Nuclear memories and hyperthyroid dreams.

Since I’ve been so super neglectorino with my blog posting in the last few… years…I left a lot undocumented. And even if I’m the only person who reads this (despite my lofty and fanciful dreams that this would make me an internet sensation and therefore rich and famous), it’s still worth the effort. Going back and reading through my old posts has been a lovely trip through memory lane of a lot of shit that quite frankly, I’ve fully forgotten about. Maybe we can blame the pandy, since that’s taken up the better part of over two years, but I also have changed jobs twice since I last posted (aside from my recent Mooshmourning).

In the midst of 2020, I finally got a job as a paralegal. It paid well but the hours and the boss were terrible. I can blame a lot on that. It stifled a lot of me. I stuck it out for two years and am now in a wonderful job (also paralegal) where I am hybrid and can WFH some days, and the office is 875834978394 times closer than the horrible job. But this blog is not about me – most of the time – and I’m going to use this time to post about Moosh things before I forget them. I’m not getting any younger, you know.

Today, I shall share the story of Moosh and hyperthyroidism.

He’s always been a weirdo that randomly howled, not every night, just some – and you would think he was dying. But he was not, and he would always look befuddled as to why you ran out to find him in a panic. Hyperthyroid symptom #1, but since he’s always done it, it wasn’t something that I would consider a symptom. Yes, this is not important for the story, but I like to be thorough in case anyone happens upon this looking for cat hyperthyroid advice.

Anyway, what really caused the vet to look at his thyroid was a) she felt a growth and b) he puked on my head at just about 3 a.m. or so every day.

Option 1: You give your cat medicine every day for the rest of their life. MOOSH EFFING HATED MEDICINE. Tooooootally fine with needles, figure that one out. But also, the medicine option had a shorter life expectancy rate.

Option 2: You spend $1500 to send your cat to a cat thyroid clinic where they do some sort of nuclear treatment that makes them radioactive. I will also add, this is a one-time treatment with a 98% success rate. Moosh was a young man of 11 at the time, and the statistics were in his favor.

I don’t know how many cat thyroid clinics there are. I assume not many. But there is one vaguely close to us, and they were absolutely lovely. They have to keep your cat for 3 days in special radioactive-proof quarters, while they expel the majority of the radioactive-ness.

They gave me daily updates, and the lovely woman in charge of doing so was unrewarded by a very upset and unhappy hissy Mo. I mean, he rarely gets angry and hissy. I felt like I had a bad child. He also punctuated this terrible behavior with crapping all over the place when they brought him out to the husband to take home. Radioactive crap.

Then your cat has to be separated from the rest of the house and you can only spend 1-2 hours in close proximity and wear gloves when you scoop poop. This was not kosher for a momma’s boy who was already extremely upset that he was shipped off for 3 days. 2 weeks of that. My poor baby. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to sleep on momma’s head, and he mewed at the door for hours every day. I cried a lot and turned up the TV really loud to get through it.

Long story short, the treatment worked, it bought us three more years with Moosh without having to subject us to daily medication, and he definitely still did the weird howly thing randomly but his thyroid levels stayed perfectly normal all the way until the bitter end. And may I add, worth every penny. I hope the lady at the clinic has a special place in heaven, because she certainly earned her wings.


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