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.

My Cocoon Year

I was so hopeful at the start of 2020. I was about to get married. It was a new decade. Husband and I got through the worst thing to happen to us, plus an immediate move, while planning a wedding, in my first year at a new job. Our friends were doing well — employed, seemed to know what they wanted out of life, married or dating or happily single (for the most part). We had just had a niece. We booked our honeymoon flights.

Garmin setting the mood for 2024.

I've lost all hope going into 2024. It's going to start out hard and get harder, personally and professionally. I'm facing the loss of at least four pets, including the one who's been with me throughout my entire adulthood. I'm deeply dissatisfied with everything about my job, from my pay to my influence to my ability to do what's best for the organization, even the very role I'm in (I hated marketing, how did I end up here?). I still feel geographically stuck. And it's unlikely that husband and I will get meaningful time for travel, or even a couple of long weekends that aren't for work or weddings or family obligations. I took six trips in 2023, five of which were for a wedding, a funeral, or work. We have one fun trip in mind for 2024, but that may not happen.

One of my favorite photos from the one fun trip we took in 2023.

Worse, a lot of my friends are struggling to find something in their lives. Most are unhappy with their jobs, not finding meaning or purpose or even a decent paycheck. Some are unhappily single. Some have their own family drama. Some moved far away and feel disconnected. And some are just getting through this year, too.

I'm thinking of 2024 as my cocoon year. Not that I expect to emerge a beautiful butterfly, or even have goals for 2025, or think much of anything will get better. But I need to acknowledge that 2024 is not the year for hope or goals or progress. It will be the gross, lonely, difficult year that sometimes has to happen. And honestly, maybe just acknowledging it will help me endure it — having expectations for the year ahead will just lead to disappointment, but if my expectations are rock bottom anything unexpected will fit right in. I want to skip this year in terms of the good cheer that I've always felt at the start and hold out that maybe I can feel that way again when I welcome 2025.

Maybe I should call this my mushroom year.

Recently, husband and I had a conversation about spirituality. Neither of us believe in an after life or any kind of higher power, but we do feel connected to the universe in a way. What I've always thought of as superstition might be better categorized as spirituality: like karma, if you do something bad, something bad will find you.

Little miss Rosa holding my hand — and the ring I lost.

Over the summer I lost a ring I'd had since... jeez, at least college. It was a three-strand infinity braid that lived on my pinky. The three-strand braid was a relic of my religious past, the holy trinity, but also how my life was inextricably intertwined with the higher power I was once deeply devoted to. The lack of a visible seam, no beginning or ending, was symbolic of eternity. My wedding ring has similar symbolism: the two-strand infinity twist reminds me how my husband and I are inextricably connected. For a few months I was upset about the loss of my pinky ring and looked everywhere for it, even dug through the Roomba discards. But then I started thinking that maybe it's time to say goodbye to the symbolism that ring held. Maybe I was holding on to something that no longer served me. Maybe I should look ahead, instead. So I bought a new ring. It's one solid ring that's been hammered flat. The single, solid ring represents just me. The hammered texture and infinity style will remind me that life will give me a beating sometimes, but life goes on. I'll wear this on my right ring finger because my relationship with myself is just as important as my relationship with anyone else, arguably even more so. Hopefully this reminder through what's going to be a very challenging year will be a comfort, and will stay with me for many years to come.

Randomly, I started a small worm farm in 2023. Hello, darkness.

I have to end this with a shoutout to husband (hi, husband). When the world felt like it ended right after we had the best day ever, we had a strong feeling of togetherness, joking that we had promised to be together forever but not every minute of forever. I had big family drama in 2020 and he listened to all of it and held my hand literally and metaphorically. Then it got bad in 2021, depressing in 2022 (we started doing drugs, highly recommend) and worse in 2023. I know he must really love me because he doesn't just stick it out — he's genuinely and deeply hurt if I even joke about him leaving. He knows what he's facing in the coming year. He knows I'll need him more than I ever have in our dozen years together. I know I could do this without him if I had to, but I'm grateful I don't have to. Marriage may not be sunshine and rainbows all the time, but nothing compares to the feeling of having that person in your corner no matter what. So, thank you, husband, I love you.

