Nurse Patrick Schroeder: Chapter One

Patrick is Dad's cat. He is the big, manly, rabbit-soft tabby and white feline pictured above.

Patrick's Origin Story: We all have one. When I lived in the Chicago area, a small group of dear friends and I ran a tiny (six humans on the best of days, two on the worst), all-foster dog and cat rescue called Animal Heartline Humane Association. We would intake cats and dogs from high-kill county shelters, especially in the rural areas of Illinois and Indiana, where awesome abandoned pets were plentiful, but homes were not. Throughout the years, we all developed friendships with the beleagured and anxiety-ridden humans who ran those rough municipal facilities. Their love and dedication to the animals remains unparalleled. I was faithful to Jasper County, located in Seymour, Indiana. Please consider them for your next best friend if you are in that area: http://sisaveapet.com/showpage.php?page=shelter.htm&sid=1

In August and September 2015, my Mom complained of relentless and crippling back pain. Out of nowhere, it halted every facet of her life. Now being a seasoned individual in the fugue state that is known as the diagnostic chapter, she underwent many tests with no answer other than, well, you are getting old (72), spinal degeneration happens. Finally, a physical therapist put her foot down.

I also know now that the nurses, techs, social workers and therapists are the true observers and knowledge-keepers of modern-day sickness and disease. The physical therapist insisted that Mom see a pain doctor, who in turn, ordered The MRI. That report showed that my Mom had multiple myeloma (cancer of the blood plasma) progressed and bone metastasized far beyond the point where it could be treated. Within 26 days of that report, Mom left this earth. There are many chapters to the medically violent and terrifying journey Mom and my family went on. I am still learning how to feel and process those emotions courageously and honestly; and some day I hope to share, if I can muster the bravery to do so.

But this is Patrick's day.

Whenever I was faced with grief, death and the bodily shock that goes with those as yet un-processable feelings, I would intake two orphaned kittens. Scared kittens fare better together; and there is no greater immediacy of new life and joy than watching them play, interact, grow, sleep like graven images; and to help them find new homes. So I reached out to my trusty companion Julie in Seymour, Indiana, and asked who she had.

Cue Patrick. And Parker. The little boys had struck up a friendship in the clink, as they were not brothers, nor had they known each other before. They were both friendly, lost guys from the cornfields and burgeoning strip malls of Jasper County. Parker, the quintessential party ginger tabby, was a one-cat vaudeville show and adopted quickly to a young professional woman (her first cat), who wanted a "not-shy" cat who would like to hang out with she and her (clearly also party people) friends in her new apartment. She was thrilled with him, even his impish qualities, which he had in stores.

That left the tri-color bunny kitten who was having a much harder time coming out of his shell. With me, he slowly did, but he wasn't outgoing enough to show well (people love an instant love connection and many animals cannot muster that quickly when they don't yet trust a human) and really just wanted to hang out with my then-cat Lucien, who was the Foster Cat Ambassador and my right-hand man in all things cat rescue.

After the kittens were settled, one in a new home and one in my foster home, I needed to get away from everything that reminded me of Mom's cancer and traumatic final chapter for a little bit. I flew to warm Florida for a week of sanctuary with my dear friends, Sondra and Kim.

Cue Dad.

My parents did not have any pets after my Sister, Brother and I left home for the chaos of our young adult lives; and I wasn't sure Dad would quite know what to do with Patrick (my Sister graciously took Lucien), but I figured kittens helped me, maybe this guy would help Dad too. Well, that went better than expected! I returned to my stoically grieving Dad finding an unlikely new BFF; and we imminently did the adoption.

It is with some embarrassment I report this, but as soon as Patrick became "Dad's cat," that little bugger flipped off the switch for any love flowing to me. At first I was aghast, ego flaring, thinking, man, I saved you as a scared and tender little tumbleweed; and suddenly ... no love. No hate either, but just that extreme and persistent nonchalance that cats are known for. He had his blinders and as if to say, I have my person now and you are not it.

Rejection: an emotion I still work on. Ah, now I get the "love connetion" thing the adopters all craved. I guess the good news is that in his back-pawed kind of way, Patrick taught me about patience and accepting a being for exactly who he is. Even if that does not involve me.

Flash forward eight years, Dad and I are thriving into our lives in a new place with new friends, activities, retirement-ish careers and a huge pet-friendly house. Patrick and I are reunited as cohabitants. I am upstairs in an artist's loft of sorts; and Dad's domain in the master suite wing. We share the kitchen, living and dining rooms, the hubs of warmth, food smells and family. For the past eight years, Patrick rarely came upstairs. I remained steadfastly outside his periphery.

On October 16, 2024, I was diagnosed with oligo-metastatic breast cancer (well, that diagnosis took two months, technically, but I know now what I have). The biopsy that revealed this took place on the nine-year anniversary of my Mom's death. I am still decoding the lessons and love nestled in that timing; and allowing myself to feel REALLY confused for the time being.

Out of nowhere, on soft paws and the worried devotion of Florence Nigthingale, Patrick decides, for now anyway, he loves me again. I am his person. In sickness, but maybe not health. He is constantly upstairs now, often snuggles his head in my arm when my mind is racing from bad news and buried emotions. We meditate together, work through the tough emotional stuff together (there are mountains of that) and we watch with the antics of the "new" pets, cat Stanley and puppy Fern. We also share our new friend, Big TV and a gluttony of streaming services for the treatment road ahead. This is the first time in decades that I have a television in my living space, let alone in my bedroom. Contrary to all the advice one gets about the perils of using a bedroom for anything but slumber, I am sleeping better and feel less lonely, especially on those hard evenings when say, I am waiting for pathology to come back and I just know it is not going to be great news.

Right now Patrick and I are binging Hayau Miyazaki (Studio Ghibli) films, St. Denis in solidarity with my nurse niece Zoe; and the new seasons of Shrinking and Queer Eye. But our favorite show is Somebody, Somewhere and Patrick has requested a repeat viewing of all three seasons as we wait in anticipation to see if the petition to renew it is successful. Please sign: https://www.change.org/p/bring-back-hbo-s-somebody-somewhere

Dad and I aren't sure, but we have this overriding feeling that Mom communicates through the pets because it is the only language we would listen to. Like so many, we take care of the pets first and in many instances, better than ourselves. They are so immediate and their lessons timely and necessary. It is such an honor to treat them like royalty. Patrick and Spirit Mom must know I need a little extra TLC now. Afterall, Patrick got his name from the last person who truly made my beautiful, social, loving Mom smile amidst her oppressive pain ... the PET scan nurse at Delnor Hospital (Geneva, IL). He kept her safe, ensconsed in warm blankets; and shared his life with a very shaky and scared woman.

Human Patrick reminded me that no matter how hard we try to ease our loved one's pain and hardship, what a situation may really need is kindness from a stranger, those surprising angels who fly in, and out, of our lives when we need them the most.