting colder by the day as autumn descends in earnest on New York and the sweaters and woolly socks have re-established themselves on the tops of my piles of clothes.

Breathe. The dogs made their pit-stops and I unfurled my rolls of bright blue poop bags to pick up their leavings, like a good urban dog owner. We picked up her horrible little dog and were heading toward the veterinary clinic where she works to pick up yet more meds for Sophie (poor, beautiful, dying Sophie) when I felt a cold squishy wetness at my finger tips as they grazed Sophie's back (this is how tall she is-- I can pet her back while walking without trying.) I lifted my hand to investigate. Poop. Yep, dog poop had somehow gotten onto Sophie's back and from there to my fingers. I looked at gf, and something in my brittle look spurred her to action-- she virtually sprinted to her clinic and returned in record time with soapy paper towels to wipe my fingers down. Crisis averted.

Then home again, the feeding/cleaning/litterbox routine began. Gf went to her place to bring back provisions (Namely, the great 2-lb bricks of Costco cheese supplied weekly to us by her family. Like being on govt cheese, only slightly better quality.)

I quarantined my two regular-food cats in the bathroom with their regular food and then put my allergic-to-chicken cat in the laundry room with his chicken-free food. I pilled my old cat and got Sophie's 6 pills into a ball of peanut butter and pilled her. I poured dog food into 4 bowls and mixed in the expensive human-grade wet food then put it down for the dogs. Then I grabbed a plastic bag to clean the litter boxes-- one in the laundry room, then one in the bathroom. I opened the door to the bathroom and both cats were sitting in the tub with that I DUNNO WUT HAPPENED, MOM, RILLY! WUZNT ME! look on their faces. Then I saw that one of them had projectile vomited with spectacular force, managing to hit both the counter and the far wall, splattering the floor over a 6 feet-square area with splashes as far as the radiator, the tub, even the litter box itself.

By this time gf was back. I started to wail, but got it together, cleaned up the vomit with about 400 yards of paper towels (my regular towel supply having been exhausted by the earlier pee incident), and joined gf in time to bring the plates of soup and salad she had kindly assembled out to the living room to eat dinner, splitting a can of Coors Light, a left over from our summer barbecue, as per our new frugality agreement that relegates wine to a weekend-only indulgence.

I slumped on the couch and picked at dinner, managed to emerge from my overwhelming desire to crawl in a hole and never come out thank gf for humoring my Very Bad Mood because of my Very Bad Day.

Then her phone rang. It was her friend, whose ancient golden retriever has had some awful throat cancer for a year. It was time. Could gf come and bring the pink juice?

Why not cap the day off by offing a dog?

So off we went-- back to the clinic to pick up the euthanasia supplies-- then to drive to Lori's house where the dog was sprawled on the floor, looking mildly nonplussed by the trio of sobbing adults (Lori, husband, and cousin) gathered around him.

An hour later, after he had passed peacefully with the aid of enough pink juice to kill a Clydesdale, gf and I were on our way back home, faces raw with our own tears for the passing of a dog we barely knew. It was his time. He was having a hard time breathing, could barely eat, despite his lifelong devotion to the art of gluttony. I don't think he minded.

The night was not over.

Gf's elderly charge called, babbling nonsense in Yiddish, saying she was at the police station, no the hospital, no, she didn't know-- somewhere in Poland. Then her home health aid got on the phone. Klara'd been confused and agitated all day, alternating abusing the aids and crying in her confusion. She was going to the hospital.

Gf played with the idea of going to the hospital, but instead managed the situation by phone, the home health aid, ambulance driver, and hospital staff all calling her every fifteen minutes with some new question.

I took a hot shower at Ex's and crawled into bed in my frigid bedroom, snuggling up to gf for warmth as much as for comfort and love. No sooner had I drifted off when the 3 a.m. alarm went off to take Sophie out-- fortunately gf got it, although when her phone rang some time later I mistook it for the alarm, and put on my jeans and was already bumbling toward the door before gf stopped me. At 5, gf left to go pick up her old lady from the hospital. At 6, I got up to start a new, hopefully improved day.

THAT was what a bad day looks like. OK? I got it. Now can we move on?

Also: if this is the level of chaos in my life PRE-kid, I am a little worried about the add'l "life-changing" chaos that a baby would bring....