I Said No More Rats

A dramatic trio of rodents.

We have 6 pets: the cat, two rabbits, and three rats. The rats were pandemic pets. (The first group, anyway. The three we have now are actually our second group.) We adopted three sisters the day they were able to leave their mom. The mom was nearly a baby herself — accidental pregnancy. We had one very old gal left and I sold husband on the cuteness and chance for a stronger bond compared to the older ladies from the first group. (Side note, the humane society full-on lied about their ages online. In 2020 they only adopted small animals sight unseen, so your only information was the online profiles. They said they were 6 months but they were really 18 months, giving us only a year with them.)

The babies were so tiny the day we brought them home to Maya.

They are stinking cute. Their names are Harriett, Billie, and Rosa. You can guess where we got the names.

I'm spending a lot of time in my bathroom lately. Sitting on a blanket on the floor, next to the rat litter box, while they crawl inside my hoodie or on my shoulders or groom each other or chase each other or try to chew the baseboards or stick their noses under the door gap. We don't have a playpen or other secure area for them, and they're active, so the bathroom (between the outside door and the inner door to the toilet) is perfect. Loud, from the fan, and not fully comfortable, but otherwise perfect. They get play time, bonding time, and the cat is excluded so they feel much safer than on the couch. Right now one of them is in my hoodie on my stomach wildly gritting her little teeth in happiness. They boggle a lot in here, too. It makes me so happy and I barely even notice the fan or the hard floor for the hour. It's time to go when they are falling asleep, stretched out flat on the floor, curled up in my hoodie, or sometimes even asleep on my shoulder.

A less comfortable way I would isolate the rats for playtime.

I love having a house full of pets. I love cleaning the rat cage and the rabbit boxes and rearranging their spaces to add interest and making hiding areas and when they seek my affection (which is everyone except one bunny, who hates me). The rats especially. I adore the way their little bodies feel both lithe and round in my hands, how they wrap their tails around my finger or chin for balance, how they fling themselves up my legs or chest to climb to a better spot, how they let me cuddle them and the way they protest kisses on their heads and bellies. I don't know why, but their protests are my favorite. They dramatically thrust their whole hands, which are just tiny human hands, on our lips and push us away with their itty bitty might.

Billie on her first birthday!

There's only one downside: We miss travel. Now that it doesn't make me sick with stress, leaving for any length of time is an unfair burden. Even with a trusted friend a few blocks away and a pet sitting service I like, it's still not fair to leave the rats in cages or the cat uncuddled for more than a day. So we don't travel unless we have to. And that's meant work and weddings only. Plus, one of us has to be home every 12 hours to give the cat a pill, so even leaving for a day or having evening plans requires an almost parent level of coordination. I can't be spontaneous (though that's almost a non-issue with the friend group) or go with the flow. Which is OK. I would rather not travel right now. Even if I miss it. I'm allowed to recognize the downsides in the choices I make.

They live in a top of the line cage with lots of hiding places and newspaper to shred to bits.

Everyone is around the same point in their respective lifecycles. Chloe is 18. The rabbits are both around 7 or 8. And the rats are turning 2 in February. Husband and I have talked a lot about taking a pet break to travel. We still want to go to New Zealand (the honeymoon we never had) and at this point want at least three weeks. We want to road trip to national parks. We've talked about Germany and Tanzania and Japan and Chile.  We want to do big trips before we feel like being mostly home again for a while. So I promised, no more rats.

I made a dig box and sprouted barley for a fun playtime activity.

Last weekend, in the bathroom, Billie was hanging out in my hoodie for a while. She pretty much only does that at the end of the hang when she's sleepy, and even then she'd rather stretch out on the tile. Billie is the independent spirit of the trio. She'll test limits, stick her nose in things, chew or pull at anything, and explore wherever she damn well pleases if I'm not watching. Which is why we're in the bathroom. Being that chill for no reason isn't like her. That's when I noticed her face looked odd. It was like her cheekbone was jutting out on the left side. I felt it and it was hard, like her skull. But only on that one side. I looked at Harriet and Rosa and they both had perfectly round rat faces. So this was new. I took her to the vet today worried about an abscess or tooth issue, expecting to need x-rays or surgery.

