Opinion & Editorial

Fifty first names only

It was almost 10 years ago when my wife brought home a “foster” cat one afternoon following her volunteer shift at Mary’s Kitty Korner in Granby, Conn. I put foster in quotes because, if you know Dee Dee at all, this was a full-on adoption right from the start. He would be joining big brothers Dude and Shelby.

The cat, named “Patches” by the Kitty Korner staff because of the leopard-like bare spots all over its back from excessive licking, had worn a large plastic cone at the shelter.

Once we had him home, my wife began nursing him to health. We went through several versions of devices to keep him from licking his back – inflatable cones, pillowlike cones, and my wife made several custom body sleeves out of my old shirts. Everyone in our neighborhood knows “the sweater cat.” These days, he wears a custom collar made of craft foam board. They are pliable and comfortable. We renamed him “Peaches,” thinking that it was actually a bit cruel to keep the name based on the visible signs of his affliction.

After research and consultation with vets, my wife put him on a special diet to address food allergies, and prepared each meal especially for him. We administer medicine for his hypoesthesia, a neurological condition. Still, he has occasional seizures when he’s overstimulated from excessive grooming; they are rare, but we have a protocol in place to help him through an episode.

Our vet in Creswell, Sheri, has helped us considerably improve his condition. You might say life has been pretty peachy since we brought him home.

Then, three weeks ago, he almost killed me. Literally.

I was asleep in the middle of the night, with my left arm hanging off the mattress, when I awoke to a sudden and intense pain. Peaches was having a seizure, and he had bitten and clamped down as hard as possible on my hand and wrist. Groggy, to say the least, I worked to loosen his jaw on my hand, and pull him from the bite. He immediately began to calm down, and I went to check out the damage. The clock in the bathroom read 3:01 a.m.

I cleaned the wound as best possible, and went back to bed hopeful I could sleep. It was a restless night the rest of the way. The next day I went to work as usual, but by 11 a.m. the hand and wrist were starting to swell. I went to a nearby urgent care center – and trust me when I say “urgent” is not really the best description – and spent over three hours waiting to see someone for my “cat bite.”

By the time a doctor saw me, he immediately ordered me to a hospital. “Cats have the dirtiest mouths you can imagine, filled with bacteria,” he said. “You are in septic shock and need to go to the ER right now.”

I was able to reach Erin, our executive editor, by phone and she sprung into action, refusing to even let me hang up until she arrived at the care center. There wasn’t much talking; just me breathing unevenly and she announcing updates on how close she was getting to the center.

When we arrived at the hospital, it was nearly another hour before they could get me in. Finally, I was admitted, and the ER doctor explained that I was in severe septic shock. “We basically use a zero to two scale, and we think you’re at about a five.”

My arm now had red streaks all the way up to the armpit. A diabetic, the sugar in my system was serving as jet fuel for the bacteria driving the infection. Organ failure was possible. Survival rate was below 50 percent. My 59th birthday was three days earlier, and I considered for the first time that I might die. I’ve been sick before; even had a few near-death experiences as a younger man. But this was the first time I gave serious consideration to the reality that people my age go into the hospital and never leave. Anything could happen, and in fact, does all the time.

Thankfully, with aggressive antibiotics and the care of health professionals, I’m here to recount the experience. Among the most noteworthy nurses who cared for me were Dale and Gretchen. They were incredibly attentive, sensitive, empathetic, and committed to my well-being. Through the worst of the experience, they gave me hope and comfort.

There were many others, too: Alex and Cole were ambulance drivers who chatted with me during the move from one hospital to the other. Karen, Mike, Jen the hand surgeon, Sam, Daphna, Rachel, Lois, and Dillon.

Personally, as word-of-mouth spread the news, I heard from RuthAnn, Chelsea and Scott, and Gail at the Bookmine sent a personal note in a card.

Folks have asked about Peaches’ fate. We’re heavily invested in him, a family member, and all is forgiven, of course. …

More news on the pet front: Dana, our office manager, brought home a new puppy this past weekend, Eden. …

One of the business-related fallouts of the pandemic for our operation was the decline in legal notices. Various moratoriums slowed the processing of Trustee’s Notices Of Sale and Notices To Interested Persons, important public documents required by law to be published in a “paper of record.”

I get to work with many terrific paralegals and attorneys through this process, and as the legal notices are returning to pre-pandemic levels, it’s been good to see these folks again. Cindy at SUB, Joel, Vicki, Monica, Rachel, and Sarah have all been in touch recently. …

Another piece of information out of our newsroom: Larissa, a recently hired reporter and Eugene native, got engaged last week to Mervyn, who works right next door to us at A. Gaines Financial. Be sure to read their announcement on Page 3 of this week’s edition. …

While driving on W. D St. in Springfield the other day after dropping off a paper at a reader’s house (Joyce), I thought I recognized two people on bikes. Indeed, Ed and Sheri from Creswell were out on a ride in gorgeous weather. …

Ran into Paul of the Hippie Museum while I was eating lunch at Cornucopia in downtown Springfield. Naomi was my outstanding waitress that day. …

The massage therapists and skincare experts across the hall in our building at 655 A St. sure stay busy. I see Jeannine, Karen, Elizabeth, and Heidi in and out of their offices seven days a week, day and night. …

We are attending the Oregon Newspaper Publishers Association annual conference at Mt. Hood this week. It’s my first time attending because of the Covid-related cancellations the past two years. I’ve been speaking with Laurie and Edward, and Stefani and Linda, around state newspaper business. I’ll be attending an ONPA board meeting, and have the honor of moderating a panel discussion with the winners of the Public Service Journalism award. The winners included Tatiana of The RegisterGuard, Shane of The Oregonian, Laura of The Oregonian, and Leslie of the Argus Observer. You’ll be reading more about them in the future, when we’ll provide last names and details on the award-winning journalism.

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