Nina Paley

The first half of 2025 was possibly my Worst Year Ever. It started with a depressive episode. While that was going on, my furnace broke very expensively during a severe cold snap. Despite psychic pain, I managed to make some drawings and produce these pins for my podcast co-host Cori Cohn.

Then I got sick.

I was sick for over a month. Then I got more sick.

Then I had my birthday and got more sick and went to the hospital where they gave me a chest CT scan which came back with a diagnosis of Bronchiectasis.

I accepted my new life as an immunocompromised (thanks to Skyrizi, the treatment I take for Crohn’s Disease) chronically ill (Bronchiectasis is progressive and incurable, as is Crohn’s) gimp and applied for Disability, which introduced me to the SSDI Blue Book, a compendium of maladies that beset the human body.

While I was sick, my cat Lola was sick too. It was a very dark time, trying to clean up her litterbox accidents while barely able to breathe and take care of myself. My other cat Momo wasn’t doing too well either, on Prednisone for his own alleged Crohn’s Disease (which was probably intestinal cancer, it turned out). Lola had some inflammatory bowel disease too. How did my entire household get IBD? Possibly Covid in 2023 ruined all 3 of us.

My friend Danny, who is a doctor, told me nebulizing saline helps with bronchiectasis. Another friend, Martha, contacted me with tips on equipment after I posted about my condition on fecebook. Thanks to the two of them I got myself huffing sodium chloride long before I would have otherwise. None of my own doctors knew about this way of managing bronchiectasis, which is a somewhat rare disease although diagnoses are increasing since Covid.

Managing my health became my full-time job. I made T-shirts. I made a video about how to nebulize saline. And, miraculously, I improved. I gradually returned to bicycling. I thought I’d never ride a century again, but I did on June 9.

So I withdrew my disability application. But I committed to illustrating the SSDI Blue Book, as a way of working through what had happened to me and living with chronic illnesses.

My cats unfortunately fared worse. Lola died in June. Her death was devastating. What an awful year.

After a few weeks of grieving I volunteered to “foster” a kitten, George. Predictably I fell in love and adopted him a few days later. That was about when the year stopped being exclusively horrible. It was still horrible, but some joy had entered.

Momo died in August.

That was the last truly horrible thing that happened in 2025, although I was almost hit by a car as a sort of “parting shot”.

Shortly thereafter I adopted another kitten as a companion for George, and named him Ira, after the brothers Gershwin. Their full names are George Oxytocin Paley and Ira Squigglewhiskers Paley. They continue to fill me with joy.

I pretty much stopped blogging around this time. I have been content to watch and play with my beautiful, affectionate, rapidly-growing kittens (they’re quite big now), ride my bikes, huff saline, and, now that it’s winter, draw those SSDI Blue Book illustrations. I have retreated more from the world. Being immunocompromised, I avoid indoor spaces, which rules out much travel and winter socializing. I wear a mask when grocery shopping and otherwise in indoor public; I’m “one of those people” now. I’m getting used to it. I guess I’ve done most of the hard work of grieving, and am at the “acceptance” stage.

It is a miracle, what we can adapt to. Kittens are a miracle too. It seems crass to “replace” a loved one, but that is how Life works: the old die, and new are born. I know George and Ira will die someday; no matter how many years we get it will be too soon. Death is built into life. But more life is built in too, and that is why we have kittens, always more individuals coming into the world as others exit.

The main thing I learned from the hell of this year is: Love is the only thing that makes life bearable.  Thanks to George and Ira, my life is not just bearable, but joyful. I’m also grateful for my health, which I feared I’d never get back. As long as I huff saline daily and avoid communicable pathogens, I’m quite fit! Maintaining my health has been a huge blow to my lifestyle, but I am adapting, as we all do.

Throughout the year I continued to make the Heterodorx podcast with Cori Cohn. He’s also had a terrible year, and is still struggling through depression. I wish him, and you, and everyone, more joy in 2026!

Photos after the break. Continue reading “My 2025 Year In Review”

Here are my SSDI Blue Book illustrations-in-progress, of categories 1-7. I’m going to go back and make the backgrounds and labels a bit more consistent; the two’s have unnecessary headers I will remove. Next up is category 8, Skin Disorders!

Thus far I’ve noticed people with chronic illnesses find these amusing, and those without find them disturbingly grotesque. Just you wait! Sooner or later you’ll get one illness/injury/incurable disabling condition or another, and then you’ll laugh along with the rest of us.

Continue reading “SSDI Blue Book Cards-In-Progress”

Momo died August 11, almost certainly of intestinal cancer, possibly small-cell lymphoma. He was euthanized at home after a week of not eating and getting weaker, during which I loved him thoroughly and let him do whatever he wanted, which wasn’t much. For a cat with an inaudible purr who was an asshole much of his life, he sure purred and cuddled at the end.

I buried Momo in my friend’s personal pet cemetery in his woods south-west of Champaign county.

The gray stone marks Momo’s grave; the smaller striped stone commemorates Lola, who had to be cremated because no one was in town to help bury her; and the plaque rests above Cori’s late cat Harley.

Momo is survived by George the kitten. I plan to adopt another kitten or young cat so George can have a playmate; he was always wanting to play with Momo, who probably would have come around had he not been dying. And then I hope there’s no more cat drama here for a long time, because this year of loss has been awful.

Lola died June 30.

