Marathon

I ran a marathon today. The full 26.2 miles, or just over 42 kilometers, in 4 hours, 4 minutes, and 39 seconds. Holy shit. It’s so much running.

I ran my first half marathon when I was 25, finishing in 2 hours and 5 minutes, about 25 minutes faster than I’d trained for (though I could barely walk for a few days after). The only reason I even wanted to do it was because it was the very first fundraising race hosted by the Safari Park and the entry ticket was reasonable. How could I not? I’d been jogging for a few years, mainly because it was cheap and accessible exercise. I was probably still wearing Payless shoes and my race day photo shows me in my high school gym shorts and the finisher’s t-shirt. 

I’d never participated in a race before then.

When I finished I decided that I’d definitely do more races but I’d never run a full marathon. Running 13 miles drained me. I could barely walk for days after. It was a cool accomplishment and that first one was so fun (we ran through the Safari Park!), but the thought of having to run the same distance again right after finishing was ridiculous. Besides, I wasn’t a serious runner. It took work to get to 13 miles. Marathons were for younger people, people who ran in high school or college, people who took fitness very seriously, people with different body shapes, people who maybe hated themselves or who made running their entire personality or who had runner friends.

Since that first one I finished 9 more, with times ranging from 01:44:20 (my best, which I worked really hard for) to over 3 hours (my embarrassing worst, I barely trained). I also ran many 5Ks, 10Ks, and 15Ks. I even organized one during Covid, raising $1,200. #humblebrag

A little more than 15 years after that first half marathon, I’m turning 40. I wanted to accomplish something big. I considered hiking the Grand Canyon. I’ve never been and when I go, I want to go all the way. But my birthday is in October, which is not the best weather to hike the Grand Canyon. And I didn’t want to do that alone, but didn’t think I could convince anyone to do it with me. Then I thought about running 40 kilometers for 40 years. That sounds far, I can do it alone, and it isn’t a marathon distance.

Then I did the math. A full marathon is 42.2 kilometers. If I was going to train for and run 40k, I might as well go the extra 2k. It’d be silly to get that close and not cross that distance, right?

I started seriously considering the idea at 38. Husband trained for and ran his first two half marathons when he turned 40 and was ridiculously fit (set the bar real fuckin’ high for my 40th, goddamn). A few experienced marathoners told me without hesitation that if I can run a half I can run a full. Maybe they were right. But did I really want to spend four months living my life around a run schedule?

Maybe, maybe not. At least I wanted to have a run year. I wanted to complete 10 half marathons and achieve my time goal, which I’d previously failed to do. I wanted to earn a running tattoo. I made a list of races to do, including some I’d done before and liked and some iconic races I hadn’t gotten around to yet. Just in case, I looked up marathons in October and added the interesting looking ones to the list.

Last year, my father in law gifted us a hotel stay in Hawaii, but we had to choose the dates right then (something about the points expiring). We had talked about a trip for my 40th, so I had to decide nearly a year in advance whether I’d commit to a full marathon or whether I wanted to be in Hawaii on my birthday. I went back to my list. The top contenders were all the weekend after my birthday, so we booked the following week for the trip. Now I had to commit because otherwise I wouldn’t be on an island with a Mai Thai on my birthday for nothing.

Even though Chicago was also that weekend, I didn’t choose it because it’s expensive (like, so expensive), based on a lottery system, and requires flying. Being on a plane right before having to run that distance sounded like a bad idea, and the Hawaii trip was literally the next day and I’d rather go without any of my running things.

Turns out Long Beach has an annual marathon. It’s close enough that I just need one hotel night, I’ll be experienced in the weather after training all summer, we can drive back and have enough time to do some laundry before flying out the next day, it was still very affordable, and — best of all — the course is almost completely flat and mostly along the coast. Couldn’t have designed it better myself.

So I signed up. I wanted to know if I could do it. I always said I couldn’t because it was too far and required too much training. But maybe I could do it. Obviously, there was only one way to find out.

When 2025 started I had 7 half marathon medals. In January I ran my 8th, which is when I got my time goal of 01:44:20. In March I ran my usual 15K, the Hot Chocolate Run, then one of the iconic half marathons I’d never done (I fell at mile 3 and ran up one of the longest and steepest hills). For my 10th half marathon in May, I chose another local iconic race, then the next day husband and I ran the 10K that goes over the Coronado bridge, which we do every so often with friends.

With that base mileage, I started training for Long Beach the very next week. We’d just bought and moved into our condo. The timing worked out great because it was early enough when we moved that I wasn’t risking injury, and I started the 18-week plan a week early to have a buffer week (which I ended up needed after ruining my callouses).

To my genuine surprise, training went really well. I read about fueling, which I’d never considered at the shorter distances (I like running fasted), I binged Ologies, and I got to do new and interesting routes due to our new location.

