Caregiving, Chaos, and Limits…

I’ve had one hell of a month. Like… if there were an Olympic event for emotional whiplash, I’d be standing on the podium with a gold medal and an ice pack.

It started with my almost 10-year-old cat, Jaxson. He had a cough. Just a cough. I did what any responsible pet parent does—I took him to the vet expecting maybe a little “here’s some meds, he’ll be fine.”

Instead, Jaxson said, “Surprise, Mom, it’s a medical buffet.”
Asthma.
Partial collapsed lung.
High blood sugar.
Bladder stone.

At that point I was waiting for the vet to add, “Also, he’s started a small side business and hasn’t filed taxes.”

They couldn’t give him steroids for the asthma because of his blood sugar, so we played the super fun game of wait, worry, and recheck. The meds he could take? Oh, those turned him into a projectile vomiting champion. Not just a little “oops” situation—no. This was full-home coverage. Walls. Floors. Probably places I haven’t found yet.

But—plot twist—his glucose levels normalized, he started prednisolone, and now he’s coughing less and acting like himself again. By “himself,” I mean slightly dramatic but alive, which we’re counting as a win.

Then, because apparently my household runs on chaos scheduling, Finni Roux—my almost 6-year-old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel—decided to have her own storyline.

She had a little eyelid adenoma. No big deal… until it became a big deal by preventing her from closing her eye. Because why not escalate?

So, two days after Jaxson’s medical tour, Finni had surgery. She did great. Truly. A model patient.

And then… the cone.

The cone has unlocked a new personality: Chaos Monster, Level Expert.
She is slamming into furniture like she pays rent here.
Flipping water bowls like she’s auditioning for a stunt show.
And cone-butting her feline brothers with the precision of a tiny, fluffy mafia enforcer.

Meanwhile, medicating Jaxson requires cardio, strategy, and possibly a team of trained professionals.
Finni? Peanut butter = compliance.
Honestly, she might be the smarter one.

And then there’s the part that isn’t funny.

The hardest part of this month… was placing my mom on hospice care at home.

It’s not about “any day now.” It’s about what her body can handle anymore. She’s living with end-stage Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, and even small things—standing, walking, existing—can leave her struggling to breathe.

Watching that happen to your mom… there aren’t really words for it. Just this constant ache sitting under everything.

And I’m doing all of this while my own body is still recovering from autoimmune arthritis complications. My energy isn’t low—it’s on a very limited, occasionally imaginary budget. There are days I physically can’t do everything that needs to be done.

Which brings me to my coping strategy.

I stopped.

Well… after I panic-bought what can only be described as a support group of purses. A small, stylish army. Emotional support handbags, if you will.

Even I knew it was getting out of hand.

So, with a gentle nudge from my therapist, I’ve been trying something different. Instead of hitting “buy now,” I’m writing. Processing. Letting it out instead of stuffing it into a shopping cart.

The truth is, I haven’t talked publicly about my mom’s condition before now. It feels… complicated.

I feel selfish for being overwhelmed.
I feel like a failure for not being able to handle everything.
I feel devastated watching her suffer.

And at the same time—I’m just a person. A tired, grieving, stressed, trying-my-best person… who happens to be surrounded by medically complex animals and a dog wielding a cone like a weapon.

This month has been a lot.

Some of it absurd.
Some of it darkly funny.
Some of it just… heartbreak.

And I’m still standing. Barely. But still here.