My heart broke and I grieved, as did my surviving cat Momo. He stopped eating for a few days, making me think his own end was coming soon. He had already almost died this Spring — like Lola had, he has Inflammatory Bowel Disease (IBD) and is sustained by Prednisone which shortens lifespan. Also he lost his only feline companion, whom he loved. Momo resumed eating for a few days; not much, but he wasn’t moving around much either, with no Lola to chase, play with, or hump. Then he stopped eating again.

I thought, When Momo kicks the bucket I will get all the rugs washed and deep clean the house. I cried many hours a day, but at least could look forward to some order in the future.

Meanwhile, a friend posted a video of her older cat playing with a younger foster cat. That inspired me to apply at the same cat foster organization she used. I didn’t hear back from them that week, or the next. My friend pinged them and didn’t hear back either.

While I was being frustrated by this situation, someone posted on a local listerv that a friend’s recently-adopted kitten needed a new home. The kitten was not being accepted by her senior cat, and things were so bad he was due to return to the Humane Society. A few days later, on a long bike ride, I responded. The next morning:

A few hours later:

This was exactly 20 days after Lola’s extremely sad departure.

Momo was, predictably, not pleased. But at least he wasn’t trying to kill the newcomer, unlike the kitten’s previous feline host. Hours of low growling and hissing (by Momo) ensued, when he wasn’t hiding in his hidey-room.

Momo continues to mostly hide. I bring him his Prednisone-medicated food, and water, and shut the door so he’s not bothered. Momo is quite pissed off.

However, he is eating. Every day. So that’s good.

This afternoon, while the kitten was fast asleep in the living room, I coaxed Momo out from his hidey room. He cautiously entered my bedroom, walked up to my laundry basket, and, before I understood what was happening, defecated and urinated in it. I grabbed him and headed for the litterbox, but he wriggled out of my arms and ran back under his hidey bed, leaving a trail of urine.

And you know what? I’m not even upset. I cleaned the floor, flushed the feces, started the laundry, placed a separate litter box in his hidey-room, and took a shower. Momo is entitled to be pissed. He’s eating more with an enemy around, growing stronger. I suspect in some days or weeks the newcomer will be upgraded to frenemy, and then perhaps friend. I don’t know how much time Momo has left, but I’d rather it were spent engaged with life instead of shutting down.

That goes for me too. I am bewildered by how much better I feel with this little guy running around my house. Also bewildering is feeling joy and grief at the same time. I miss Lola terribly, even while falling in love with this kitten.

The rugs won’t get cleaned for years, or maybe ever. That’s okay. This is the first time I’ve felt joy since at least last year, probably longer ago than that. I’ll take it.

Last week I said goodbye to my wonderful cat Lola. She was an unceasing fount of affection for close to 14 years, 13 spent with me. Everyone loved her, and she loved everyone, until her last year when she got significantly less sociable. She also got IBD, idiopathic cystitis, and who knows what else that made her stop using the litter box, piss blood, and spend most of her time sleeping on the floor. I miss her terribly. She was one of the greats.

Lola is survived by Momo, who is a couple years younger but also has IBD and is on Prednisone, which shortens lifespan. (What are the odds every animal in my household has IBD? I suspect the cats got Covid when I was down with it for 6 weeks. I developed Crohn’s disease afterwards, and various other organs of mine are falling to immune disorder as time goes on, so maybe similar happened to my poor kitties.)

A transcribed handwritten journal entry from this morning.

I’m mad at Lola, but being mad at her won’t stop her from walking across my pillow when I’ve just gotten back to sleep, much-needed sleep ended prematurely by this furry little bitch. Nor will it stop her dispensing poop on the counter as she licks herself from her latest diarrheic episode, nor will it stop her from sticking her ass over the opening of the litter box so she craps on the floor. It won’t stop me spending $100’s on special diet food and new litter boxes trying to manage this geriatric phase of my cats’ lives, even as I try to manage my bronchiectasis by upping my cleaning and attempts to sanitize everything. I need sleep for health, I need cleanliness for health, I need health. These fucking degenerate degenerating decrepit cats are…killing me? Are they killing me? I want to kill them sometimes. I need my fucking sleep.

I can pray but experience tells me I can only pray for acceptance. I must accept some situations are shit. If it’s not actually shit I can pray for the wisdom to see that, and if there’s anything I can change I can pray for the courage to change it… But I’m not gonna kill my cats. I love them.

Resentment is the flip side of love. Only by loving am I vulnerable enough to be hurt enough to resent. I’m extraordinarily vulnerable; I guess I’m extraordinarily loving. Did I love everyone who cancelled me? I loved the world and trusted people, yes. Did I love (unnamed psycho trans activist)? Not specifically, but a certain base level of trust and love of my fellow human beings was degraded by him. Did I love (relative)? On some primal level, sure, and now any shred of conscious love for him is gone, leaving only the dead weight of obligation.

My poor kitties, though. As much as they hurt me, they are innocent. I can’t lock them out at night because I love them and their cries would devastate me (and keep me up anyway). Poor Lola, who wants only love and closeness to me, and knows nothing of human hygiene, and is incapable of rudimentary reasoning because she is a cat and also may be going senile. She’s incapable of considering my needs or — ha-ha — any boundaries at all, because she is a cat.

But Lola is amply able to love me as only a cat can. She loves me, this I know. It’s a love devoid of human respect or empathy; it’s about pure closeness, primal trust/dependence, and touch. I need these things in my life too. So I’m grateful for my evil fucking cats.