"The test results have come back and I'm afraid your baby has leukemia..." the voice on the other end of the phone said.
"What? No, that's not possible...I mean...what happens now? How do we treat it? "
"Well, we can go ahead with tooth extractions and steroid treatment and see how she does or we should start thinking about...other options"
"But she's only 4 years old!"
"I know, it's very tragic"
Silence spun out between us. He seemed comfortable enough, waiting for the shock to settle in my mind, probably from years of experience delivering bad news. After a long enough pause, he decided I was probably not going to say anything.
"Take a few days, discuss this with her dad and call me so we can start a plan forward."
Turned out leukemia in cats is not so much cancer as it is a virus but despite this differentiation; it is also just as, if not more, deadly. And a painful death from what I could tell from my internet search.
"It's not fair!" I sobbed to my husband that evening, trying not to scare the human children. They haven't seen me cry a lot. Sarcastic, bitchy, exhausted and near-catatonic but never crying.
"She has had such a shitty life, just as she finds a new loving home suddenly they want to immigrate or their kid gets allergic or the dog wants to eat her. We are her 5th home and she was just starting to trust us and realise she can chill now!"
Poor Tommie just stroked my hair gently as I wet his t-shirt with hot tears.
"I don't know what to do..." I finally admitted weakly.
"I know" he says. Notice how he opted out of making the decision?
Clever man. He knows I will follow my own way whatever choice he makes.
Poor Chewy was on the couch, snuggled in one of my jerseys, looking for all the world happy as a clam but I knew her well enough to know that her mouth was killing her. The squint of her eyes, the stillness of her head and the deep purr coming from her chest the most obvious clues to her pain.
As is the custom of my people; I threw myself into internet searches for cures and remedies,asking for advice on Facebook groups for cat lovers and animal parents all over the globe but to no avail, none of the answers had the ring of truth to it that I was looking for.
Late at night I would snuggle up with her in front of the tv, eating bowl after bowl of ice cream and rewatching Vampire Diaries.
"What do you want, baby?" I would whisper into her little ear but she would just do the slow blink at me.
You know exactly what to do, that blink seemed to say.
"I'm not ready..."
She nodded as if she understood and went back to sleep.
That winter took forever to pass. I upgraded my credit card and took Chewy for full tooth extractions under general anaesthesia followed by monthly cortisone injections which seemed to make a big difference in her quality of life but it was borrowed time, I knew.
I also knew that this extension of her life was more for me than for her, which kind of made it selfish, right? I also knew myself well enough to know that there was no avoiding it.
Bitter-einder.
That's the term for someone like me.
Perhaps you are one of us too.
I woke up one morning to the powerful stench of cat urine all around me. I sat up and felt the wetness on my pillow where Chewy was still fast asleep.
She had wet herself without even waking up.
I felt as if a heavy stone had been dropped into my stomach.
Kidneys taking strain... could be the cortisone or the leukemia. Can't go without either.
It's go time.
Tommie went with me. He always does when we have to euthanize one of my pets. I say "my pets" that way because they always seem to find me. It's not like I go out looking for dogs or cats or ducks or praying mantises. They simply find their way to me and then claim me like a familiar to a witch. Tommie's quiet presence
is invaluable to me as I usually cry like a broken drain pipe all the way there and even worse on the way back, so driving is fraught with danger. Also, he would pay for the procedure which is lovely. Hey, I'm always broke...sure it's my own damn fault but still...
Chewy has never been a big fan of the vet but that day she seemed resigned to her fate.
I couldn't help but wonder if maybe she knew that she was going to die.
As the vet prepared the small innocent looking syringe, I said to Chewy: "Oom Casper is going to be waiting for you, okay baby, you haven't met him yet but he will take wonderful care of you. And you'll probably meet Zorro and Sushi and oupa Corrie there as well."
"You know, the older one gets the longer that list gets as well" the vet said with a sad smile and my heart gave a painful throb as his words sunk in.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes..no...well yes please help her."
I bent over and whispered into her ear: "I am so sorry, sweetie, I love you so much. I am so sorry"
Tommie was also crying and stroking her ribs.
I bet 6 of the 7 years veterinarians have to study is about getting comfortable with people crying openly and unapologetically in your presence.
The needle slipped in painlessly and her chest stopped moving.
After a brief listen to her heart the vet informed us that Chewy had crossed over the rainbow bridge.
Leaving her sad little body alone on the cold slab felt all kinds of wrong but I had looked into her eyes and I knew she was no longer in the room with us.
Oom Casper has come for her and she was probably snacking on wild-caught salmon and geelvet biltong by now, knowing him.
I wish we had a Dr Kevorkian for our animals that could somehow build a contraption that can help them out but only after they themselves had pushed a button. Of course they would need a deeper understanding of death and dying...and an opposable thumb of course, but you know what I mean.
"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard" - Winnie the Pooh