The vet inspected her and said, "oh Billie girl, I haven't seen this in a while." 

Just look at those whiskers. Criminally cute.

This vet loves rats. In our visits over the last couple of years she's taken a few extra seconds each exam for a cuddle. She's all business with the rabbits but adores the rats. I didn't want to hear her say that, especially in that resigned tone that says there's nothing we can do. The tumor is in an inoperable location next to her ear and eye. It will keep growing outward, eventually looking cauliflower-y. It's not malignant and it's not painful, though it will get uncomfortable as it grows. She told me about a couple that had a whole family of rats with this kind of tumor a few years ago. They tried all sorts of treatments hoping something would reduce the size of the tumors. But one by one they all eventually had to be euthanized. She said they kept some of them longer than was probably right. This vet was alone with me when I had to euthanize my girl Ruth unexpectedly, I'm sure she remembers that. (Interestingly, Ruth and Billie would have been kindred spirits.)

Rats are just really small puppies. You can't change my mind.

The vet then remarked on how healthy Billie is. Other than barbering, which they all do to each other relentlessly, they're the picture of health. No mammary tumors, even, which is almost a guarantee with female rats. Then I said, "well they're only 22 months." She kind of paused. The average lifespan for rats is about two years. She said she saw one once who was 4 (my Tux was just over 3, and was quite old at that point). She couldn't give me an answer to how fast the tumor will grow. I think, and hope, that we'll have a great celebration in February, when they turn 2. But all three won't be making it to their third birthday. The vet sent me home with antibiotics just in case it's some extremely aggressive ear infection ("it can't hurt").

Billie's chicken legs - bare from barbering.

So, there are two downsides to a house full of pets. I said no more rats, and immediately got a terminal diagnosis. I didn't think it would be that quick. In Friends, when Phoebe's brother wants to give her one of his kids because triplets is too much to handle, he struggles to decide which one. Each of them is his favorite for a unique reason. That's how I feel about these girls. I don't have a favorite, but Billie is a favorite. She was a little runty when we first brought her home and took longer to gain weight than her sisters. She's so curious and brave and determined. I hand fed her snacks and saved the bigger pieces for her and celebrated the first time she weighed the most at monthly weigh in. And soon I'm going to have to decide when it's her time to go.

Two of my favorite things: reading and rats.

It's a cruel joke that creatures as wonderful as rats live so short a time. Two years is nothing, yet it's everything. They bring me so much happiness some days I could cry. I understand how people have a rotating collection of rats: every year integrate one or two new rats into the group and offset the one or two you lose every year. Constant pain but also constant joy. Just thinking of losing one of my trio made me want to adopt another already, even though I promised no more. It's going to be a hard couple of years.

Stuck in Paradise

A week ago I signed a tax document sent via email. I noticed my husband had signed it a week before me, which was weird because the email had only been in my inbox for a few days. But when I checked the date of my email I realized it had been waiting in my inbox for twelve whole days. How did almost two weeks feel like just a few days? 

And why was it this mundane action that made me realize how time is slipping by? Borrowing a phrase from Queer Eye, my life has turned into wash, rinse, and repeat.

Getting married and then immediately entering a global pandemic where “can’t” dominated my life erased so much possibility I thought I still had. And now still isn’t the right time to make a big change. I want so many things and no matter what decision I make I feel like I’m giving something else up. Every time I feel like I’m coming around a corner the next milestone feels like it got further away while I wasn’t watching. I’ve felt stuck for a long time, like I don’t have complete ownership over my life.

Seattle skyline from a boat tour on a very hot day.

I have this fantasy of what my life would be like if I moved. I say fantasy because husband has no desire to leave our city, and would be genuinely depressed living where I want to live, and because it's borderline impossible unless I somehow make a shit ton more money, which is unlikely even if I left the nonprofit world. But it doesn’t mean I can’t indulge myself a little here.

