Paging Nurse Lucy

The time my cat knew I was going to faint

I had just gotten out of the shower. The water had been a little too hot, and I knew I did better with lukewarm water, but I just get so tired of always being slightly chilly in the shower that I let it slide. It’s probably fine.

I had also had the audacity to wash my hair AND shave my armpits, which I knew was getting too big for my chronic-fatigue britches, but sometimes you just like to feel totally clean after, like, cleaning yourself, you know? It’s probably fine.

I sat down on the bed to moisturize and dress, and my cat Lucy hopped up on the bed and started sniffing me. Not just her usual “do I deem this hand acceptable to pet me” quality check, but focused, relentless, “I smell something unusual” examination. She sniffed all over my back, even putting her front paws on my shoulders to reach higher up around my neck and head. This was getting weird. But also cute, because everything she does is cute. Anyway, cats are weird and she can be especially weird and this was probably just her being a weird cat. It’s probably fine.

I stood up, quickly, because that’s how I prefer to live my life — quickly, and without always having to pause and gain balance first. I knew I did better taking a moment to stabilize, but sometimes it’s tiresome having to slow down to a crawl when you’re used to living at a dead sprint, you know? It’s probably fine.

I walked into the kitchen to make some lunch. Lucy followed me closely, sniffing my heels and not letting me out of her sight. She probably wants to see if I’m going to make tuna salad, I thought. She loves tuna more than life itself.

I started making a sandwich (sadly for her it was not tuna), and I suddenly started to notice that my heart was pounding. Eh, just a little tachycardia; I’m used to it. I continued my sandwich construction. Then I started to feel my respiration speed up, my head spin, my hands and knees shake, and my skin get clammy. The room began to tilt. My heart rate climbed. I called out for Jeff, but he was on a work meeting in his home office. Hmm, I might be better off if I sat down in a chair for a minute to rest. No sooner had I thought that than my vision went dark — not dim like wearing sunglasses inside, but sudden darkness, like someone turning off an old tv that flashes and dies instantly, leaving that weird, fizzing static in its wake. I sank to the kitchen floor and laid down carefully on my side, cushioning my head with my arm. I called Jeff on my phone and told him I was about to pass out and I was laying down in the kitchen. He ended his work call and rushed into the room, but someone else beat him to my side (hint: she’s furry and has whiskers and toe beans). Lucy sat next to me, staring intently, with her unblinking golden eyes that can either be adorable or creepy as hell, depending on her mood. I laid there. Jeff sat with me. She stared. We maintained this suspended vignette for several minutes. I measured my breathing, she stared. I monitored my heart rate, she stared. I drank the electrolytes Jeff had gotten for me, she stared. When I felt well enough to sit up, I spent several more minutes sitting with my back against the oven, waiting once more for my heart rate to stabilize before half-walking, half-crawling to the bed, legs still shaking so much I was sure they’d give out. I spent the rest of the day in bed, only venturing out of the bedroom when Jeff was nearby, in case I fell.

How had she known?

I grew up with dogs, so I know more about them in general, and I am completely in awe of assistance and medical service dogs in particular. I know they can alert diabetics to blood sugar changes, veterans and trauma victims to oncoming PTSD and panic attacks, and people with seizure disorders to changes in their electromagnetic pulses. But I didn’t know cats could do it, too! I was amazed, realizing Lucy had been trying to warn me with her post-shower inspection and intense attention that something was amiss.

This wasn’t the first time this grumpy, weird little cat had impressed and awed me with her intuition. Well before Long-Covid, the cat who preferred only to be pet on her own terms and never to be held, somehow knew when I was having panic attacks and would voluntarily lay on my chest and snore (her version of purring) until I felt calmer. When Jeff or I would get sick, whether with migraine attacks or colds or flu, she never left our sides until we were better. We started calling her Nurse Lucy, and imagining conversations she’d have with her other cat-coworkers about how she was pulling double shifts taking care of two exceptionally needy patients, but at least she could nap on the job.

That day, even though I hadn’t known what she was up to, I think subconsciously I knew she was trying to warn me, and I was more attentive to my symptoms than I might have otherwise been. I have a feeling she may have saved me from a head-hitting-the-tile type of Tuesday afternoon.

Two more times in the coming months, I got a chance to pay closer attention to her, and when she acted strangely — sniffing, staring intently, or “herding” me toward the bed or the sofa — I heeded her advice and sat down immediately. I had learned my lesson during the sandwich episode. Sure enough, she’s been right both times. Within about 10 minutes of her strange behavior, I had a POTS episode and came close to passing out.

So anyway yeah, my cat is a nurse, and she prefers to be paid in fish. That’s all I got for today.

Nurse Lucy on Duty. Do yourself a favor and zoom on that perfect little pawsie.

---

Hey, thanks for taking time to read my words! I’ll be here as often as my brain and body allow.

---