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Sometimes being a veterinarian sucks.
Oof.
I started (and finished) watching Sorry For Your Loss this weekend. It's Facebook's first official (?) television show and it is a gut-punch of a portrait centering on one widow's grief. Leigh Shaw - the widow in question - is not exactly a lovable character. Her family loves her and her friends love her, but at this stage in her life it is clear that they love her despite the fact that her grief has enveloped her entirely and sunken into her bones, sometimes transforming her into a spiky entity of rage who lashes out with the intent to hurt the universe that has dealt her such a devastating hand. Frankly, I'm not sure how much I even liked pre-widow Leigh in the flashbacks at first - she's a lot lighter and happier without the shroud of tragedy around her shoulders, but the prickly, sardonic, bulldozing personality is all hers. That she loved her husband Matt - and loved him fiercely - is never a question. But love doesn't always mean understanding and it's hard not to empathize with her as she tries to pick up the pieces of her shattered life, examining and scrutinizing what she thought she knew about the man she loved.
Leigh is necessarily the main focus, but we also spend time with her mother - a spiritual but slightly bitter divorcee who runs a barre exercise studio, Leigh's adopted sister Jules - an often bubbly three-month sober recovering alcoholic who is clawing her way through her own issues, and Matt's brother Danny - who is coping very differently with his own grief and is someone who simultaneously can grasp what Leigh is going through but also often at odds with her. Leigh grapples emotionally with all of these people in her life, sometimes humorously in the small day-to-day annoyances of living in close quarters with very different personalities, sometimes reaching out to them in a time of need, but more often than not pushing them away using her grief as a weapon against them.
The show also discusses depression with what I perceived to be great sensitivity. There was a very firm emphasis that this is a disease, that it is not something to be fixed or conquered, and that even when managed appropriately there are times when it can creep in and overtake a person. It is not laziness, it is not simply sadness, and it can be a relief to have a name for it rather than feeling "wrong". It is not easy and it is not something that can necessarily be understood or described.
As per my tags, I flippantly classify shows I like into two broad categories: "shows everyone should love" and "shows I love but your mileage may vary". This is obviously too simplistic, too reductive in many ways. Though it has its moments of gentle levity, it still feels like Sorry For Your Loss is not a show to love; it's too raw and Leigh is oftentimes too refractory for that. If anything, it's a show that I think that everyone should watch at some point, whether it's now or ten, fifteen, thirty years on. Grief is a part of all of our lives - it's only a matter of whether we have been unlucky enough to experience it yet.
When the 40% off sale items deal goes live at Anthropologie though, all that goes out the window.
Here's the thing - I am not a patient shopper. I've discussed this previously. I don't want to spend a lot of time at a mall because the experience generally isn't a lot of fun for me. And Anthropologie used to be the store that I looked longingly at. I love the style of their clothing, but it's too expensive for, was generally how I felt. When I made the mistake of trying on a dress while killing time with a friend and walking out with it after having paid full price, I swore to never set foot in that incredibly dangerous store again. Spending over $200 on a dress is not me! - screamed my inner - and frankly kind of inept - banker.
After my initially exciting and then progressively disappointing experience with FrockBox, I decided to make a pit-stop at Anthropologie one time because it was close to my local library anyway. That's when I first discovered the "40% off sale items" thing and walked out with three pieces. And if everything I tried on had fit, I would have honestly taken it all! I don't know what it is about that store, I just love their stuff! While the items I purchased were "good deals" I don't know that I would classify them as "cheap". They were heavily discounted, yes. But a heavily discounted Anthropologie item is pretty much a regularly priced Gap item. On the cheaper side, absolutely! But still a lot for my miserly heart to take.
I spent an hour in the store today and walked out with nine items. Nine. The very lovely cashier had to talk me off the cliff as I had a mild panic at my purchases. It's silly because I can afford it, I know this, but it's something I still have to convince myself of from time to time.
At least I'm going to have a nice little wardrobe for the summer!
So - of course - I was late for my review meeting because my day was a little hectic and completely got away from me. My bosses not only had to help me finish up a case, they also ran ahead to the close-by cafe and ordered me a hot chocolate and a sandwich.
Once I had things somewhat under control at the clinic, I ran the (thankfully short!) distance to the cafe and basically had the most lovely review.
Both my bosses expressed how happy they have been with me this past year, reaffirmed to me multiple times that I am a good veterinarian (something that I feel like always need to hear), and that the staff and clients like me. They want to make sure I felt supported and that I'm not feeling as if I'm in over my head. They also said really nice things about me as a person - that they simply just enjoy working with me, that they appreciate that I'm cheerful, and that even when I am stressed I still present as calm. My one boss even said he could see that I do sometimes find joy in my job (which can be hard) and he feels that based on his experience with me in the past year, it's not something he thinks I will lose.
It just felt so nice to be praised and appreciated like this.
Even though I was a bit frazzled, I emphasized how happy I am working at this clinic, how supported I feel, and how I feel like I am learning to be a better veterinarian. They are telling me that they recognize and appreciate my value and... it's really a wonderful feeling.
Seeking out this position really has been the best bit of kismet I've had in the admittedly charmed life that I lead! And I am grateful.
Anyway, I had a lovely weekend just spending time with people I love! I am still my old introvert-self in so many ways, but I will give my very muted extroverted side a bit of a stretch every once in awhile!