After my first 20-mile run I knew I could finish the whole distance. My life saver of a husband met me halfway with bandaids for my toes, gatorade, extra water, and fruit snacks. But still, the last couple miles were physically painful and I came close to hitting a mental wall running directly into the sun. If that were race day I’d have a whole other hour of running to go. I had two more of those distances in my training plan, sandwiched between 12-mile “step-back” weeks (for which I’m exceedingly grateful).

Side note: The step-back weeks are the most fascinating part of training. I never imagined I’d look forward to a 12-mile long run and think of it as “only” 12 miles. I never imagined I’d run 10 miles in the morning before work. I never imagined I’d run these distances and go about my day as if I did nothing that morning. I’m getting faster at these distances without consciously trying and recovering faster, too. I feel better in my body than I have in a long time (even if my feet are hideous).

But I am exhausted. This program peaks with 50 miles during the week: 20 on one day and 30 spread out over 4 days. My body battery is rarely above 70 these days, even if I go to bed early and don’t drink. I wrote this first draft on a sick day from work just because I was tired and needed rest (a sick day that still started with a 10-mile run… it was a 50-mile week). I’m waking up before my 5:15am alarm most days and could go to sleep around 7 or 8pm.

During that first step-back week of lower mileage, when I knew I was capable of finishing, I started visualizing what it would feel like to be at the starting line, in the dark at 5:30am with thousands of other first-timers like me among the experienced marathoners. The race sold out in August, it would be packed. I visualized the course, having studied the map. I found 20 miles and mentally mapped the last 6, trying to determine whether they would be easy miles or if there was some trick (there’s no elevation gain but it seems boring until we rejoin the half marathoners).

Finally, I visualized the finish line. I imagined checking my watch and what it might feel like if I was on track for a good time. I imagined crossing the finish line, probably in immense pain but still pushing to race the last mile. I imagined the crowd and hoped they’d be loud enough to drown out any thoughts. I imagined husband finding me after I limped to get my medal and a banana. I imagined crying because I did it and it’s over. Husband will give me my bag with flip flops, a protein shake, and gatorade. We’ll sit for a minute and enjoy whatever festival atmosphere they have because this isn’t a day I want to rush back to the car. He’ll drink the beer I earned, mainly because I can’t have it anymore but also because I probably won’t want it anyway. If there’s a massage table, I’ll get in line.

I never expected to enjoy training. I expected it to be a slog, something I have to do if I want race day to go well. Friends and coworkers would ask me if I had to run that day, or if I have to run tomorrow. I always said yes, but the truth was I didn’t have to, I got to. I love running. Even waking up at 5am and finishing before the sun is fully up, running ten miles before work, avoiding alcohol before an important run, and having a somewhat boring diet is all worth getting to do this thing that I love. I relish the physical challenge, seeing what my body is capable of and how strong it feels even when I’m not running. I love moderating my pace, mapping my runs, planning my life to support this hobby. This year I didn’t run on my birthday because it was an important rest day before the race. I felt like I missed an important part of my special day, even more so because it was a milestone birthday.

Training Problems

Before I paid the entry fee I read up on training. That was what intimidated me, much more than 26 miles one day. I could get through half marathon training easily at this point — it wasn’t impacting my sleep or my social life. While plenty of people maintained that marathons are doable, the consensus was that it’s hard as fuck and that’s why so few people do them (comparatively). Training to finish 26 miles is very different than training to finish 13 miles. Turns out it’s very very different.

I managed to avoid major injury, though I didn’t get through training unscathed. I fell twice (on the same run!), skinning and bruising knees, thigh, hands, chin, and taking a chunk out of two fingers. I overly pruned what I thought were blisters and actually cut away callouses, which took more than a month to heal. I got a black toenail (not my first time). Cars rolled right through intersections I was already in. I was even bit by a dog! It may have been a young and rambunctious but still very large german shepherd being poorly controlled by a small woman (she let her dog lunge across her to get to me, then calmly said “we don’t jump on people” like she was walking a toddler), but the bite broke the skin and gave me a bruise on my elbow.

I also had gear challenges. After more years than I should probably admit, my trusty sports bra (I had two because I loved them so) started causing chafing. Like, hop in the shower and immediately recoil because of the pain. The chafing started when I went over 15 miles, barely any further than the many half marathons I’ve done in that same bra. It took quite a bit of trial and error to find not only one that fit but one that felt good and didn’t chafe. I bought four, returned two, and know which one I’ll run in, but will still apply a protective bandaid because I can’t guarantee it won’t chafe in those final 5 miles.

I also wanted a new pair of shorts. I needed enough pockets to bring a few packets of fruit snacks, my phone, and my house key. My existing shorts had most of this but also a poorly sewn seam that dug into my hip and were slightly longer than I preferred (5 inches, though I admit I was considering the thigh tan more than anything else). Since I plan on this being a one-and-done experience, I didn’t want to invest in a running belt or vest that I likely wouldn’t use again, but shorts with pockets will always be handy. I picked a Flipbelt short, which had nearly 360* pockets. After two sizing exchanges, I finished a few 19-mile+ long runs and then the back zipper broke. While I was waiting for the exchange, I also decided that the mild thigh chafing from the 3-inch shorts meant I needed a mid-range length. So I bought an Oiselle 4-inch short with similar pockets. I immediately loved them! These were the ones. Two weeks into running with those, the back zipper broke! Do running short zippers suck? My older shorts have been going a couple of years with no issues, so it can’t be user error (also, it’s a zipper, how much could I be fucking it up?). I got a replacement just in time.

