Susan Haas - The Year of the Buttered Cat: A mostly true story

PENELOPE EDITIONS is an imprint of Penny Candy Books

Young adult & middle grade books with guts & vision

www.penelopeeditions.com

Oklahoma City & Greensboro

Text 2021 Susan Haas with Lexi Haas

Illustrations 2021 Shanna Compton

All rights reserved. Published 2021. Printed in Canada.

This book is printed on paper certified to the environmental and social standards of the Forest Stewardship Council (FSC).

Photo of Susan & Lexi Haas: Susan Haas

Design & illustrations: Shanna Compton

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Haas, Susan Tyler, 1964-author. | Compton, Shanna, illustrator.

Title: The year of the buttered cat : a mostly true story / Susan Haas with Lexi Haas; [illustration, Shanna Compton].

Description: Oklahoma City : Penelope Editions, 2021. | Audience: Ages 10-14 | Audience: Grades 4-6

Identifiers: LCCN 2020056370 (print) | LCCN 2020056371 (ebook) | ISBN 9781734225938 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781736031957 (epub) | ISBN 9781736031957 (kindle edition) | ISBN 9781736031957 (pdf)

Subjects: LCSH: Haas, Lexi--Health. | Kernicterus--Patients--United States--Biography. | Brain--Surgery--Patients--United States--Biography. | Brain damage--Patients--United States--Biography.

Classification: LCC RC387.5 .H23 2021 (print) | LCC RC387.5 (ebook) | DDC 617.4/81--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020056370

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020056371

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For Ken, Kali, Kasey, Hannah, and Tucker,
who have lived this story with us.

SH and LH

If all my possessions were taken from me with one exception, I would choose to keep the power of communication, for by it I would soon regain all the rest.

Daniel Webster

The ability to speak does not make you intelligent.

Qui-Gon Jinn, Star Wars: Episode I,
The Phantom Menace

The inability to speak does not make you unintelligent.

me, Lexi Haas. Just now.

I just know before this is over, Im gonna need a whole lot of serious therapy.

Donkey, Shrek

After thirteen years and a bazillion appointments, I should be over my fear of doctors. Im not. I hate how they try to chat you up like youre friends, then bam! Needle in the arm. Or worse, they leave the room, and when you start to breathe again, they send in someone else to do the dirty work.

Im not afraid of all doctors. In the Marvel universe, Bruce Banner has like seven PhDs, and yeah, he goes all Hulk when hes ticked, but you dont see him chasing down kids with a needle.

For me, the bad guys are the -istsneurologists, internists, anesthesiologists. Those types. The ones with the pokers.

So its kinda twisted that this morning, Im lying on a hospital gurney in Kansas City, Missouri. Im a zillion miles from home. Im wearing one of those gowns that barely covers my butt. And I chose to be here.

Today its for presurgical medical imagingbasically a photo shoot for my brain. But tomorrow, 6 a.m. sharp, Im back for the real thing. Elective brain surgery. My second elective brain surgery.

Elective, by the way, is medical talk for one hundred-percent optional. And also for bring on the needles. Like I said, its kinda twisted.

Unfortunately, I have a gifted memory, so all my needle sticks are stored in my brain like hundreds of movie clips. But the only one that really matters is the one thats about to happen any minute.

Theres a little opening between the curtains in my cubicle where I can see nurses, techs, and -ists marching around pre-op like stormtroopers on the Death Star.

I focus on breathing andokay, dont laughsqueezing my rock. It isnt an actual rock. Obviously. These people stripped every personal thing from me for safekeeping when I got here. But at least for now, they didnt take my memories, and that is what my rock is. The real one was a gift from my friend Anna when we were little kids. She pressed it in my hand and curled my fingers around it. I squeezed that rock until every bump, every corner, burned into my memory. Now, when I need to quiet my brain, I can go back and squeeze my hand hard enough, and the memory floods back. Nobody is gonna take that from me.

Mom must know Im obsessing because she pulls the curtain closed and turns on my iPad. How about some fanfic? What goes best with long hospital waitsStar Wars? Marvel? Wizarding?

Before I can answer, a nurse charges into my curtained cubicle. She slams into my wheelchair, sending my service dog, Gus, scrambling for a corner.

Perfect. The entire Galactic Empire is out there, and they send in Jar Jar Binks.

Good morning! Well get that IV started soon, but first, sign and date. She hands Mom a clipboard without even a glance towards me.

I take a deep breath and force air from my lungs. What comes out is ggguuhhh. It sounds like a pencil sharpener. Or an angry dog. Or maybe an angry dog sharpening a pencil.

Im guessing the nurse has gone with angry dog. She spins around and looks at me like I might bite.

That growl means no, Mom says. I think she wants to sign the release herself.

The nurse clears her throat. Sorry, sweetie, this has to be signed by an adult. Are you over eighteen?

She knows the answer. Not only am I fun-sized as my brother and sisters say, this is a childrens hospital.

I growl again. Ggguuhhh.

I didnt think so, the nurse says.

How about if we both sign it? Mom asks. She smooths my long, dark braids.

I stick out my tongue. The nurse narrows her eyes.

Tongue out means yes, Dad says, glancing up from his phone.

Excuse me?

Dad shrugs. She came up with those herself when she was a little kid. The growl thing means no, and sticking her tongue out means yes.

Usually, I add in my head. It USUALLY means yes. Sometimes it doesnt.

The nurse nods and smilesa bright, happy, totally fake smile.

Dad props me against his shoulder. Mom puts the pen in my hand and holds my wrist steady. I write Lexi Haas.

Underneath, Mom writes Susan. When the nurse coughs, Mom adds our last name.

Alrighty then, the nurse says. Her lips purse so thin they all but disappear into her face. Someone will be in soon for that IV.

I know what shes thinking. What everyone is thinking. Youre doing this AGAIN? The last one either didnt work or something went horribly wrong.

Okay. Fair enough. But heres the thing: it did work. Sort of.

Before the first operation six years ago, I could control exactly two musclesone that extended my pointer finger and one that stuck out my tongue. Since then, with lots of help, I can walk. If someone holds my wrist steady, I can even play video games.

My voice is better too. Before, I only had a few sounds I could make on purpose. Of course, there was my ggguuhhh. When I got excited, that got all high-pitched and sounded exactly like Chewbacca, which was amazing, but I couldnt control it. Besides that, I had a squeal, a groan, and (#humblebrag) an impressively loud burp when I hyperventilated. Sometimes, out of the blue, I would blurt out a completely clear word or two, but I had zero control over when that would happen. Boy did