Today was not a totally successful day by any means, but there is an old-man cat of 18 years that I admitted for supportive care yesterday due to progression of his chronic renal insufficiency. The client is in the very sad position of having just lost his wife, and I was terrified that if my patient didn't respond well to treatment, that I would have to make the recommendation that saying goodbye may be the kindest option.
I was so relieved to not have to do that today.
Our old man has discovered his appetite again and has been brighter and more interactive. His renal values - while not perfect - are showing significant improvement. I am honestly ecstatic. When I relayed this information to the client, he said "I'm so happy. I'm just so freaking relieved!" and I had a bit of a cry after hanging up the phone.
I'm glad that sometimes I can help our patients to feel better and go home. I'm glad that level of compassion is still something I have, that it hasn't been leached from me entirely.
And it's nice to know that some days it's still good to be a veterinarian.
About two years later, my parents qualified to immigrate to Canada through the points system and we were on our way back to the good old Canadian soil. Suffice it to say, I have no memories of my two years in Hong Kong and that plays a large part in why I have much more strongly identified with being Canadian for almost all of my life. I remember my pre-school days in a suburb of Toronto, where there was a reasonable number of Asian children in my classroom and I could speak English and Cantonese at almost equal opportunity on the playground. When we moved across the country to Vancouver, I was suddenly one of maybe ten Asian kids in my entire elementary school. I immediately felt the difference on the playground, noticing - as much as a five year-old can - that I was having a harder time making new friends. I was suddenly not only contending with being the "new kid" in Grade 1, I was also the kid who looked very different from everyone else. I took to wandering around the playground looking for other Chinese kids and eagerly asking if they could speak Cantonese. Two were new immigrants from Taiwan so we were at an impasse for communication, one was a third generation CBC who couldn't speak any Chinese dialect, and the final one was a girl a year older than me who was in almost the exact same situation. We started to wave to each other when walking home separately with our families, and soon our parents connected over this and became friends so that we also became playmates.
(I did also make friends with two other girls in my class who were not Asian. We became the oddball trio of the classroom, and that is a status I don't feel I ever quite left behind, especially through my pre-University days).
It was during these early days where I really felt my "otherness" for the first time in my life. I was young and not very bright, and really all that mattered to me was that I had friends I could play with. It had never occurred to me prior to this that my being Chinese made me different enough for it to be of note. Of course, I grew up in a very sheltered neighbourhood during a time when Canada really embraced the mosaic narrative and heavily emphasized it in our education, so I lived a fairly uneventful childhood. Sure, there were the occasional comments about the Asian stereotype of getting good grades, but I don't even recall that many microaggressions being aimed at me during this period of my life. The only overtly racist incident I experienced was a passing adult making an offhand remark about my eating dogs when I was walking dogs with a (Caucasian) friend. Honestly, if she hadn't been so offended on my behalf, I probably wouldn't have even noticed because it was a reference I did not understand.
Much has been made in recent years about the lack of diversity and Asian-American representation in the media and the accompanying negative effects it can have. Like many of my generation, this is something I recognized and acknowledged as I became older and learned to question why I didn't see myself reflected in popular media. Something as simple as finding a character costume for a themed party would make me realize how few options I really had. I don't know that I necessarily set out to find shows, movies, or characters that were Asian, but I kept my eye out for them and would make a point to watch them if I was able. I've certainly used search engines to look up Asian characters in Western media, wondering if I've missed any important ones. So I thought I'd make a list for myself - that way I have something to review and reflect on that is meaningful to me.
I'm going to be using "Asian- American " because - as far as I am aware - there is not a blanket term that encompasses those of Asian ethnicity who grew up in Anglosphere countries (Australia, Canada, New Zealand, UK, and USA). "Westernized Asians" doesn't seem quite the right fit either because that doesn't necessitate growing up in an environment as a visible minority, which I think is one of the defining characteristics of an Asian-American. Also of note: I'm not going to pretend that this list is exhaustive. I don't have any kind of educational background or credentials that make me remotely qualified to reflect on or critique Asian-Americans in popular media. On top of this, I am going to be mostly covering East-Asian representation in Western media, especially with a focus on the "Chinese-American" experience. I do this not because other cultures are better represented (they're not), but because I can only speak for myself and reflect on my own experiences! After all, this is a "fun project" for me in my spare time in a journal that no one reads!
We lost one of our classmates to suicide a little over a year ago, four years after we graduated. It was like we collectively had the wind knocked out of us and our hearts broken in one fell swoop.
I remember waking up to the news on our class Facebook group - the quickest way for us to all be informed - and the shock I felt followed by numbness. I didn't know how to process the tragic news, it didn't feel real, it couldn't have happened, it wasn't fair. I drove to work and prepared for a full day. It wasn't until my former housemate and close friend from vet school messaged me directly about Flynn's loss that the floodgates opened. I retreated to our staff room and sobbed. He was so young, only 27, and he was gone.