Finally, after years of telling myself I’d buy two pairs of shoes and rotate, I felt a little niggle in my shins halfway through my program. My shoes weren’t ready to be retired, but I was putting so many miles on them without giving them a chance to rest and regain the cushiness. I found a second pair at an outlet sale and started using them for all of my non-long runs. I made it to tapering without any other pain!

I did also buy running sleeves because they were on sale and got me free shipping and I thought it would help protect my tattoos, and a running hat, which I was surprised to love! It’s an obnoxious pink which means husband will have an easier time finding me, and it washes and dries very fast. Overall my $150 entry fee, which is very reasonable compared to the major races, morphed into spending over $500 on gear, not including what I spent on bandaids and protein powder. Thankfully I should be set for a while!

Race Day

Except for more anxiety than I usually have the day before and getting emotional at the start line, the actual marathon was oddly normal. It was like any other race I’ve done this year, just longer, and not all that different from my long training runs except there were a lot more runners around and more cheering. Maybe that’s a good thing and means I trained well. They say nothing new on race day and I followed that advice exactly.

Picking up my bib got me a little emotional. I walked past the half marathon pickup counter to the marathon pickup counter, something I’d never done before. Once I signed up for a 5k after having previously run the same race’s half marathon, and a staff member looked at me and said “I bet you’re doing the 5k”. I got a little offended. What about me made her think I wasn’t there for the half? Did she think I couldn’t do it just by looking at me? I resisted the urge to tell her I’ve done the half before, but the interaction stuck with me. Getting to the marathon counter made me feel legitimate, even though I’m an experienced runner.

As I was leaving, a woman asked me to take her photo in front of branded signage. I saw others taking closeup photos of the signs so I looked closer — all of the runners’ names were printed on it! It was incredible to find my name among the thousands of other runners. My name was printed on a massive sign because I was running a marathon. So legit.

Husband and I were up at 4am — the roads outside our hotel would close at 4:30 and we needed to be out by then. That part wasn’t exactly pleasant. But getting to the start line in the dark with 6,000 other marathoners was magical. We took a quick selfie and I slipped into my corral. Almost instantly I teared up. This was happening! The announcer asked people to raise their hands if it was their first marathon (somewhat condescendingly, like you probably have done this before because you’re in an early corral, you can’t possibly be new) and it looked like a third of the hands were raised. I was in wonderful company! 

I queued up my Garmin and they counted us down. We were off! I was still fighting back tears. I’d been thinking of this for a long time and preparing for months and it was finally happening. Today I would see if I could actually run a whole marathon. I told myself to save my tears for the finish line. Husband cheered with the other spectators as we crossed, making it really hard to not cry.

The first hour was in the dark. I was nervous about tripping and falling. A runner near me tripped within the first mile but fortunately stayed upright. Finally the sun started to rise and we had a gorgeous run along the water. The marathon started an hour and a half before the half (mercifully) but it was still very cool and validating to be on the marathon side of the signs when the courses split. Another first for me.

Husband found me around mile 6 and again close to the halfway point. Though it was only the geographical halfway point: mentally and physically it was really only a quarter of the way done. Due to our parking situation I hadn’t expected him to travel the course at all and it was a nice boost.

The problems started around mile 14 or 15. First it was my right knee that hurt. A couple miles later my right hip also hurt. I had a few slow miles in the middle. Still, I only walked through the aid stations to drink water (and gatorade at mile 10 and 20). I even ran while eating my fruit snacks. It may not have been very fast but I was proud to run the whole thing. At mile 19 I picked up the pace as much as I could while still trying to reserve energy for the final 4 miles. I’d need to practically sprint those. My left calf had shooting pains a few times, bad enough that I involuntarily swore just to relieve pressure (it’s science!). I kept going, deciding to risk something worse in the last few miles.

I felt like a very slow super person running past so many people who’d needed to walk at that point. People who maybe went out too fast and had to take it easy, or whose longest training run was 18 miles, or who hit the wall because they did something different on race day (maybe less eating). The crowds had started to fill out again, some calling out the names from our bibs or handing out snacks or alcohol. By the time we rejoined the half marathon course, the streets were lined with spectators shouting, cheering, waving signs, and using noise makers. It was uplifting, genuinely helping me run at my fast pace even while dodging all the walkers.

Side note: Probably half the signs were the classic “You’re running better than the government” which is mildly funny normally, but the government shut down for several days with no sign of reopening. No wonder it was the go-to sign. The first time I saw it I shouted “the government isn’t running at all!” The bar is so low.

