I can I know

Lifesaving Rats and Where to Find Them

Tuesday, March 28, 2017, was an overcast and chilly day in Brooklyn, New York, as I walked the 20 minutes home from my psychiatry appointment. I don’t know if it was actually overcast, or chilly, but from my memories of that day, it sure feels that way.

I was not doing well.

Eight months prior, I had made one of several attempts on my life, after which I moved to Canada to live with my brother, sister-in-law, and three little nieces and nephews for about seven months before returning to New York. Their kindness and care undoubtedly saved my life at the time, and I am forever grateful.

One month before that, I had started seeing a new therapist. I did not dislike her. She seemed great, she specialized in exactly the areas I needed, and she didn’t make me feel bad. But before giving my treatment a real chance, I made a dangerous attempt which landed me in the ICU with a consequent psychiatric hospitalization.

I do not remember the exact details. After the third or so hospitalization, I lost track. They all run into each other. I cannot tell you what was what and when was when. But what I do know for sure is that at the time, I was very unwell.

After discharge, my brother and I packed up my Brooklyn apartment, packed up my little gerbil Snapper, and headed off to Montreal. As I was to be out of the country for an uncertain amount of time, I had no choice but to terminate my therapy in New York.

I spent nearly eight months in Canada, a story of its own, filled with many highs and many lows. As time went on, my mental health became progressively worse. I distinctly remember lying in bed in Montreal, Quebec, thinking that I had to spare my little nieces and baby nephew from seeing me die. I had a place picked out nearby where I thought it would be most easy to get the job done. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this. I knew I needed to leave.

In March of 2017, I returned to the US.

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Back to Tuesday, March 28, 2017.

On that memorably overcast and chilly day, on my way home from seeing my psychiatrist in person after being away for all that time, I picked up a fresh bottle of my prescription antidepressants from the local CVS. Then I picked up another bottle, this one from the liquor store five minutes from my parents’ home. With my medication and whiskey in hand and one million terrible thoughts in my head, on a whim, I walked into the Petland next door.

At the time, my two beloved gerbils, Snapper (US born and raised) and Bob (French Canadian addition), were still back in Montreal. I missed them. I walked into Petland and went straight to the small pets section at back, just to look.

And then I met Oreo.

“Hey, do you want a baby rat?” I looked at the Petland employee. “Someone left a bunch of orphaned babies outside. There’s only one left, take it home and it might live. Otherwise, it’s either snake food or will die without a mom.” I thought for a second.

He let me hold her.

She was the size of my thumb.

I immediately fell in love.

I took the rat home.

The next few days became a crash course on orphaned rat care. I joined a Facebook group for hand-raising rats where I was paired with a mentor who taught me everything I needed to know.

She was approximately seven to ten days old. Her eyes had not yet opened. Her chances of survival were low.

If this girl lives, I promised myself, I will live too.

The first two days I hand-fed her special baby formula with an eye-dropper every three hours around the clock. I set an alarm throughout the night. I snuggled her, kept her warm, fed her, kept a close eye on her little milk band on her tummy to make sure she was actually getting food in, and stimulated her to pee and poop the way I was taught to do. All the things her rattie mama would have done. All the little things that kept her alive.

She slowly grew bigger.

She opened her eyes.

My baby girl lived.

When Oreo had been with me for exactly one month, I lost her. Literally lost her, in my bedroom. One minute she was next to me on my bed, and then she just wasn’t. I freaked the fuck out. I cried, I yelled, I turned the place upside down, I threw things. I needed my baby and I couldn’t forgive myself if she had somehow escaped.

I turned off the light and sat quietly and listened. There was rustling coming from the pillow I had tossed across the room. She was inside my pillowcase this whole time.

I could breathe again.

I cuddled my girl harder then ever through my tears, and then I sat down and sent an email to the therapist I had seen briefly nearly 10 months prior at this point.

I needed help. I needed to live. And I needed more than an animal with an incredibly short lifespan to help me do so.

It was time to start therapy again.

Oreo and I, we got each other. We were both close to death that day in March. And together, we lived.