Everyone in our class was understandably distraught, but I had moments where my grief over Flynn felt complicated and almost unearned. I had read the stories my classmates shared, happy memories of Flynn and his effect on their lives, but I did not feel like I had anything meaningful to contribute as my memories seemed small and inconsequential. I liked Flynn very much, and while we were friendly, I wouldn't categorize us as friends. He was one of the youngest in our class and I was one of the oldest, so I thought of him as one of the "babies" - someone to be watched over and protected. He was my first ever assigned partner in the program, and I remember him brightly suggesting that we meet "in the arvo" and then having to patiently explain what that meant when I stared blankly at him. I remember the wacky antics he got into with his friends - dressing up in head-to-toe bodysuits to make us all laugh during lecture, his spectacular yet terrifying unicycle show on "Talent Show Night". I remember commiserating with him when we had the unfortunate luck to situate ourselves in the coldest spot in an enormous tent that we shared with at least 10 other people on a camping trip along the Great Ocean Road. I remember the two of us attempting to brave our way through cutting onions for the O-Week barbecue and trying valiantly not to cry. I remember him good-humouredly trying to explain the Australian Rules Football to me. I remember him easily accepting that his preconceptions against Americans were perhaps ill-informed, as evidenced by the amazing Americans we had in our class. I remember him being game to play a slightly eccentric character for a (somewhat lackluster) group presentation. I know there were any number of smaller conversations we shared, nothing earth-shattering or life-changing, but simply pleasant exchanges that anyone can have with a friendly acquaintance on a regular basis. He was really just such a nice "kid" in my mind who seemed so happy-go-lucky and willing to have a chat with everyone. I had liked him - after all he, like the rest of my class, had been a regular presence in my life for four years - but I still questioned my right to mourn his loss because I wasn't as strongly linked to him.
The other aspect - one that I think we all struggled with - was how we lost Flynn. There is no question that our chosen career and the daily struggles that come with it had played a large part in his depression. The fact that one of our own had been suffering to the point where he felt it was necessary to make the choice to ease his own pain was so tough to swallow. I can't speak to how everyone else feels, but to me it almost felt like we had failed him, that we had missed the chance to "save" him and help him through it. Of course it's more complicated than that, but suffice it to say that the possibility of losing one of our own at this point hadn't even been on my radar, and now we were scrambling to check in with each other to make sure no one else was going through this alone.
At this stage it has been well-documented in any number of reputable publications that veterinarians are four times more likely to take their own lives. When Dr. Sophia Yin - a well-respected veterinary behaviourist - took her own life, it sent shockwaves through the veterinary community. Flynn was the first loss I have experienced on a personal level in this field, but I know of four vets who have taken their own lives through my own personal connections and social circles. I have seen two of my younger colleagues despair over a career that they had always dreamed of pursuing, crushed under the unrealistic expectations of clients and the immense pressures they placed on themselves. I have witnessed and experienced firsthand the kind of emotional abuse heaped on the backs of veterinarians. Only yesterday I had a client angrily tell me I was a waste of his time just by virtue of not being the person he wanted to see. I was initially taken aback but was able to laugh it off because I have a good support system in my work environment and in my personal life, and I am lucky enough (because it's luck, not willpower) to not suffer from depression. Not everyone has those privileges.
Yesterday, a major Australian TV program covered the topic of suicide in the veterinary field, with Flynn's family and friend helping to raise awareness and funds to ensure that veterinarians are able to reach out for and receive support if they need it. It was a difficult video to watch, to witness the still-raw grief of his parents, but also amazing to see their strength in trying to ensure that his loss is not in vain and to help prevent what happened to their son from happening to anyone else. And for my part, I will continue to donate every year to honour Flynn's memory.
Of course, all good things must end! So it's back to reality tomorrow, but at least we had this tiny slice of heaven in the meantime!
I always say that Star Wars came to me later in life than most; my parents had filled my early years with Disney (another complicated but nonetheless everlasting love) but my science fiction exposure was sorely lacking. A rekindled grade school friendship with a very bright and slightly anti-social classmate led to her sharing her favourite thing in the world with me, and she was perplexed that I had never watched any of the movies despite being the ripe old age of ten. She was extremely invested in the franchise and was bound and determined to show me the light, and I was more than willing to be converted. Her enthusiasm in sharing this universe with me meant that I basically knew all the plot details before I ever had the opportunity to experience them myself, but somehow it didn't dampen my first viewings of the movies in the slightest. Maybe the anticipation of seeing things play out on screen as she had described them even enhanced things, in a way. Regardless, she held the gate open for me and I dove head-first along after her. She generously shared her extensive collection of Extended Universe (EU) novels with me, gifted me with any doubles she had from the Star Wars card game, we pored over her small collection of art books and encyclopedias, and she introduced me to the world of fanfiction.
Being the impressionable child that I was, my initial experience was coloured by my friend's very strong opinions: Han and Leia were superior to cry-baby Luke, the Rebel Alliance was in the right but the Imperial Army was aesthetically much cooler, the original Thrawn Trilogy was superior to all else, so on. Sure, I may have not-so-secretly preferred the Young Jedi Knights series aimed towards our specific demographic, but I was still mostly in awe of her vast knowledge in all things Star Wars and deferred to her expertise on the subject.
The friendship fizzled out when my friend's parents opted to pull her out in favour of home-schooling, but my love for Star Wars endured. I dragged my family and friends to the movies being re-released in theaters, even forcing everyone to suffer sitting in the front row with our heads craned right back. Sure, I wasn't quite as invested in the EU - having lost my easy access to books - but I did at least follow through on A.C. Crispin's Han Solo Trilogy through high school. Like many, I was sorely disappointed with the prequels, opting out of watching the second movie in theaters entirely. My newly designated first boyfriend insisted I catch up so we could watch the third together when it premiered, and I am embarrassed to admit that I had my first kiss while we were trapped amidst the terrible "romantic" dialogue peppered throughout the second movie.