All of a sudden I saw the finish line. I’d been counting the kilometers with my watch and struggling to maintain my speed, wondering where the hell this thing was. Then it was there. I sprinted. I’d missed my stretch goal of a sub-4 hour finish but could still make 4:05:00. No matter how tired I am or what body parts hurt, I let my legs stretch all the way out once the finish line is in sight. I feel fast as fuck.

I crossed at 4:04:39, a completely respectable time. As packed as the last mile was with runners and spectators, the finish line was worse. After a volunteer placed my medal over my neck making me feel like an absolute queen, we were cattle prodded out to the festival area. I worried I was at risk of collapsing and had no idea how to find husband. I found a spot on the grass next to the festival, sat down, and texted him to come find me. I sat for a long time even after he found me and brought me my sandals (which I wore with socks because fuck it), gatorade, and protein shake. When we decided to leave, he had to nearly lift me up because my legs had nothing left. I walked, or rather hobbled, so slowly back to the car.

Back home, I’m already fully packed for Hawaii. Husband is bringing me pho for dinner, we have brownies, and I’m going to sleep well. Tomorrow we start our first vacation in years and first ever tropical vacation. I’m officially a marathoner, even if I never do this again.

2024

 I knew it was going to suck. And suck it did.

The losses I expected came. The losses I didn't expect also came. 

We call this "tuck".

Chloe died in February. She had the trifecta of old cat diseases. I was managing them for a while, but when heart disease showed up her chronic kidney disease also stopped responding. It was always a quality of life decision (I'm extremely fortunate that money was never a factor), and of course once I made the decision I felt I waited too long. Not that she was in pain, just that she wasn't herself at the end. But that's an impossible decision to get right.

Also as expected, we lost our trio of sister rats. Billie was first, which was also expected due to an inoperable tumor. We really hoped Harriett and Rosa would be around most of the rest of the year, but they both developed tumors shortly after. Harriet's was also inoperable, which we learned while she was in surgery. Likely cancer, not the typical mammary tumor they usually get (which Rosa had and was successfully removed). Harriet had complications from surgery and died in a horrific way that made us distrust our vet. It messed us up for a while.

Album cover.

It was difficult to convince husband that Rosa couldn't be alone. Everything happened so fast we hadn't expected a single rat so soon. I wanted to risk getting a companion and being left with a single rat again. I called the rescue where we adopted them and explained our situation: we didn't want more babies and didn't want to extend the cycle. We'd had enough heartbreak and needed a break. Luckily, they had a female adult rat who was being picked on. They let us take her. She was part rex and had soft curly hair and whiskers. She also had big ears and a pot belly. Her name was Blossom. I wasn't a fan of the name but husband wanted to keep it. I think he was trying to keep her at an emotional distance.

Rosa and Blossom were never as close as the sisters were, but they did become friends. We got Blossom for Rosa, so while I certainly spent time with her and wanted her to know we were safe, it was most important that she bond with Rosa. Blossom came from an unhappy situation. Someone dropped her off with at least a dozen other rats. Apparently the woman's husband threatened to kill or release them all. The group of three that included Blossom had been adopted out and returned. After just a few weeks this fact was shocking. Blossom was the sweetest. How could anyone have ever wanted to do anything but love and cuddle her?

Blossom's talent was posing for the camera. Girl got it right every time.

Rosa passed a few months later, leaving Blossom alone. This time I felt OK about having a single rat. Blossom had experienced a lot and probably cycled through other rats who didn't always love her. In the four months we'd had her, I end up bonding closely with her. How could I not with her sweetness? I also ended up glad that we kept her name because she lived up to it, truly blossoming into a confident and content creature. Once she was alone, I spent every possible moment with her. She was in my jacket or on my desk while I worked, hung out on the couch with us at night, and on my shoulder or in a pocket while I cooked or cleaned. I made sure she wasn't alone except at night (I never could work up the nerve to let a rat sleep in my bed for fear I'd squish her) or when we were out of the house, and we even took her on short car rides rather than put her in her cage. But that only lasted a month before she also died suddenly. The vet offered to do a necropsy because of the circumstances: totally normal and fine at night, woke up to her on the floor of her cage the next morning. Turns out she also had heart failure. She died in my arms on the way to the vet.

Blossom passing was hard in a few ways. We didn't even start the year with her so couldn't have anticipated a fourth rat death. And we only had her five months. But in that five months I loved her so much. She was one of a kind and it breaks my heart that she had nearly two years with people who didn't appreciate her. She was also our last rat, something I didn't want to acknowledge. To add insult to injury, she died the day after the election.

So that's five. Thankfully, the bunnies made it to 2025. But not without their own hardships. Juno started having diarrhea, a deadly condition for rabbits. He lost a lot of weight despite eating normally. We spent around $2,500 on half a dozen tests until the vet ran out of ideas. We still don't know what's going on but we learned how to manage his symptoms for the most part. He's still a messy boy who frequently misses his litter box but at least he can keep on weight and isn't exploding any more.

Thankful for bunny stability and silliness.

