It's been a rough week with the cat. He has his good moments, those that give hope. He was doing so well at the beginning of the week that we were even planning how we would take him with us when we go back to the mountains in June. Now, on Thursday, we see that the likelihood of him still being alive then is slim.
Last night was a particularly difficult one. I may have slept three hours. There was a big storm, with heat lightning but not much rain, and it seemed somehow portentous. I didn't even know if the cat would be with me in the morning. He seemed so agitated, restless, a fire in his eyes. He really didn't sleep well with me there beside him, and I have decided not to do that again. He doesn't want much affection, but still enjoys outside and being in the same room with the rest of us. He seems disoriented, and often even a little goofy. My SO talked to the vet this morning and she explained that his kidneys are not processing the toxins and that's what is causing the behavior changes and poor appetite. I think after the long weekend is over, we are going to be faced with making that hard choice.
And WHY, you might ask, don't you just go ahead and have him put to sleep since it's inevitable and the whole ordeal is such an emotional strain? My answer is that he has been my good companion for 14 years and he deserves to live every minute that it is possible for him to live and be comfortable. He still enjoys going outside and watching the birds. And yesterday he jumped up and caught a grasshopper. Those moments keep me from putting him down just yet. As long as he is like this, I think he deserves his last days. However, he is obviously the center of our thoughts and decisions right now so I am unable to blog about much else.
Yes, it is stressful, and even sad, but in a way, this time is a parting, too, a way of saying goodbye. My heart still breaks but not with the intensity of the first days. I can see now that when it appears to be too much for him, I will do what I have to do. I opened a Dove caramel this afternoon and the message inside was "Be Fearless." That also seemed like a foretelling. I will be with him when he takes his final breath. And we have already decided to have him cremated. I've been planning the people who will get all the accoutrement this cat has acquired through his years. Probably the homeless animal shelter can use the litter boxes and condos, the beds and bowls. There are many of all of these things. And they are spread among four different locations. This was a well-traveled cat. Just in the last year he has been to New Mexico, Colorado, and Arizona. Some people I know haven't gone that far or to that many places. He surprised me with how well he adapted. In the end, he mainly just cared about being with me, wherever I happened to be. And so I will be with him, as well, when he faces his final journey.
Onward ....
Showing posts with label cat illness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cat illness. Show all posts
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
A Grave Diagnosis
Lymphoma. It is terminal.
LABOR DAY, 1997. My oldest son is home from Houston for the long weekend. His dad is on the sofa in the den sleeping off a few beers he had drank while we barbecued. It's almost dark. There had been a storm a week or so before, knocked quite a few limbs from the nine pecan trees in the yard. There was a pile of limbs where the greenhouse would one day stand. A soft mewl comes from the wood pile. My son and I both hear it. We go over to inspect. There's a big-eyed kitten on the far side of the pile. He's looking at me and mewling softly but insistently. I want to go for him but each time I try, he appears ready to bolt. I'm afraid that he's hurt. I get down on my hands and knees, calling, "C'mere. Please, c'mere" over and over. He continues to mewl. He looks tiny. He inches forward, slowly. Oh so slowly. It takes 45 minutes for him to inch within my reach but finally he does.
He is gray tabby, but only about half. The under half is pure white. His face is blazed symmetrically with white. Tabby-like, his eyes are golden, outlined with black and black streaks run from the corners of his eyes back along his cheeks. Gray ears, a long straight tail. He weighs maybe 2 pounds. I hold him close to my heart. His heart is pounding wildly in my palm. He doesn't seem to be hurt. I think he's probably just hungry. All I have is a can of white meat chicken, for humans not kittens. His fur is downy soft, silky. It will remain that way all of his life.
Kitten fur, even at age 14. He is my lovey-dovey. My cootie pie. My braveheart. My soulmate. He is my sweet boy, my lap cat, my loyal friend. We are spending our last days together. There will be a big empty hole in my life when he leaves me. The hole has already begun, but right now it's just mostly a hollow lump in my throat that I can't swallow.