Even before the prequels, I had learned to cherry-pick what I liked in the Star Wars universe. I have come around on Luke Skywalker, but any books that focused too much on his adventures tended to lose my interest. I was decidedly not enthralled with Thrawn or Mara Jade or any of the books that focused too much on them. I enjoyed the anthologies like Tales from Jabba's Palace, but really it was the Solo family that I loved - Leia, Han, all three Solo children, and of course Chewbacca. The Courtship of Princess Leia, The Crystal Star, and the Young Jedi Knights series were especial favourites of mine. I read many others that I felt lukewarm towards at best, and promptly forgot about them. When I heard all the things that had happened in the newest EU novels (Chewie dead, Anakin Solo dead, Jacen Solo evil), I decided I was better off living in my own little bubble.
When Disney purchased Star Wars, I greeted the news with a shrug. Star Tours had been in Disneyland for longer than I could remember, and the amount of Disney and Star Wars crossover merchandise made all of it unsurprising to me. I was cautiously excited when the new trilogy was announced, and moved into unreserved anticipation when the first trailer was released. I enjoyed The Force Awakens immensely, and even though I was sad that the "original trio" were never reunited onscreen, I was grateful to have Han Solo back for even a short while (given Harrison Ford's frosty feelings towards the franchise as a whole), even if I was incredibly salty that my beloved Solo kids had been wiped out of existence for the underwhelming Kylo Ren. When Carrie Fisher passed away, I called my mother and sobbed in a way I had never done for a "celebrity". I sobbed through Rogue One (we had the unfortunate timing of having purchased tickets already for that day), sobbed through the trailer of The Last Jedi, and sobbed through a reasonable portion of the movie upon its release. I fully expect to sob through the last movie, disappointed that Leia and Carrie Fisher never got their rightful due, but grateful to have anything.
My relationship with the Star Wars fandom is tenuous as best. In the convention circuit, my experience with them has been overwhelmingly positive - they are open and welcoming, a bit hammy but genuine in their affection for the franchise. Online.... well, it's probably one of the most toxic fandoms out there for anyone who is not an average white male. It's disappointing and the one reason I would shy away from being associated too strongly with Star Wars.
Next year, some friends and I are venturing to Disney World after the opening of the new Galaxy's Edge, and I am 100% hyped for it. Does it matter that I am thirty-three and possibly too old for this? No, Star Wars heavily relies on that nostalgia anyway and I am not too proud to be their target market. Even the idea of being able to stand in front of full-ish scale reproduction of the Millenium Falcon is making me feel bubbly inside. That is what Star Wars does to me, and I am delighted to have that kind of child-like anticipation still alive.
Tonight, while we are off in a beautiful corner of our province in the remote-but-touristy surf-town of Tofino, my friends have kindly (and mostly enthusiastically) indulged me in a screening of The Empire Strikes Back. It's hard not to marvel at the starlit vistas with forbidding Star Destroyers floating serenely through space, the stunning puppeteering that infuses Yoda with life, the frankly jaw-dropping combination of shadow and light and colours in Luke and Vader's lightsaber duel, the look on Han Solo and Princess Leia's faces as he is lowered into the carbonite freezing chamber. It's probably been at least seven years since my last viewing, and it's still just as engaging.
To top the night off, we took advantage of the relatively sparse light pollution of this area and enjoyed a bout of star-gazing, marveling at the very faint dusting of stardust we could make out and the twinkling lights from so far away forming the constellations in our skies. It felt like a beautiful way to cap off the night. It felt right.
May the fourth be with you!
How cute is that? Apparently semi-namesake wanted to keep the sponge - because she has good taste - but surrendered it when she heard it was meant for me. What a kid!
Just one of those days where I'm grateful for the people in my life!
Not going to lie, the first year involved a lot of ice cream and crying.
Once I had settled in enough to know that I was in for the long-haul and was going to continue to have a steady income, I decided that I needed to come home to a furry reminder of why I was putting myself through this. I desperately needed something to love. So with my parents on board, we all decided it was time to look for a cat again.
Kira
It's funny, but I can still remember scrolling past her photo on PetFinder and immediately dismissing her because she and her sister were meant to be adopted out together. With plans to move into my own space someday, I really didn't want to have two cats (and two litterboxes!) in 500 square feet. After some debate ("But a kitten is more fun!" my dad insisted), we decided that we were likely looking for an adult cat with a friendly personality, and that it may take some time to find the right one for our family. We headed down to the local SPCA shelter and I cautioned my parents that we were likely not going to walk away with a cat today, we were really just there to look.
Thirty minutes later "Akira" (who had engaged in enough fights with her sister to warrant adopting them out separately) had charmed us enough that I was handing over the adoption fee while she was being packed away into a cardboard carrier. Let it be known that I had been willing to walk away and think on it some more, but my parents decided "this one will do". Thank goodness for them!
I almost immediately shortened her name to Kira because three syllables was too much work for me. Kira proved to be a bit of a chicken, initially seeking out hiding spots in her new home, but quickly adjusted to her new environment. I had always wanted a cuddly cat who would tolerate being picked up and she is more than happy to comply! My bed became the area she so graciously allows me to share with her, and I delight in the moments where she curls up next to me, stretching her front paws forward to warm my ears. When I come home, she is usually quick to come greet me, yelling at me with in her whiny voice until I give her the attention she so clearly deserves. There was no question that when I moved out that she was coming with me.