I imagine us buying a townhome in West Seattle, where parks and nature and the water are less than a mile away. By then we’ve adopted a dog and can take bikes or even go on a long walk to the beaches. We have a small little yard, or at least a decent balcony, and there’s space to sit and read or work and grow plants. We’d be close to the neighborhood center and walk around in evenings and weekends, getting coffee at one of the many shops around, finding new favorite Vietnamese and Thai and Chinese restaurants, and drinking on brewery patios. Husband would open a new studio nearby and he’d bring the dog with him sometimes. He has photography friends he meets up with and we regularly see my friends and cousins who live in the state. Maybe once a year we drive east to see friends just over the mountains, and we take long weekends to visit the islands, take the dog hiking, even take longer trips to Montana and the rainforests.

Fresh wild blackberries!

In the townhome we have, that we own, we’re intentional about its design and layout. We take our time finding pieces that we love that fit our needs. We install permanent solutions that work for us, because it’s ours, and we both love the space that we’ve created. We’re surrounded by tall, green trees, maybe have a view of the sound from our top floor, and have tons of windows to let in as much natural light as possible. For a while we’ll have just the dog, who runs with us (in perfect year-round running weather), because she’s portable and we want to explore this new area. We’ll foster cats and small animals as often as we can, at least until we have a network we can turn to for cat sitting (I can’t not have a cat, not for long).

Dino topiary!

I think part of what makes this fantasy so appealing is it’s something to look forward to when one of the biggest parts of my current life changes. I’m intentionally not going far, or going for long, to spend as much time as I can with Chloe. Despite her age and early kidney disease she’s in remarkably good health. And is laying across my arms as I type this (slowly). Travel will be a consolation for a while, maybe finally going on our honeymoon and taking other extended international trips.

And now I couldn’t ask my partner to change everything about his life, which he absolutely loves, to go live somewhere he would have no close friends or family, have to rebuild his business from scratch, and feel isolated and lonely. After the wet and gloomy winter we had this year, I know that this move will remain a fantasy. It wouldn’t be a fantasy if my partner was miserable.

Seattle is not lacking in amazing beer.

Which means I need to figure out how to be happy living where I am. I didn’t want to live in one place my whole life, but practically speaking it’s not really feasible to move states, much less move countries (I have a similar fantasy about moving to the UK). But this is why we have fantasies, right? It'll be interesting to look back on this in a few years and see what's changed, what new fantasies I have, or what parts of this one might have come true.

You're So Lucky

Strangers like to tell me how lucky I am. They say it at events, out of earshot of anyone else, when they learn I am my husband’s wife. These strangers are always women, and are not strangers to my husband. They also often fawn over me, as if we’re besties, even though we just met. Even men insinuate my luckiness: one man told me to “take good care of him”.

What am I supposed to say in response? I default to “yes, I am lucky” and hope they drop it.

I’ve never understood their meaning. What makes me so lucky? Is it that I’m married to my husband, who they presumably think is just the best? Are they envious, secretly hoping he’ll be back on the market? Or is it simply that I have a husband, because being a single woman is the worst at this age (and perhaps a little also that my husband is not an asshole)? Or could some of them be hoping for gossip? How would they react if I told them his farts don’t smell like roses? It makes me uncomfortable.

No one tells my husband, or any man, that he’s so lucky. If anyone pays my husband a compliment about me it’s regarding my looks. But even still, he’s not lucky to have a pretty wife, since he's too attractive himself to have an unattractive wife. It’s expected. Of course she’s beautiful.

My husband hears how great he is in some capacity every day. His clients rave about his work, colleagues he mentors look up to him, his former boss has told him (indirectly, but still) he’s a better photographer, even the little kids we know talk about him to their parents. He makes an impression and there’s no one who doesn’t love him. But he rarely hears from me how great he is.

Instead, I keep the domestic sphere going to he can devote himself to his craft. I make sure the animals are cared for, supplies stocked, and entertain them (including bonding a new rabbit, which I said I’d never do again). Lately I’ve cooked dinner, ate alone, and cleaned up, making sure he has dinner waiting for him after a late shoot. The last two months I’ve spent a whole day off deep cleaning alone, and always during the week do the smaller tasks, like run the roomba and wash the sheets and towels.