His doctor is gone. She left just after she took the biopsies on his kidney and stomach. Another doctor called with the results. "This is a grave diagnosis," he said. The regular vet will be back Tuesday. I will phone her and discuss all of this further. For now, I just want to keep my kitty comfortable.
His belly is shaven, looks so vulnerable and tender now. His eyes are starting to droop. He responded well to the prednisone shot she gave him, caught a lizard the next day, something he hadn't done in at least five years. But that rebound is over, and he is thinner yet. I'm not sure I can take this, but it has to be endured, watching my kitty waste away. I am spending my days holding him, letting him rest in my arms, where he wants to be right now, trying to reassure him, trying not to just sit and cry. Hard but he has earned this time, this love, this vigilance. I can't shut the door on him at night so I'm already exhausted. We both are.
I won't have another cat. Not for a long long while. I've had two before this one but neither of those, not even combined times ten, can compare to the love I feel for this one. If anyone is reading this, please bear with me and my melodrama. A tragedy is happening right now. I feel compelled to write about it. I'm sorry.
Onward ....
LABOR DAY, 1997. My oldest son is home from Houston for the long weekend. His dad is on the sofa in the den sleeping off a few beers he had drank while we barbecued. It's almost dark. There had been a storm a week or so before, knocked quite a few limbs from the nine pecan trees in the yard. There was a pile of limbs where the greenhouse would one day stand. A soft mewl comes from the wood pile. My son and I both hear it. We go over to inspect. There's a big-eyed kitten on the far side of the pile. He's looking at me and mewling softly but insistently. I want to go for him but each time I try, he appears ready to bolt. I'm afraid that he's hurt. I get down on my hands and knees, calling, "C'mere. Please, c'mere" over and over. He continues to mewl. He looks tiny. He inches forward, slowly. Oh so slowly. It takes 45 minutes for him to inch within my reach but finally he does.
He is gray tabby, but only about half. The under half is pure white. His face is blazed symmetrically with white. Tabby-like, his eyes are golden, outlined with black and black streaks run from the corners of his eyes back along his cheeks. Gray ears, a long straight tail. He weighs maybe 2 pounds. I hold him close to my heart. His heart is pounding wildly in my palm. He doesn't seem to be hurt. I think he's probably just hungry. All I have is a can of white meat chicken, for humans not kittens. His fur is downy soft, silky. It will remain that way all of his life.
Kitten fur, even at age 14. He is my lovey-dovey. My cootie pie. My braveheart. My soulmate. He is my sweet boy, my lap cat, my loyal friend. We are spending our last days together. There will be a big empty hole in my life when he leaves me. The hole has already begun, but right now it's just mostly a hollow lump in my throat that I can't swallow.
His doctor is gone. She left just after she took the biopsies on his kidney and stomach. Another doctor called with the results. "This is a grave diagnosis," he said. The regular vet will be back Tuesday. I will phone her and discuss all of this further. For now, I just want to keep my kitty comfortable.
His belly is shaven, looks so vulnerable and tender now. His eyes are starting to droop. He responded well to the prednisone shot she gave him, caught a lizard the next day, something he hadn't done in at least five years. But that rebound is over, and he is thinner yet. I'm not sure I can take this, but it has to be endured, watching my kitty waste away. I am spending my days holding him, letting him rest in my arms, where he wants to be right now, trying to reassure him, trying not to just sit and cry. Hard but he has earned this time, this love, this vigilance. I can't shut the door on him at night so I'm already exhausted. We both are.
I won't have another cat. Not for a long long while. I've had two before this one but neither of those, not even combined times ten, can compare to the love I feel for this one. If anyone is reading this, please bear with me and my melodrama. A tragedy is happening right now. I feel compelled to write about it. I'm sorry.
Onward ....
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