Patient Zero

Taylor Swift recently came out with an encore to her album, A Life of a Showgirl. The first song on the newly released edition is called Patient Zero. This song has spoken to me for many reasons...and also, hit a little too deep the first time I heard it.

From social media posts and to what became real-life interactions, I read and was told that many did not understand this song at all. They thought it was a far-reaching interpretation of a bad breakup song. That's not what I heard. My heart actually swells hard against my chest, to the point where I can feel it pushing against my bones, for the people who say this. I am happy for them. To not know, to not understand. What a world like that would be to live in.

Patient Zero is not a bad breakup song. I don't actually think it's a breakup song at all. It's one of the quietest, loudest songs about abuse I have ever heard. And fuck, isn't that what it's like when you're in it? The outside world doesn't really see. The depths of humans and relationships run so much deeper than the surface.

The lyrics hit me almost instantly in the first verse: "I've gotta be honest, I've been expecting your call." Those words hang with me in this moment, in the air right in front of me. It's a heavy series of letters that is hard for me to swallow.

A bit after my ex-spouse physically abused me, I reached out to the girlfriend she had before me. I sent a Facebook message, sheepishly and scared. I remember the first time we met in person. We picked a place we both didn't think our ex would be. She got there before me. I walked up to the door and, as I opened it, I remember it being too heavy in my hand. I opened it anyway. As the restaurant came into view, I saw a woman - sitting in a booth. I recognized her, not because we had met. I recognized her because we shared the same pain.  

I walked in slowly and approached her. She stood, each of us recognizing the other from photos posted online that falsely portrayed moments of happiness. We physically shook as our hands reached out. When they touched, I felt the pain I had seen walking in. I think she felt mine too. We both took a seat and started to talk.

Remembering these moments, the song now replays in my head: "I've gotta be honest, I've been expecting your call. No, it's not a bad time at all."

Through the months that followed that first meeting, I found safety, solace, and a friend in this person. She didn't just understand, she knew. Our shared trauma and experience wasn't something that needed to be spoken. After all, she was Patient Zero.

Being with Danielle can be a magical rush of overwhelming excitement and toxicity. As Taylor says, "When the toxins take their hold, you'd rather die than let it go." Somehow, even through the abuse and terrible treatment, it feels hard to lose them. Until one day, you literally have no choice but to let it go. 

"So, let's get into..."

Nothing about that relationship was actually about me. It was always about doing things that made her feel good. Sometimes that came off as being a good partner: buying me presents, creating a good online appearance. But it wasn't for me. It wasn't for Victoria. It was always for Danielle. To boost her own ego. 

The more I got to talk with this former partner, the more I began to put together the puzzle of the scattered pieces Danielle would accidentally let slip. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized we weren't the first at all. We were simply anonymous numbers among the fabricated version of reality Danielle was so eloquently able to create.

This song wasn't written to be understood by the masses. It was curated to touch those unfortunate enough to understand it. I've sat with these lyrics for a while now. The words above these ones have tried to describe the emotions the song elicits, but I know they do little justice.

To the "patients" before me, and god forbid, the patients after me, I am sorry. No one deserves to be brutalized for merely trying to love another human being.

"I've been there. Felt the reeling, done the healing, said the curses and prayers."

I think the point I am getting at is that we are not a number. No matter how many people our abuser has abused before or after. We're not a statistic. We're not a case number. We're not something that can be diminished into a file. And we sure as fucking hell are not crazy. Your truth matters, your voice matters and your story matters. 

Thank you Taylor for creating such a powerful piece of art. Thank you for putting into a words what so many woman feel, but do not know how to describe. Thank you for being a voice of empowerment. 

May we end the cycle. May we all rise up. May we all be loud. And may there never be another Patient Zero.

Jovie

   I started fostering for the Wichita Animal Auction League about 2 and a half years ago. I have a previous blog named "Thank You, Bella" that explains how I got into fostering. In that two and a half years, I have fostered 46 animals, and I have saved 45 of them. 

  Almost every single person's response when I tell them I foster is, "I don't know how you do that, I never could. I'd become too attached." For anyone that knows me, they know - it's not because I do not become attached. I love my fosters deeply. I could give you every single one of their names and explain every single one of their personalities right off the top of my head. Each animal I have fostered, help save and adopted out...each one makes their very own imprint on my heart. 

  As a foster of younger kittens, you kind of know that inevitably this day will come. That despite all the efforts given, you are bound to not being able to save them all. 

  I've fostered 46 animals, and I was able to save 45 of them. 

  My Jovie girl came to me from a friend. She started out tiny, but tenacious. The first five days, of the eight days I had her, she was thriving. She ate well. She gained weight. She played, she loved, she snuggled and mostly she talked. That 3/4 of a pound little girl had a lot to say, and she wasn't shy about any of it. Her favorite parts of the day were when I would wake up, or come home from work and open her door. Her tiny little body wouldn't just run, it would hop out of that room full of life and joy. 

  By the 6th day though, Jovie's hops slowed. I could tell she was lethargic. I already had her on dewormer and probiotics. I reached out to a couple of the amazing WAAL volunteers I know and started getting her intravenous fluids that night. It didn't matter to me it was 9 PM and I should be going to bed, my baby foster girl needed help and that was that. I ended up adding high caloric food, which I had to start force feeding her. 

  On the morning of the 8th day, I gave her meds through a syringe and forced some more food into her tummy. She was not happy with foster mom. She fought me, but I just held her calmly letting her know we had to get some food into her so she could grow big and strong. From the time I left for work, to the time I got home for lunch, Jovie girl had declined. I opened up the door to the room she was staying in and she did not run out. I saw her laying there, unmoving. Instantly I was struck with my worst fear, I had already lost her. I picked her up and to my surprise, there was still some life in the tiny body that had lost weight, down closer to a 1/2 of a pound now. She looked at me pleading. I got her to the vet as quickly as humanly possible. The whole ride there, I told her to hold on. We were almost there...we were almost to help. Just don't give up on foster mom yet. 