Last year I'd said that anything unexpected would fit right in. And boy did it. Over the summer I started having severe digestive issues. I thought it was related to alcohol. It happened after a wine tasting when I drank a lot more than I usually do and had only light snacks instead of dinner. Then it happened after a couple of light beers. Then it happened after I had like two ounces of wine just to finish off a bottle. I stopped drinking and went to the doctor. She ordered blood testing and a celiac panel for fun, since I have a family history.

When the results came back I didn't notice anything unusual. The celiac test result even looked normal. There were no notes from the doctor, so I figured everything was fine and should continue to lay off the alcohol until I did some trial and error. I kept a supply of ginger ale and NA beers in the fridge so I could still feel like I was having something. I even bought a bottle of NA wine which I don't recommend.

A couple months later I had an alert about the bill so I logged onto my chart. There was a message from the doctor that I hadn't seen before: my celiac blood test came back extraordinarily high, which means I have celiac disease. Eat gluten free from now on.

I immediately messaged back: what (the fuck) do you mean.

I hadn't been eating gluten free at all for the last few months! I eat pasta at least weekly, had been on a trip where we ate sandwiches, I'd been baking... if anything I'd eaten more gluten than usual. But once I thought about it more, my symptoms never fully went away. After eating I'd rush to the bathroom probably a third of the time. Until she informed me I'd initially read my results incorrectly, there was no rhyme or reason to my bathroom habits. Looking back, all those times I thought I'd gotten sick from alcohol it was because it was beer or I'd also eaten gluten that day.

I tried a zucchini noodle lasagna. I wouldn't make it again.

Celiac disease is probably the most annoying and inconvenient disease. It's autoimmune, meaning my insides attack itself if a bread crumb gets in accidentally. Even if I didn't have symptoms, or felt like risking it all for a burrito, damage is being done. I've been mostly vegetarian for close to 20 years and am experienced finding the one acceptable dish on a restaurant menu or asking for substitutions. But being vegetarian is a choice and I'm often flexible with that choice. Having celiac disease also means finding the one acceptable dish on a restaurant menu, but then asking what feel like really invasive questions about how it's prepared or if the sauce is made with roux or how something is fried. I have to read between the lines of an uninformed server ("yes, the tortilla chips are naturally gluten free" as if that was the part of the dish I was questioning) and ask them to go check the ingredient list or talk to the chef. It's exhausting. It's embarrassing. And because so many people are gluten free sometimes but not all the time, like how I can be vegetarian with flexibility, I have to be direct and tell the whole world I have celiac disease and am not asking these questions for fun and bad things will happen if they don't believe me.

I also randomly had the worst non-Covid respiratory illness I've ever had, in which I was prescribed an inhaler and multiple antibiotics for two weeks. I've read that people with celiac disease are born with the gene that causes it (since it's genetic) but something triggers it in life. Maybe this is what triggered it for me, since it was about a month before I started experiencing symptoms. Super duper fun.

Then I skipped a period in September. I'm the most regular period-having person out there. Even though I'd been sterile for 9 years at that point I still took a pregnancy test. I thought I was going crazy. I had nightmares about finding out I was 8 months pregnant and being forced into parenthood. This lasted for months. September was sort of a stressful time (my friend's wedding was stressing me out for several reasons, I just accepted a new job offer and dealt with wrapping things up at my old job, all the pet loss, and the world in general) but I'd had far more stressful periods without missing a period. It was probably the first sign that I'm entering perimenopause. At 38. But you know what? Bring it on. I'd love to not have a period anymore.

All that said, 2024 wasn't completely without its bright spots. We traveled a ton, something we haven't done in a very long time.

Trippy Times Square at midnight.

In April we traveled to our friend's house in upstate New York to watch the solar eclipse. We planned the trip in the expectation that Chloe would be gone by then, but told our friends that we'd bail if she wasn't. It was the very definition of bitter sweet. I'm glad we saw our friends, and the solar eclipse is practically a religious experience (if anyone reading this has not seen a total solar eclipse, there's truly nothing comparable - you have to see it once in your life). We spent a day in the city after, a first for husband. We saw an incredible play, ate incredible pizza (a small thing I'm very happy to have done since it's the last time I'll ever eat a New York slice), and experienced Times Square at midnight (so weird).

Lil baby salmon.

In May we went to Seattle. I had a work trip and husband came along for the weekend before. The city showed off and gave me my best argument yet for moving there. Husband loved MoPop, we saw young salmon in the fish ladders, stayed in the most adorable house in existence, and ate and drank our way through a few neighborhoods. I stayed for another weekend after my work trip and saw one of my best friends and my favorite cousins and ran in idyllic weather.

In July we celebrated one of my other best friend's 40th birthday in Mammoth. We stopped in Independence, CA on Independence Day and had ice cream from a little shop with the cleanest bathroom, and went to a firework festival on the top of a mountain wearing dino hats and Jurassic Park shirts. Then my sisters came to visit with my niece and nephew and we introduced the kids to our bunnies and rats.

Alpine lake in Mammoth.

