The first step in saying "Goodbye."
Even before I got "the news" I knew in my heart that something was wrong. I tried not to imagine the worst, but I was already stringing together the words I would need to write to help me deal with the highs and lows that loomed ahead. I don't consider too many things critical to my well-being but spending time with my cats and writing are near the top of my list. I suppose then it's only fitting that I write during these last weeks or (hopefully) months, of my cat, Galen's, life.
Veterinarians will refer to most cats as "companion animals," and I find that a fitting description. I have lived with cats for most of my life, and my entire adult life, and I can never recall a time when I've been lonely. (Ever!)
As I write this, Galen is peacefully slumbering on my lap. The laptop is perched on the arm of the chair so that he can fully stretch out, and I am twisted to the side and a bit uncomfortable. He is not.
His breathing is deep and rhythmic, and if I stroke his glossy fur he'll start to purr. He's not really asleep yet. He's cat napping as only cats can do.
Although it's been almost three months since he had an ultrasound, the fur on his belly still hasn't grown in all the way. At this rate, it will probably be another three months before it does.
Somewhere along the way I lost track of how long Galen has been sick, but after sorting through the papers in his medical file I realized that it had been almost two years since the vet had made the first house call.
The once in awhile bloody stool had turned into a once or twice a week event. (Yes, I knew it was HIS despite the fact there are two other cats in this house!)
Because a trip to the vet usually required anesthesia to conduct any type of meaningful exam on him, I opted instead for a house call. However, without the benefit of more complex diagnostic equipment, there was only so much that could be ruled out with a house call. The vet told me to monitor things, and said his symptoms were most likely caused by stress, and/or eating things he shouldn't.
Months passed, and then the vomiting started. Or more specifically, increased. By their very nature, cats will sometimes vomit. (Not to be gross, but they get hair balls!) Finally, his vomiting became so frequent he was losing weight. So off to the vet, anesthesia be damned!
Then the tests began. Finally after a few weeks and thousands of dollars of exams Galen was given a diagnosis of inflammatory bowel disease with cell abnormalities most consistent with lymphoma.
Even after three months, I still get that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I think "cancer." Galen is only ten. That's middle age in cat years.
I'm not ready for this. I suppose no one ever is. But I will write so that I can capture the time that we have left and cherish the memories. I don't want to forget a thing.
Veterinarians will refer to most cats as "companion animals," and I find that a fitting description. I have lived with cats for most of my life, and my entire adult life, and I can never recall a time when I've been lonely. (Ever!)
As I write this, Galen is peacefully slumbering on my lap. The laptop is perched on the arm of the chair so that he can fully stretch out, and I am twisted to the side and a bit uncomfortable. He is not.
His breathing is deep and rhythmic, and if I stroke his glossy fur he'll start to purr. He's not really asleep yet. He's cat napping as only cats can do.
Although it's been almost three months since he had an ultrasound, the fur on his belly still hasn't grown in all the way. At this rate, it will probably be another three months before it does.
Somewhere along the way I lost track of how long Galen has been sick, but after sorting through the papers in his medical file I realized that it had been almost two years since the vet had made the first house call.
The once in awhile bloody stool had turned into a once or twice a week event. (Yes, I knew it was HIS despite the fact there are two other cats in this house!)
Because a trip to the vet usually required anesthesia to conduct any type of meaningful exam on him, I opted instead for a house call. However, without the benefit of more complex diagnostic equipment, there was only so much that could be ruled out with a house call. The vet told me to monitor things, and said his symptoms were most likely caused by stress, and/or eating things he shouldn't.
Months passed, and then the vomiting started. Or more specifically, increased. By their very nature, cats will sometimes vomit. (Not to be gross, but they get hair balls!) Finally, his vomiting became so frequent he was losing weight. So off to the vet, anesthesia be damned!
Then the tests began. Finally after a few weeks and thousands of dollars of exams Galen was given a diagnosis of inflammatory bowel disease with cell abnormalities most consistent with lymphoma.
Even after three months, I still get that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I think "cancer." Galen is only ten. That's middle age in cat years.
I'm not ready for this. I suppose no one ever is. But I will write so that I can capture the time that we have left and cherish the memories. I don't want to forget a thing.
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