Although I must admit, once I got to work, and got back into the swing of things I perked up considerably. And when the vet who operated on my kitty called me she said everything "went very well", and in fact said that Pasha was quite well-behaved for her blood work and anesthesia.
I cannot believe I ever wanted to be a vet. I know what those poor, dumb animals go through; when I was about, oh... 10-years-old, I guess, I can't honestly remember, but it was before I started high school. I think I was in 6th grade... anyway, that doesn't matter, I asked our vet at the time (Dr. Mewborn, that's his real name, I kid you not) if he would let me watch and/or assist on some of the surgeries. I saw a few spay surgeries, one particularly bloody one on a dog who'd already had puppies, a couple cat spays, a couple declawings, maybe a neuter or two, and I think that was about it for one morning. You know what traumatized me the worst? The declawings. I couldn't believe how ridiculously easy it was to take away a cat's claws. You just (squeamish readers might want to jump ahead to the next paragraph) push the cat's claw forward, and *snip* ... no more claw. It's not particularly bloody, but it just seems so cruel. More cruel than slicing open an animal's belly and removing it's reproductive parts, apparently.
Anyway, I actually wound up calling the vet's office at about 2:30 this afternoon, because I just had to know before going into work. Something told me in the pit of my stomach that I might have gotten overlooked for a phone call, and I couldn't take the wait anymore... sure enough, I was right. When the vet called me (later) she admitted that she totally forgot to call me, and she apologized profusely for the oversight. She's so nice, and I'm so glad she's the one who operated on Pasha, that I gave her complete understanding about it. I told her I'm sure she's busy, and it was no big deal, and I was glad to hear everything went okay.
Well, after I got off the phone the first time, I just broke down crying, big heaving sobs, partly relief, partly overwhelming guilt. I'm always surprised by my outpouring of emotion when it hits me like that. I'm as strong as can be, and then when I get that proverbial moment of truth, ... poof. I dissolve into a puddle of tears.
Then I come to work and hear the news about more killings in Iraq (or anywhere else for that matter) and feel like such an idiot.
Then again, it does put Pasha's surgery in perspective.
I do not look forward to bringing her home. Well, let me re-phrase that: I *do* look forward to bringing her home, what I don't look forward to is enduring her recovery. I know how those go: she is going to hate me. She won't look at me; she won't be herself again for quite some time, if at all. Which is one reason I don't declaw my cats (among others) -- they hate me enough as it is.
And no amount of explaining it to them helps. They're cats for crying out loud!
Oh well. I said this surgery would be more traumatizing for me than it would be for Pasha, and I was right.
I hate being right sometimes!!!