In August we celebrated our dating anniversary with a stay at a hotel downtown. The draw was that there's a private entrance to Petco Park from this hotel, so we got fancy seats to watch the Padres. We felt so bougie! We were welcomed right in without bag checks or other hassles from the front entrance. We had dinner at a restaurant I love with all sustainable seafood. The waitress brought us complementary champagne for our anniversary. We took her recommendations on what to order and learned we don't really like sea urchin. Honestly, I really wanted to since we need to eat those guys while the sea stars are recovering.

PRONGHORN

Later that month I traveled to Albuquerque for another best friend's bachelorette party. We rode horses and stayed in a lovely house with peak weather watching windows and a hot tub. Husband came with in September when I returned for the wedding. We went early to go nerd out at the Very Large Array out in the middle of nowhere. It was so out of the way that we saw herds of pronghorn on the way there and the way back — life goal achieved!

LA is quite beautiful.

Husband turned 42 in September and we had a weekend dedicated to the answer to life, the universe, and everything. I decorated the cake like the universe and we went to the Griffith Observatory in Hollywood (and took a Paramount tour on a whim - stars are kind of on theme!). Our hotel was right next to an In 'N Out so of course that was dinner. Husband suggested we take it back to the room to eat. I don't like eating in bed because crumbs, but he reminded me that it's a hotel! The sheets will be cleaned tomorrow by someone else. Brilliant. It was my last burger (well, last grilled cheese) and it was perfect. On the way home I received the official offer for my job, which promised an opportunity to do something new.

Pineapple that I grew that gave me a tummy ache.

Other random happy things happened. I harvested a pineapple that I grew. It made me sick to my stomach but it was delicious. Our friends hosted a chili cook-off. We went out dancing on Halloween and visited the Queen Mary Dark Harbor event for a friend's birthday. I got a tattoo. We made great use of our zoo memberships. We helped out at a few beach and community clean-ups. Our friend launched a book and beer event series that will eventually turn into a business. I ate incredible food. Art was everywhere. Husband had an incredible professional year. I dyed my hair Barbie pink and it came out more like cherry Coke. The year was full of nature.

It's important to write down that good things also happened. And to remember that we can do hard things. I'm still incredibly privileged and most of my worries are about other people. I will continue to do things that will invite loss into my life and I'll hopefully do things that invite struggle. I never want to be complacent or afraid of something coming to an end.

Rattoo

 

For Blossom.

For Rosa.

For Harriett.

For Billie.

For Maya.

For Amelia.

For Ruth.

For Polaris.

For Olivia.

For Tuxie.

For Echo.

For Fella.

For Mowgli.

For Whiskey Whiskers.

For Reggie.

For the ones I mistreated, I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve what I gave you. I think about you all the time. I know better now and wish I could have you again to show you what a truly great life can be. I will never forget and will spend my life making it up to every pet I have.

For the rest, I loved you so much and I hope you knew it. You brought immeasurable joy to my life. I miss you every day.

Thanks to Jordan Lentz for the artwork. And to husband for making a production out of the photo.

Queen Chloe

It’s been six months without Chloe. A very long six months of back to back losses and one of the most disruptive changes to our day to day lives. I know I’ll still see her curled up on the couch and hear her meowing outside the bathroom door for many more months, maybe years. I don’t know when I’ll stop thinking of 7pm as pill time, when I’ll no longer hesitate to accept social invitations because of cat care, and when I’ll talk about her in the past tense. I’ll probably always wonder if I’ll step on a hairball when I’m moving down a dark hallway. We shared 16 years together, longer than I’ve known most people. I became who I am with her and now feel in limbo without her.

Which is a feeling I never expected when we came together. I didn’t even want a cat. I was 23 years old and in my first full-time post-bachelor’s job. I had a bunch of roommates and a modest amount of money for the first time in my life but no savings or plan or any idea what I was doing. As a prissy-looking tortie, already named Chloe, she wasn’t at all the cat I’d have chosen for myself. Yet no one else seemed to want her, and she’d already been hit by a car once — chances were she wouldn’t walk away next time. I’ll probably never say no to a pet as long as I can care for one, so she came to live with me.

Around 4 years old, before she had any white whiskers. I forgot how much fluffier she was.

She came absolutely crawling with fleas and the foulest litter box. My dad had been caring for her, to use that word in the loosest sense, which meant little more than bargain kibble and house privileges. I gave her a flea bath (even though the fleas had already migrated to the carpet, which inexplicably extended into my bathroom) and bought higher quality food, and she seemed to settle into her new home quickly. One of my core Chloe memories, a formative experience for us, happened a month or two after she came to live with me. I’d left for a few days to go to a wedding out of state, leaving a housemate to care for her. When I got back, Chloe was on my bed in her “tucked” position (boat shape, feets curled towards each other under her chest, I loved it so much) with a distinct smirk. I approached the bed and saw a large wet spot right in the middle. It was fresh, probably only a few minutes old. Message received: she is not a cat to be left. I didn’t leave her alone for a long time after that, not until we had an understanding.

