Yesterday was a downright terrible day. Our cat, Cosmic Creepers (named after the cat from Bednobs and Broomsticks, I was 10 when we got her), had been puking exorcist levels of vomit for the past two days. So I did an internet search.
When you have a cat that is 18 years old, you always assume the worst, and when you get results ranging from diabetes to renal failure, you panic. I made a vet appointment and was crying all morning, even at the vet's office, which was more than a little embarrassing.
Fortunately she is fine, although after 500 dollars in tests they still can't tell me what is wrong with her. They gave her an IV, which filled her body with fluid, giving her the long sought after MC Hammer look. My husband and I called her party pants for the rest of the evening, trying to laugh away the stress of the day.
Today I get to wrangle with the complexities of human health care. Our insurance company seems to think that a) we are not married; b) office visits are no longer paid for; and c) sending us bills from several venues will break our will. OH JOY.