While she's been a dream for my friends (letting them pick her up and encouraging them to pet her at every opportunity) and a very attentive companion (sometimes overly so!), she is not without her annoying quirks. Kira does not fear or respect me in the slightest and knows exactly how to push my buttons! When she wants attention or food and is not getting it, she'll play the blinds like a xylophone, jump up on counters or tables, and reach up to scratch my fly screens! She even learned that if she got behind my flat screen tv and stood up with one paw against it just so, I would have an apoplectic meltdown! Kira also has a habit of just deciding I don't need to sleep, and if I try to lock her out of my room she will spend the next four hours body-slamming the door while meowing pathetically.
(She also has what I suspect is a sleeping disorder. Sometimes when she's in a deep sleep, she'll start spasming and subsequently urinates a small amount. It's not her fault and I'm not convinced it's a big enough issue to warrant medicating. And at least she usually sleeps on the blankets I set up at the foot of my bed, which are easy enough to launder.)
Other than that though? She's a pretty darn good cat. She makes me laugh with her antics and her consistently "resting bitch face". She wants attention and love so badly that I often have her racing between the living room and the bedroom so she can get under my hands for a good chin scratch. She comes when she's called and likes to be in the same room that I'm in (which is easy enough in 700 square feet). My dad very gruffly says that Kira is not a "real cat" and I laughingly call her my "dog-in-a-cat's-body" because she has none of the dignity or decorum of a cat and all the goofy adoration of a dog. I have always felt that my cats have loved me, but Kira just really, really loves me, and it's a nice feeling.
Unlike a dog though, I can guarantee that she will never save my life. Fire alarm? Straight behind the washing machine. Earthquake at night? No attempt to wake me at all. We joke that I'm going to meet my grisly end by trying to get her from behind the washer/dryer during a natural disaster and thus will promptly be crushed to death.
As I always tell her, she's lucky she's cute.
My dad's favourite cat is Pogo, and my mom's favourite cat is - without a question - Waffles. Me? I always say I don't have a favourite; each cat occupies their own place in my memories and I loved each of them the same and differently. I'm still not sure I could proclaim a favourite cat, but Kira has undoubtedly been very important to me. She has been my constant, reliable, infuriating, hilarious, and doting companion through my first years as a veterinarian, and I probably could not have asked for a better one.
Waffles
I first became acquainted with Waffles through work. When it came about that she needed a home I jumped at the chance because she was such a sweet, good-natured cat and our house had felt too empty without a cat for almost a year. With my dad out of town at the time, I first worked the guilt-trip angle pretty hard on my mom: if she said yes there was no way my dad was going to say no. Waffles deserved a nice home to live out her senior years (she was 11 years-old at the time) and why shouldn't it be our home? My mom agreed to meet her, and I knew we were pretty much golden from there!
So the day came, I packed Waffles up in a carrier and.... she yowled the entire car-ride to our home. Uh-oh, maybe this was too rash a decision! On the (very short) drive home, I started to worry about how she would acclimate to our home, maybe we should do a slow introduction to let her get used to her new surroundings?
Turns out I was worried for nothing. Waffles walked around the house like she owned it already and was especially fascinated by the television for the first few nights. Although I had initially thought she had a somewhat refined personality, it turned out that she was an absolute marshmallow of a cat. She didn't particularly like being picked up, but she loved to cuddle and was very social and attentive to everyone she met. Through her, I started to rehabilitate a number of my friends who had somewhat scarring encounters with Pogo, so she also became a bit of an ambassador for feline-kind!
Of course, I brought her home at a time when there was a lot of uncertainty about my future. Was I going to stick it out and keep trying for my veterinarian-dreams, or was I going to give it up and try to find another good career with decent benefits. My mom had started to talk to me about working in border security, and while it was hardly a passion-career, working for the government certainly came with a lot of perks. I told my mom that whatever happened, I was committed to Waffles being my responsibility, she didn't have to worry that I would just dump my new cat on her.
So.... that's exactly what I did when I got accepted into a veterinary program in Australia. Oops.
It didn't make sense to bring her along - we'd have to pay a lot of money to fly her over and put her through a quarantine process, and then I'd have to find pet-friendly accommodation as an overseas student. It also meant that if I decided to come home for the holidays, I would have to find someone to look after her in my absence. I don't think my mom was overly impressed, but she begrudgingly agreed to keep her. I spent the next few months preparing to leave and trying to get as much Waffles-time as I could - finally I had a cat who loved to cuddle and I was going to take advantage of it as much as possible!
While I was in Australia, I had a terrible internet plan, so if I had data to spare at the end of the month I would Skype with my mom and she'd let me see Waffles as well, noting that when she heard my voice she'd look all around to try and find me. She settled right back into cuddling with me and sleeping on or near my bed when I was home for vacation, and she'd managed to absolutely bewitch my mom with her charms in my absence, becoming a much beloved companion to her while I was away for school and my dad was off visiting family. She had developed a habit of "counter-surfing" and so was locked out of the kitchen when they were cooking, and my dad gruffly noted that she wasn't a "real cat" because she always wanted to sleep on his chest and stick close, but she had settled into their lives nicely and was certainly well-loved. My mom said that every time she came home, Waffles would follow her and meow at her until she sat down and let Waffles climb up into her lap for a good cuddle. I was always sad when preparing to leave again for Australia, and as soon as she saw me starting to pack my suitcase, she'd get sullen and push away from me trying to squeeze some more cuddles out of her before I left.