We went on a few road trips in the early years. This was coming back from Palm Desert, where I smuggled her into a hotel room.

A few months later I moved us into a tiny studio apartment, its ancient and quirky architecture, IKEA kitchen, and dorm-style community perfectly reflecting this new stage in my young adult life. It was my first roommate-less place, but I was never alone. Chloe learned she could trust me there, without the chaos of a housemate’s cats and the noise of a full house, and we developed a friendship. She helped me realize I should end a relationship when I would rather hang home with her. That summer she came with me on road trips and helped entertain guests in our cramped apartment (and through the window). I cried when I had to leave that place. We shared nine addresses in our 16 years together and she adapted to each new place right away. I believe she understood that I would always prioritize her.

Chloe had a silly side I loved so frickin much. Why did she need to be on this plastic bag on the floor?

That was tested when we moved in with the husband and Argo. Other than leaving her for a week shortly after getting her, forcing her to live with a dog was one of the worst things I did to her. Argo bounced between indifferent and curious and would have been friends had she been even remotely open to the idea. But Argo also literally bounced (and barked and ran and whined and panted super loud and was generally kind of a lot). She tolerated his presence but mostly tried her best to ignore him. Some of my favorite photos are when she chose to sleep with me and on me despite Argo also needing to be next to or on me.

My favorite.

My forever phone background.

I didn’t give her enough individual attention during those years. But the best part of this living arrangement was husband. Chloe adored the husband and showed her affection in her own unique ways. Like stealing chips right from his hand, something she never did with me. And sleeping on his chest in the minutes before he woke up, purring deeply (her purr was so powerful), so the first thing he’d see when he opened his eyes was her happy squint. And loudly insisting on sitting in his office chair, even when he had work to do, even when he was already sitting in it. And following his every movement when she thought he was getting a snack, even if it wasn’t a snack she should have or even something she’d want, then sitting at the table with him while he ate, patiently (sometimes) waiting for a taste. He loudly complained about her antics (“CAT. You’re ridiculous.”) but it was a farce. He adored the way she interacted with him and not-so-secretly beamed when she chose him over me. Which she did a lot. Like, all the time.

She put up with so much.

The six years we lived with Argo, Chloe was stereotypically cat: aloof, quiet, and small. She’d emerge from the guest room at night, sit with me while I did my work for grad school, and get her cuddles. After Argo passed, husband got to meet only-child Chloe, the way she was always meant to be. She was bigger, more present, demanding, confident, and blissfully happy to have a cuddle on the couch, watch a movie, and have a taste of the milk or ice cream or frosting from dessert. Even after the diagnosis, the one almost all cats get after a certain age, when we were sternly reminded to stick to her prescription diet only, we refused to refuse her.

She had different meows for husband and I. I read once that cats don’t naturally meow to each other, they meow just for humans, and that just like we name our cats, cats name their people. She also had different sounds for different actions. A mmwopp when she yawned. The brrrpt trill when we woke her from a nap, earning her the nickname Trillian for a minute. A slight aek when I entered a room she was already in. The clear mrow when she entered a room I was in. The very pointed MEOW for food, made either sitting in front of her bowl or behind me in the office when I didn’t notice the first mrow. The long, slow, sad mrooooow when we held her. And, of course, the mrooOOOWw in the middle of the night because of hyperthyroidism. I remember being both frustrated because it would wake me up and sad because I knew one day she would stop doing it.

Our two best friends were big fans of sassy little Chloe and she loved them right back. Husband’s best friend bonded with her when he stayed in our place for two weeks while we were on a trip, and continued to watch her (and our other pets) over the years. My best friend was in her life from the beginning and they got to know each other in my little studio. Chloe’s only beef with her was when she also adopted a female cat. She hated other female cats. Hated all other cats, including a very young kitten we found and held onto for a day, but just outright hatred for female cats. 

I looooooooved her toe hairs. I refused to trim them. I have a framed hairy paw print.

Fortunately, she didn’t hate our other pets. In fact, I’m convinced that Chloe thought our rabbits were her pets. She would sit in their area, sometimes directly on their rug, and simply observe. Until one of them hopped over to her, of course, then she’d hiss and move a few feet away. I caught her watching them all the time. In 2020 we brought home a few rats, but they were older and slower and not really all that interesting to her. I was relaxed about letting them share supervised space. One of the girls, Ruth, needed surgery right away, and afterwards we three sat on the couch together so Ruth could have free roam time during recovery. Ruth and Chloe came face to face on the couch, just curiously and cautiously sniffing. (A few minutes later Ruth got her teeth stuck in her staples and we had to drive like maniacs to get to the vet, but all turned out fine.) In 2022 when we brought home three baby rats, Chloe was a lot more interested. We did not have couch time together.