Maybe it’s just because those are the expected tasks for a wife, even in whatever this day and age is (where quite a few people would love to have us go back to traditional gender roles). Maybe it’s because I work from home and can wash some dishes on a break or vacuum while listening to a meeting. Maybe it’s because I care more about a clean and well-kept home than my husband, so it makes sense that I spend more of my energies that way.

It’s a lonely life, though. But I don't think the people who tell me I’m so lucky would like to hear that. Shouldn’t a little loneliness be worth the sacrifice to be married to such greatness? Shouldn't I be eagerly awaiting his arrival at night, happy I'm the one he comes home to?

My husband doesn’t know people say this to me. All he knows is that everyone except his wife tells him he’s wonderful. I know it frustrates him because he says things loud enough for me to hear. Like how he knows not to expect support from me (said in reference to fantasy football, which I started doing to spend more time with him, but the wording was “in anything ever”). Or when I didn’t know what I wanted to eat and he muttered I never do (despite him also not having an answer). Or when I brought up that something (can’t even remember what) upset me and he said it’s always something.

I’ve thought what our relationship might be like if we shifted to traditional gender roles. We don’t have kids so it would never fly, plus we couldn’t afford to live here without my income. But if I wasn’t working full time of course I’d take complete care of the home. The grocery shopping, the cleaning, the cooking, the animals, arranging our social life and travel, all of it would be done without him lifting a finger, me being mad that the workload is unequally distributed, and might even mean I have more energy and desire for intimacy.

Or, more likely, our relationship would implode. If I already feel worth less despite all I contribute, how worthless would I feel if I contributed nothing financially? I’d need to be medicated, and then I’d really be a stereotype. On his end, he would be working more than ever to support two people and we likely wouldn’t see each other any more than we do now with opposite schedules.

If I wanted that life, I could have had it. My high school boyfriend’s plan was to be a lawyer, or some other super high paying career, where he would work long hours so I could have the luxury of staying home to raise our kids (in his plan, we’d have two). He said this to me in a sad, determined kind of way. This was his sacrifice.

I rejected that life immediately. Even then, when I assumed I’d have kids because it’s what you do after getting married, being a stay at home mom was not for me. Further, why would I go into a marriage knowing my husband was going to be working all the time and we’d rarely see each other? I wanted to get married because I loved my spouse and wanted to spend time with him. Marriage was never a means to an end for me. Yet he wasn’t the last boyfriend to pitch this life to me.

Of course, that life required having kids. When I got married—to someone who also didn’t want kids and valued an equal partnership—I was excited about creating a different kind of life. Having the flexibility to move around, live in other cities and countries. Travel where and when we want, not when school schedules dictate. Taking the fulfilling job even if it didn’t pay that well.

But so far we haven’t done this. Husband says someday, even soon. I have doubts. Looking back on our 11 years together there’s always been something: stress and unhappiness with jobs that underpaid and overworked, grad school, sick pets, planning and paying for a wedding, not working for 5 months and then taking every job possible in case the pandemic gets worse.

Work will always take priority for my husband. It took me a long time to realize that, longer than it should have. I’ll still be disappointed but I no longer expect him to block off time if there's even a chance he could book work. I can count on my birthday, his birthday, and our wedding anniversary. Even this year, for his 40th, he took the day of off but worked the following day.

It’s time for me to get used to the idea that I’ll need to do more things on my own. Which honestly should be my ideal, because I enjoy my alone time and enjoy traveling solo. If he can swing a day or two of a trip, like he did last year when I went to Seattle for a week, great. I married him because I love him and want to spend more time together, but I’m not doing our relationship any favors by waiting around for him to block off potential work time.

So, yeah, it’s been lonely. I have some loose plans for the next couple of years that involve short trips to see friends, focusing on my old and at-risk pets, and doing some volunteering and possibly freelancing to stay busy and earn extra income. I’m starting to form a longer-term plan, too, which is dependent on that extra income. Maybe having something to look forward to that’s all for me will help.

In the meantime, people should stop telling others how lucky they are. The grass is always greener, and I’m worried one of these times I’ll tell some unsuspecting woman the reality of living with greatness.