In my third year of vet school, my mom noted that Waffles had started vomiting with some regularity. Being a whole ocean away, I told my parents to take her to the veterinarian to be assessed, there was nothing I could do from where I was. She was later diagnosed with a mass in her intestines, likely due to lymphoma. My parents committed to surgery to have it removed and she bounced back nicely, having a really great quality of life for three-to-four months. When she started to deteriorate again, they offered to fly me home to say goodbye. I was distraught, but decided it wasn't worth having her continue to suffer just so I could come home, especially if there was a chance that she might pass away while I was in transit. I loved Waffles, but she had my parents and whether I was there or not didn't really matter. I couldn't bear the thought of her being in pain any longer than she had to, so my parents took her to the veterinary clinic and said goodbye. I think losing Waffles really did break my mom's heart - she always says now that Waffles was her cat, and I don't think she'll ever love a cat in quite the same way.
I didn't get very much time with Waffles, but I loved her and was so grateful to her for being an amazing companion to my mother and for being so open and free with her affections to everyone she met. I was also very grateful that my parents had really given her an amazing and loving home in her final years - it was everything she deserved.
(I mean, I know what it was. It was the flyer someone posted at his workplace about free kittens. That was the inspiration.)
Pogo
My dad was at least smart enough to loop-in my mom on the decision this time! So we drove out as a family to go pick up Pogo together. Originally my dad had signed up for two kittens, but they could only manage to catch the one. When the family offered up another kitten a week later, Pogo was having NONE of it and so we meekly returned the kitten.
She started out as a pretty playful and cuddly kitten (don't they all?) and we quickly established the rule that if Pogo chose to sleep in your lap, you were not allowed to move until she was ready to leave. Sadly, that rule didn't stay in-play for long as Pogo became more cranky and less cuddly as she got older. She loved us - her family - and tolerated being picked up for about ten seconds, but anyone else was liable to get a scratch or two for their troubles if they fell prey to her "bear-trap" ways. If you held an inanimate object out to her - like a golf club - she would happily rub her head against that! But human hands were Enemy Number One.
By my dad's own admission, Pogo was his favourite cat. She would most often hang out on the arm or the back of the couch and accompany him while he watched TV, or napped behind me while I studied. She was affectionate, but only just, which made her a real cat in my dad's eyes. When one of us would be away for an extended period, she would roam the house carrying a feather duster in her mouth in some kind of weird tribute to our loss. The weekends we'd go away to the ranch, we'd always find the fuzzy squirrel figures dragged up onto the windowsill of my bedroom, keeping watch because we suspected she was too lazy to. We once did the unforgivable by moving houses and then immediately leaving her for two weeks while we gallavanted through parts of Asia. When my mom and I returned first, she let us know how she felt by giving each of us two swipes each. She then meowed at me non-stop through that first night back and I spent the rest of the week tripping over her because she was always underfoot or crouched in the doorway of a room I was occupying, keeping tabs of my every move. By the time my dad got back, her fury had cooled so she simply ignored him for a week before returning to her regular routine
Pogo was also - by everyone's estimation - the dumbest of all our cats. She got stuck under the bed after her spay due to her e-collar being so wide. After we got together and moved the mattress and rescued her, she waited until we replaced the mattress and dove straight under again, much to our aggravation. She used to flip out at the smallest things and could not catch or kill a bug to save her life. I have watched her turn around and walk straight into a wall before, and we have wasted many an afternoon just laughing at her and her newest dumb antic.
The other thing about her being less well-equipped in the intelligence department is that she rarely did anything naughty, like try to steal food or escape, because it just never seemed to occur to her. She was also a massive coward, never making any attempt to defend her territory from wandering cats (my dad had to rescue her from under the porch) or temporary visitors (an attempt was made to adopt another cat. Pogo hunger-striked until we gave him back).
We had Pogo for 13 years, and she started to mellow out in her older age, though all my friends who bore "battle scars" didn't see it that way. When she deteriorated unexpectedly and rapidly, I remember saying to my mom "She's my cat. I'll pay for her medical expenses." I was ready to slap down $5000 for hospitalization, dialysis, the works, before the veterinarian gently explained that they could try everything and still not save her. So we made the decision not to have her suffer and said our goodbyes at the emergency clinic.
(I was so distressed I threw up an hour later while visiting the clinic I had previously been employed at when the veterinarian I had previously worked with wanted to debrief with me over what had happened.)
We were bereft for a long time. The house felt so empty without her. Waking up every morning not to see her crouched in my doorway was painful. And my mom kept saying "No more cats! It's too hard!"
Well, we all know that's not how things go in our household....
My dad is really the one to be blamed for this - he has always been a cat enthusiast himself and had a habit of bringing them home after consulting exactly no one. And really, what young child was going to be anything but delighted at the prospect of a kitten? It was always going to be two-against-one; my poor mom never had a chance, allergies be damned! And besides, it's not like she hated cats. My parents had one - creatively named Meow-Meow - back when they lived in Hong Kong.
Now if there is one topic all three of us can wax poetic about with misty eyes, it's our cats. We have always been absolute suckers for them and the longest we have been without a cat was probably just under a year. Although I turned out to be the veterinarian of the family, I'd still say my dad takes the title of biggest cat-lover in the family, though I'm sure he'd deny it.