There are so many ways I got lucky with Chloe. She moved around with me with ease and tolerated a range of living situations. She begrudgingly let me pick her up and hold her, and was pretty easy to bathe and trim her nails. She came running to the door when I came home from work. She sat in the middle of the living room floor when we had people over, and would usually pick a lap to claim for the rest of the evening. She could handle a car ride if she wasn’t in her carrier. She had perfect litter box habits. She couldn’t jump too high because of injuries when she was hit by a car, so we never had to try to keep her off the counters. And she stayed off the coffee table on her own for the most part (sometimes she’d put just a paw on the table when she really wanted something on it. She was content inside and didn’t bolt the second the door opened. She was an easy purr, and her purr was so loud and strong and soothing.

And most of all, she was perfectly healthy and medically easy right up until Argo died. But that month, after he passed and we moved into a new apartment, she had to spend a night in the hospital for respiratory issues. I had never been more scared of anything in my life. When they said they had to keep her, and husband and I left the building, I sobbed like I’d only done once before in my life. I couldn’t lose her like that, in the same month we lost our dog, and in the hospital where she was scared and alone. She came home and her lungs were mostly fine after that, but I was always on alert. When husband and I got COVID we sent her to stay with his best friend just in case. She wasn’t young anymore. I wasn’t going to make a dumb choice and allow her to suffer the consequences. It was also after that hospital stay that she was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism, and a year later with kidney disease. We had two emergency room crises in her last few months due to kidney disease (my heart is racing just writing this). Once when she couldn’t pee: she tried to use the rabbit litter box, which she’d never think to do normally, so we rushed her in. The second, just a month later, was terrifying. We’d been giving her subcutaneous fluids for a few weeks to supplement her hydration, and after one session she walked into a wall. When she did it a second time, we again rushed her in. The doctor confirmed she was blind and tested her blood pressure. High was 160-170, and Chloe was over 260. They didn’t know how she was still alive. We got her to take a pill for the blood pressure and waited an hour to run the test again. Fortunately, she responded so well, BP down to 160. We took her home, expecting to have a blind cat. The doctor said there’s no way she would recover her eyesight (I don’t think she expected her to make it the rest of the night, to be honest), but over the next few weeks we saw obvious signs her eyesight had returned. By this point Chloe had become so angry at the near constant vet visits. We heard all sorts of euphemisms for her behavior: spicy, sassy, a fighter, vocal. I couldn’t blame her. She broke skin (mine), peed on vet techs, and had many notes in her file. Yet at home we had no issues giving her medication or the sub-q fluids. I could even do it by myself. I often wished our primary vet saw her at home.

Her professional portrait.

Kidney disease was like quicksand. It felt like the more we tried to keep the disease from progressing the more it did. One routine blood work check up I was so sure we’d see a decline in her numbers because she had been doing so well with the fluids and eating her medicated food. I even agreed to a different doctor because I was so confident. When the doctor said the numbers were higher than ever, I felt so defeated. Our girl was eating medicated food she didn’t love, getting poked with a needle every other night, taking four daily pills, and it wasn’t helping. I read just about everything I could about the disease after the diagnosis, and more at every set back, so I knew that cats don’t recover. I just wanted her to feel ok for as long as possible. And when we did everything right, everything we could, and it still wasn’t enough, I realized that it really was a losing fight. Two moths later we made the decision with our vet that it was hospice time. And a month after that I made the appointment.

Up until shortly after her 18th birthday in October she’d been her normal self, even still tearing around the apartment randomly and jumping into her tall bed by my desk. But in the last three months she seemed to have aged quite a lot. Kidney disease, hyperthyroidism, and heart disease take their toll, and she was already such a small cat. When I realized I hadn’t heard her purr in a while, I knew. It’s beyond devastating to know that I heard her purr for the last time one day and didn’t even realize it. When she lay on my chest, the few times she chose me over husband, it was like therapy directly into the heart. She’d knead my soft spots and purr for an hour, usually drooling in contentment. Of all the things I knew was coming, I didn’t expect that. I called the same doctor who came over for Argo. I made her a plate of four different varieties of wet food, pumpkin, a mousse treat, and yogurt. She ate heartily, and when she was done I got a big spoonful of ice cream and she ate the whole thing. She did all this nestled in husband’s lap, which was where she stayed. The doctor said that in her state she might pass with just the anesthesia. I suspected it was going to take a lot more than that. And it did. Chloe had so much fight in a six pound package. I’ll never stop admiring her stubbornness, both throughout our 16 years together and in her last 16 minutes. I know she knew how loved she was. I hope she knew how much I appreciated everything she did for me.

Cat.

I’m a different person at 38 than I was at 23. I was always going to be a different person, but I’m different because of Chloe. She was curled up in my lap while I wrote most of my papers during grad school. She was just out of sight of the camera in many of my Zoom calls at work. She visited an office for my staff profile photo. She was on husband’s chest or back early in the morning and during afternoon naps. She sat in my lap at dinner and weekend breakfasts, even if it wasn’t something she wanted to eat. Almost always purring, even if we weren’t touching her, which was how she liked it. 

All four feets touching.

Gato. Queen. Girlie. Cat. Chlo. My most perfect cat.