  Once to the vet, it was clear very quickly, Jovie was not going to make it. Her temperature was too low. Her heartbeat too slow. There was only one thing left to do. I looked at my girl and back at the vet, I asked if I could hold her. We entered a room, with a couch and low light. Jovie was snuggled tight in a towel I had grabbed leaving my house. My own feet in slippers because I couldn't find shoes, but knew I had no time to waste. 

 I held Jovie in my arms, as she was injected with what would painlessly take her out of the pain she was in. The veterinarian left the room, giving us a few minutes alone. I leaned my head into hers, our noses touching. I told Jovie how beautiful she was, how loved she was and how deeply deeply sorry I was. Before she passed, her last sign of life, she lifted her two little front paws and put them around my cheeks, as if she was hugging me. I could feel her speaking to me, I knew in my heart what she was saying, "this is not your fault, thank you." 

  I'm still processing this loss. I also know that out of 46 fosters, some of them younger than her and much more sick, I am very lucky to only have lost one. But as her foster mom, that brings little solace. I know I gave her a safe home. I know I gave her love. I know she had a much more comforting place to stay than going to a shelter. I know she passed away knowing she was loved. I know that she loved me. But as I've had friends and family reach out with these words, which are all true and incredibly kind....I don't think it's me that deserves the accolades. 

  I've said it before and I'll say it forever, each foster teaches me something different. All impactful, all unique. Like a fingerprint, or a paw print, none of them are the same. 

  I think the lessons Jovie has to teach me have barely begun. Her life, although short, will stay with me forever. Sometimes in life, there are fights we can't win. And sometimes in life, there are fights that aren't meant to be. I think Jovie was the start of teaching me that no matter how hard I try, no matter the effort, time or love I give.....sometimes life just hurts. But the hurt I feel isn't lost, it's not in vain.

  One of my favorite quotes by Glennon Doyle says, "I learned there is a type of pain in life I want to feel. It's the inevitable, excruciating, necessary pain of losing beautiful things; trust, dreams, health, animals, relationships, people. This kind of pain is the price of love, the cost of living a brave open-hearted life and I'll pay it all." 

  Jovie's life is not lost. While she may no longer be here with us physically, she is still with me. She lives in me, a reminder that sometimes life just really fucking sucks. But no matter the cost, I'd choose it again. To give, to love. Joy cannot be fully felt if you have not also experienced pain. And love cannot be fully experienced, if we are not willing to let our walls down to love.

  Losing Jovie has been the hardest fostering journey I've had yet. But the alternative, isn't even an alternative to me anymore. Without opening my heart and my home to these amazing animals, 45 of them would have never been saved. And one of them would have died alone. If this kind of pain is the price of love, the cost of living a brave and open-hearted life, I will pay it every single time. If I were to ask my sweet girl how many fosters I've saved, I have no doubt she'd answer without hesitation, fourty-six. 

  To my Jovie girl, you are forever loved. 

Dying Is The Opposite Of Leaving

I didn’t know Brenda long or as well as many of you that may be reading this. Or there are probably some, not lucky enough to have met her at all. But in the time I was blessed to have her apart of my life, I learned a lot about her. 

I learned that she was stubborn. She was a fighter. I learned she fiercely loved her family and accepted those that weren’t family by blood by making them feel like they were. 

Brenda accepted me from the first time I met her. When I thought Ashley accidentally invited me to a family Fourth of July party. After hesitation and double checking, it turned out, I was truly invited. That day changed my life. 

That’s when I met Brenda. Feisty and full of life, despite the odds. I never heard her complain or pity herself. I just watched her love. 

I wish I would have had more time with her, but isn't "time" such an irrelevant measurement of love anyway? Brenda always had a way of making me feel accepted. Apart of her heart. Accepting of me just for me and gave me permission to be nothing but that. She hugged me every time she saw me. And told me she loved me every time I left. 

This stubborn feisty strong amazing woman, has made me stronger by being in my life. My hope is that I’m able to empower those around me as much she did. To make them feel like they have a home away from home and never have to be anything but who they are. 

I will carry these lessons with me. One of my favorite poets, Andrea Gibson, wrote a poem about death before they passed away from cancer. A quote that always stuck with me said "Dying is the opposite of leaving....I am more with you than I ever was before.“ I believe that. My hope for every person that knew her, that loved her, my hope is that you feel her around you every single day. 

Brenda, you were loved by so many, you are loved by so many. The lessons you taught us will continue to influence our lives. I personally will see you every day, through your daughter and I will smile every time your stubbornness shines through her - telling me "I’m late if I’m not 15 minutes early.” I’d like to point out - I was 18 minutes early to your funeral today, just for you. 

It was kind of wild, but the weather this morning mimicked our grieving. There were no clouds or rain in the forecast. But as everyone that loved you arrived at the funeral - the sky was grim and the clouds softly cried with a mist...I knew that was you from above. Sharing the grief of missing us, probably more than we miss you. As the afternoon continued, the sun - that you always loved, came out shining brightly. Warmly draping our shoulders in your embrace. Thank you for that. 

After the funeral, your cat Oliver, sat in my arms for a solid 30 minutes. Loving and purring, a gentle reminder, that while you may be gone - you will find ways to continue to make us feel loved. 

I love you, Brenda. Thank you for every gift and lesson you shared with us before you passed. Your legacy will live on far beyond this moment. As Andrea said, you are more with us today than you have ever been before.