Saturday, November 9, 2024
Nor Hell a Fury Like a Woman Scorned
Thursday, October 21, 2021
Make It Make Sense
We lost Willow on May 13.
She had surgery to remove a vulvar tumor on April 22, and she seemed to be recovering just fine. She didn't like wearing a collar, and she didn't like being shut away in a room overnight. But otherwise, she was eating and drinking. A couple of days before she died, she was playing with a toy.
On the evening of May 12, she began to drool badly. She threw up a few times, and she crouched and hid. We should've taken her to the ER vet that night. I still have such horrible regret when I think that we let her down, when I think that maybe they could've done something for her.
When I got up on May 13, I looked for her and found her lying on her side beneath the bed, right under the foot. I got on the floor and touched her. She felt cold and didn't move. I gently shook her and she still didn't move.
Starting to cry, I woke Eli up, repeating, "I think Willow's dead." He blearily got out of bed and slid his hands under her to bring her out from beneath the bed. She stirred with a soft "mew."
He put her in the carrier and drove to the ER vet in Arden Hills.
Her body temperature, blood sugar, and heart rate were low. The vet didn't know what was wrong with her. She said they could keep her at the hospital for a few days, try a few different things, but in the long run, she wasn't sure anything they could do would help.
Eli called me and explained this, and we decided to let her go. He couldn't go in to be with her because of COVID protocols.
To this day, it rips my soul apart to know that she died surrounded by strangers. Was she aware of what was going on? Did she realize we weren't there?
And then it enrages me. Because people in this fucking country refused to take COVID seriously and do what was necessary to suppress it, Willow had to die without us there. It makes me sick and sad and furious all at once.
I don't think I'm ever going to accept not knowing what happened with her.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
One Week Times Four
As with most of my dreams, many of the images didn't really seem to fit together. I remember standing in the living room of the old house. I turned, and my dad was there. I know I had a longer conversation with him, but all I can remember is that I asked him about Duncan - how he was, if he were there with my father. Dad said Duncan was confused at first, but that he was okay now.
It's been 28 days since I watched the light go out of Duncan's eyes. Today, I learned that a co-worker lost her cat, who had battled a short illness and passed on Tuesday. That knowledge, along with my dream, brought it all rushing back.
I'm glad you're free, Punkin, but I miss you.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Missing You
Duncan loved sleeping in the sun, stretched out on his soft cat bed. As soon as he heard the blinds open, he would hurry over to start soaking up the warm beams.
It's been a week and a day since he had to leave, and I am missing him fiercely today.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Everything Hurts
The medication chart I used to keep track of his dosage schedule is gone.
The fluffy pet bed he used to sleep on has been washed and will be donated to the vet.
I didn't have to sleep curled around a furry body last night.
There is silence instead of the clickclickclick of his claws on the wood floors.
There are no more vet visits written on the calendar.
I only had to put down two plates of food this morning, instead of three.
All the things I don't see and don't hear are deafening.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Goodbye, My Friend
Last week, x-rays showed that he had a tumor in his liver. The vet said he could have an operation and chemo, but I wasn't willing to put him through any more. He was so skinny, so lifeless, had had so many trips to the vet for blood draws and shots, had to take medicine every day that he didn't want and had to endure subcutaneous fluids. He was suffering, and it was time for him to rest.
I was awake at 4 a.m. today, and I held him in my lap for a good, long while. I told him that I loved him. I thanked him for being so brave, for being such a great cat, for struggling through everything life had thrown at him. I told him it was time to rest now. I told him it would break my heart to let go but that I would be glad he was no longer miserable.
He had a little bit of food, some water, small pieces of cake donut. He was crazy for cake donuts. When he'd hear the plastic donut container open, he'd be in the kitchen like a shot, yeowling for donut. Even within the past week, being as sick and weak as he was, he hobbled into the kitchen and yeowled for donut.
His appointment today was scheduled for 9:20 a.m. We took him out of the carrier at the vet, laid him gently on his fuzzy purr pad. He was purring the entire time. Michelle, the vet tech who usually took care of him and who I referred to as his girlfriend, came in to say goodbye. She picked him up, and he raised his head to lick her cheek. I think that meant a lot to her. She was crying, and even Dr. Peterson looked a little close to tears.
Dr. Peterson explained what would happen, and they laid Duncan on a towel, not wanting him to urinate on the purr pad if his bladder let loose at death. He shaved a little fur from Duncan's left leg and apologized to Duncan as he injected the drug that would take Duncan's life.
He was gone at 9:35 a.m., nearly before the needle was removed from his arm. I watched his eyes as the drug was entering his system. They dilated a little and then just seemed to go still and he was gone. I was glad he didn't hiss or cry out as he died; my heart would've broken even more if that had happened. A minute or two after his death, he seemed to sigh.
Michelle pressed his two front paws into a piece of soft clay and stamped his name across the bottom of the clay circle. When she was pushing on his paws, I instantly had the thought, "He has a bad leg, and that's probably hurting him." It was instinctual, since I was so protective of his bad leg, and I had to remind myself that he couldn't feel it.
We spent some time with him, and then Michelle took him into the back. They placed his body in a green plastic bag to catch any urine, and I took him back out to the car while Eli paid for the visit.
We drove to a pet cremation place in Edina. I couldn't bear the thought of his body lying alone at the vet, waiting for pickup from some stranger. Logically, I know it was just his shell that was left behind, the part that made Duncan Duncan had left when his eyes went still, but I just couldn't do it.
We carried him into the cremation place and went into the back of the building. Mike slid his body into the oven and pressed the button to lower the door and start the process.
We went to two different parks and sat out in the breeze and the sun, watching the birds and butterflies. The second park bordered a lake so we sat at the edge of the water and watched the ducks and geese gliding through the water. I had a hard time settling, had a lot of nervous energy, couldn't still my mind.
Two hours later, we collected the small white plastic box that held what was left of Duncan and came home. For such a small being, he left a huge hole in our lives. The house seems so much emptier and quieter without him here. It will be a long time before it comes close to feeling "normal" again.
Despite my grief, I'm grateful that he's no longer suffering. It was so damned hard this past week, seeing him so still, watching him struggle to get up, petting him and feeling how thin and bony he was. He was losing his dignity, and there was no reason to allow it to continue.
I love you, Duncan. You were so brave throughout your life, and you brought such brightness and laughter to us. Sleep now, Punkin, and be at peace. You've earned it.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Back Again
On a lark, I attempted to return to these virtual pages today...and here I am.
I hope to come back here on a regular basis, now that I've found access again.