Post-catum Depression

Grief can make people do strange things. Things they would never normally do. Things they later regret. Last night, while mourning the loss of my furry friend, Suzy, I did something I’m not proud of. I went to see Ghost Rider.

Now before you call the local mental health authorities, let me explain. I had to get out of the apartment because I’d been sitting around all day wallowing in pain. Everywhere I look in this place I see something that reminds me of Suzy. I couldn't swing a dead cat in here without hitting something that reminds me of my dead cat. I spilled some muffin crumbs on the carpet yesterday, and when I grabbed the vacuum cleaner I immediately teared up when I thought about how Suzy hated that machine even more than I do. On the rare occasions when I did vacuum, Suzy would immediately scurry away and hiss angrily if I came anywhere near her with it. I’m sure it would irk her to no end to know that her mortal enemy had out-lasted her.

Anyway, I figured that the best way to feel better in the short term would be get out of the apartment and distract myself with a movie. I didn’t want anything serious or emotionally resonant, so that eliminated Pan’s Labyrinth or Zodiac, which would have been the sort of thing I’d normally see, but emotionally fragile children or grieving families was not at all what I needed. If ever there was a time for escapist entertainment, this was it.

Nicolas Cage and Peter Fonda realize they have a lot in common.
First and foremost - a need to fire their agents.

Long story short, Ghost Rider was drivel. Utter and absolute twaddle. And exactly what I needed.

This is the kind of movie where Sam Elliot tells Nicolas Cage he’ll be safe in the graveyard because the demons who’re after him can’t enter hallowed ground. Then, ten minutes later, where do we see those same demons? In a church.

This is the kind of movie that never stops to ask why exactly does the devil need a bounty hunter anyway?

This is the type of movie where the stunningly gorgeous Eva Mendes pines for a decade over her childhood sweetheart, then drops everything to take a chance on him again when he re-appears in her life. We see her waiting in a restaurant in a low-cut dress which would make the hair in Nicholas Cage’s toupee stand on end. And yet, when he doesn't show up she acts like an insecure pre-teen girl, grabs the nearest waiter and asks him “You think I’m pretty, right?” I mean, WTF?!?!?! And if that wasn’t absurd enough, the waiter responds to her question with an indifferent shrug that implies she’s nothing special to look at. I would have walked out of the theatre at that point under normal circumstances.

Eva Mendes comes to the shocking realisation that she is appearing in the movie Ghost Rider.

It feels good to be thinking about this sort of trivial crap instead of mourning the loss of my faithful fuzzy companion. If I start to feel too sad at any point this weekend, I think I’ll go see Wild Hogs. That should fill me with enough film snob indignation to carry me until Easter.

"What's my motivation?
Oh wait, I just remembered. It's money."

The Five Stages Of Grief

1. Denying you went to see Ghost Rider
2. Anger over paying to see Ghost Rider
3. Bargaining to get your money back after watching Ghost Rider
4. Depression after watching Ghost Rider
5. Accepting that you wasted two hours of your life on Ghost Rider

RIP Suzy

I’m not a man who normally takes photographs, or addresses his emotions honestly and openly, but this is an unusual circumstance so this post will feature a little of both.

I recently found an old disposable camera when I was cleaning out my closet and decided to have it developed. It was filled with photos I’d taken of my cat Suzy shortly after I’d adopted her when I must have been feeling unusually sentimental. I'm glad I have these photos now, because as of yesterday I don't have Suzy.

Last summer I'd discovered a strange growth on her stomach which turned out to be cancer. I had that removed and I checked her stomach regularly for the first few months, but everything seemed fine and her behaviour was completely normal, so I gradually got out of the habit of checking. It seemed like I'd caught it in time.

Well, about a week ago I noticed that her appetite had disappeared and her behaviour had changed too. She was lethargic and laying around all day. She’d stopped jumping up on the bed to sleep with me or leaping onto the top of the recliner to stare out the window at passersby. Worst of all, her breathing had become laboured, so I checked her tummy where the original tumour was and sure enough there was another growth which was much larger than the first, and this one was more like an open sore with a red, bloody disc surrounding a small white protuberance in the middle.

I took her to the vet to have x-rays done, and the cancer had indeed spread to her lungs. She was euthanised just before midnight last night.

In addition to being devastated by losing a cat I love dearly, I feel guilty for not checking her for tumours more carefully over the last few months. Maybe if I had noticed something earlier the prognosis would be better. I keep trying to tell myself that Suzy might have been dead ten years ago if it wasn’t for me since I was the one who busted her out of kitty prison when she was on death row. She was a stray I adopted from the SPCA, and she lead a happy pampered life under my care. That seems comforting on paper, but it’s not enough to keep me from blubbering when I remember how scared she looked as the vet carried her away into the back room. Or when I look at a picture like this.