Bobo
(Full disclosure: Bobo hated me. By all accounts she loved everyone else, but I was a terrible kindergartner who subscribed to the Elmyra Duff way of showing love to animals. I have distinct memories of making a leash out of my faux pearl necklaces for poor little Bobo and my parents basically grounding me forever for kind of almost strangling the cat. Also because she rightfully hated me, she scratched the ever-loving shit out of me and so my parents had her declawed. We all regretted it for the rest of her life and vowed to never do it again.)
When we moved across the country a year or so later, she road-tripped with us across Canada while sitting on the dashboard and soaking up that sweet, sweet sunshine. We arrived in Vancouver and lived with my grandparents for awhile, and when we moved out we were informed that was fine, but the cat was going to stay with them.
Yep, my grandparents stole our cat from us.
They absolutely adored Bobo and she had them wrapped around her paw. She would sit on the ledge of the bathtub and meow delicately until one of them rushed over to turn the tap on for her, and she would only drink the water if it was the right temperature and velocity. They would stay until she was finished and then would actually mop up the water that dripped on her face. She'd curl up with them, they'd talk to her and she would listen. She was also an adventurer and if unsupervised on the balcony, she would occasionally jump down and have fun on the town for 2-5 days, before she'd show up at the front door asking to be let in again.
When she was diagnosed with kidney disease the family actually went to a Chinese medicine shop and got herbs to brew medicine for her. Because it was super bitter and gross and Bobo was feisty if she wanted to be, it was a five person operation to catch her, wrap her in a towel, stuff her in a rice bag and then syringe this terrible medicine into her.
Bobo eventually passed away at the age of seven. We were all devastated, my grandparents especially so. I don't think they ever loved another cat the same way again.
Socks and Checkers
Kittens. Two of them.
I raced up the stairs to the bathroom where my dad had stashed them while my mom contemplated the message my dad had left scrawled on a napkin. "Brought home two kittens. They have fleas. Give them a bath."
I can only imagine the look on my mom's face because I was already too busy squealing and cuddling flea-infested kittens by that point. I vaguely remember some mildly heated discussions, but there was never any question that they were staying. By the end of the night, my mom defiantly announced that if we were going to be keeping these kittens, she was going to be the one to cuddle them while we dried them off carefully with our blow dryers.
We were all in kitten-heaven for a few months, watching them chase each other around the house, discovering their distinct personalities. Socks (so creatively named by yours truly) was the gentler one of the two, generally well-behaved and tolerated cuddles. Checkers (named by my cousin, who formed an instant connection with him) was the clever, rambunctious, naughty one. He climbed curtains, climbed pant legs, and generally caused havoc wherever her went. I would go to sleep every night with Checkers sleeping at my feet and Socks curled up on my pillow.
Well, turns out I was horribly allergic to both cats, to the point where my parents reluctantly decided that it was probably in my best interest to re-home them. My cousin and uncle decided to take Checkers and I sobbed the entire car ride over to their townhouse. A reprise of the sobbing occurred when I came home from school one afternoon to find Socks gone - my dad had taken him to the local BCSPCA. We were fairly certain he would get adopted quickly - he was still a kitten and had such a lovely, placid personality - but my dad visited every day until that happened just to be sure.
Because I sure did today.
A cute little cafe/gift shop recently opened two blocks away from me, and it has all the whimsical, twee little touches that tugs at my heart a little. It has little cloud lamps and a full moon hanging from the ceiling, cute and quirky greeting cards, journals both modern and leather-bound, quick-drying ink pens and wax seals and stamps, and kid's books and jewelry dishes in the shape of a Boston Terrier, amongst other things.
It's so niche and specific in the market it is trying to cater to that I am concerned it is going to fade away in my neighbourhood and that corner lot will be empty once again.
(I say this as someone who is not a great spender, though I have loosened up the strings on my coin purse over the years.)
I walked in with every intention of buying something, and then floundered around because I am always flustered when I am the only customer in a store. I found a pen I can use at work to sign sympathy cards that hopefully means I won't cause unsightly smudging anymore. I found a cute Paddington Bear bookmark, since I have been (successfully!) borrowing books from my local library. But that doesn't amount to much in the grand scheme of things, so I ventured to the little glass table display of jewelry. Some admittedly gorgeous pieces bore little handwritten tags with prices that were upwards of $500, and my heart sank a little. My Scrooge-like ways have almost never let me part with money for any jewelry over $50!
A more nature and foliage-based collection was also displayed, and I zoned in on a delicate little silver ring. Still over $50 but a little bit more within my means and it suited my limited "fashion sensibilities".
I have thicker-than-average knuckles, so I thought "Well, if it doesn't fit, then it's not meant to be!"
So of course it fit perfectly.
Ah well, it's nice to spoil myself once in awhile and hopefully my contribution will help keep this little place afloat!
My dad turned 70 this year, and he's the fourth child of six. I always say to my mom that in comparison to her siblings - who tend to be louder, more expressive with their emotions, and just a bit more "westernized" - my dad's side of the family is a bit harder to read. The difference between them is notable even in how I address them: I use "Auntie Grace and Uncle Steve" on her side of the family, whereas I use the appropriate Chinese kinship designations for my dad's family. You can pinpoint their exact relationship to me by what I call them.
Like my dad, his family shows their affection not through hugs or words. I am not a particularly "huggy" person, though I have become a bit more physically demonstrative with my affections through the years. But the stiff, somewhat awkward back-pats I receive when giving hugs to my uncles especially always makes me think "oh right, they don't really do this kind of thing". They show their affection by showing up, by conversing with me in a mix of Cantonese and English. Their English is 1000x stronger and more confident than my Cantonese, and the fact that I try to use my rudimentary Cantonese as much as possible is my family-trait of showing affection too. On my most recent trip, I discovered that, like my dad, they show affection through food and action. Ng-Suk drove through Hong Kong traffic for at least an hour each time to ferry me to and from the airport, from dinner in Hong Kong to where we were staying in the New Territories. My dad and Yi-Baak-Fu directed me to a tiny restaurant with amazing chee cheong fun. Saam-Baak-Fu and his wife bought me mangoes and strawberries. Yi-Baak-Fu made many of my favourite dishes and bought a huge pile of mangosteens, saying he knew that I liked them. How did he even know I love mangosteens? My first taste of them was maybe six years ago and sometimes even I forget how much I love them since I get them so rarely!
I have had the most interactions with my Gu-Je - the youngest aunt in the family. When we used to live in Toronto, I would spend time with her, telling my mother I was "relaxing and being spoiled" by going to her apartment to watch Miss Hong Kong and eat delicious snacks. She and my paternal grandmother also moved in with us for a few years in Vancouver. Of my dad's siblings, she's definitely the loudest and most expressive - she has lots of opinions and isn't afraid to share them. She was certainly one of my favourite relatives growing up, even if I was just that tiny bit scared of her because she would never let me leave the table without eating everything I was offered. She has shown up for many important moments in my life (both university graduation ceremonies, one of them all the way in Australia) and I have less specific memories of her only because there are so many of them to contend with!
My dad's three brothers I only got to see on occasion throughout my childhood. I only visited Hong Kong once when I was six and did not return again until I was nineteen. I associated Hong Kong with delicious food (stinky tofu and egg waffles being particular favourites) and was fairly showered with various stuffed toys from family and friends of my parents alike. But the weather was too hot and humid, I was basically eaten alive by mosquitoes, and could barely sleep from my grandmother's snoring. My eye swelled shut at one point from a particularly bad reaction to a mosquito bite, and I developed some sort of blister or cyst on my arm as another strange reaction . A doctor very seriously told my six-year-old self that I might die if I popped it, so I spent most nights terrified to sleep in case I rolled over, popped the blister, and subsequently died with my short life unlived. Needless to say I survived, but my experience in Hong Kong had not been an entirely pleasant one, especially through the lens of childhood where small problems always seemed so magnified.
My uncles came and visited us in Canada (separately) throughout the years. Saam-Baak-Fu was another childhood favourite because he was the most game to play around with me. My strongest childhood memory of him was when he bravely took me to the local amusement park on his own. I don't think he expected a seven-year-old to love the pirate ship ride as much as I did, and I remember him begging out early, satisfied to let me ride it over and over again while he watched because he couldn't take it anymore but didn't want to ruin my fun. He always spoiled me - with attention, with food, with toys - and I absolutely ate it all up! When he had a daughter of his own, I remember thinking how he was going to really be such a fun and doting father to her.
The eldest uncle - my Yi-Baak-Fu - I knew to be a soft-spoken, thoughtful man who was a pediatrician. I used to have a book featuring characters from the Peanuts comic that focused on the human body and my eight-year-old self was obsessed. Knowing that my uncle was a pediatrician, I asked him millions of questions that he patiently contended with ("What does it mean when it says 'you are what you eat?'" remaining the biggest mystery to me). When I decided I wanted to be a pediatrician, I think he was secretly pleased. That I turned out to become a veterinarian was probably mild disappointment to him ("Tell Jocelyn that it's a much messier endeavour than she might think!" he would tell my mom) although he remained supportive. He wasn't necessarily the "fun uncle", but I remember him declaring he would accompany me to Ocean Park in Hong Kong because he had a senior's discount now. Much like my dad when we were in Orlando, he would brave the water rides with me and then wait patiently when I hopped onto the bigger thrill rides. My recent visit to Hong Kong was really for him, because he asked if I could come. He is at risk for coronary blockages - or so my parents tell me - and so has settled into his quiet life. When I expressed to my dad that I felt like I'd spent little face-to-face time with him in my whirlwind four days in Hong Kong and felt badly, he arranged for Yi-Baak-Fu to come meet us for lunch and then we spent the afternoon with him up until the point where Ng-Suk drove us all to the airport and more awkward hugs were exchanged. It wasn't much and I felt a little badly having him come out, but at the same time I felt like I owed it to him to spend a bit more time with him. When I offhandedly commented on his cute umbrella with the teddy-bear handle, he decided that I should take it home because I liked it; that's just the kind of person he is.
My mom always comments that my dad's side of the family really loves me. The specific word she uses in Cantonese is 錫. I don't know that I always feel deserving of it. I often comment to her that I worry about them all getting older over there with almost no one of my generation to look after them (though my younger cousin will be back soon) and certainly after this last visit I feel guilty that I don't go to Hong Kong more often. I think I may have to, for the sake of family.
Hong Kong is definitely not for me.
I did have an encounter with a friend of my dad's who does - what else can I call it? - fortune-telling. But that will have to wait until I am a bit less fuzzy in mind and spirit to recount.
I have been saying to everyone that with a direct flight of 16 hours I feel much more inclined to visit sooner than every 5 years. I really want to make that true.
