We're losing our cat, our little boy. He's fifteen years old, a good age we're told. Unlike his daddies, he's avoided grey hairs. If you didn't know, you'd think him a youngster.
Or at least you would have until last weekend. On Sunday morning he was acting slightly goofy and extremely lethargic. His miaow was pained. We noticed that his "dry" food bowl was full, which was unusual. After a few minutes' discussion, we realised that he'd not asked either of us for "wet" food, his morning treat, for a few days. He had also not been drinking water.
We rented a zip car, bundled him into his pet carrier and rushed to the emergency vet. They ran tests. The diagnosis was cancer. The extent unknown, but most likely his behaviour was due to a tumour in the brain. They kept him in overnight to rehydrate him, inject him with steroids and get him eating again.
The following morning they performed an ultrasound which was inconclusive. Two and a half years ago we nearly lost him following a car accident and a series of surgeries to piece him back together. The thick scarring blocked the sound waves. An X-ray gave a clearer picture. His intestines were displaced by a large mass and his lungs were dotted with numerous secondary cancers.
We were advised that the prognosis was extremely poor. They could open him up to visually confirm the extent of the cancer, but he would most likely die from the surgery. Even if he survived, the spread of the cancer meant that it was inoperable. As such, the treatment, a course of steroids, would be the same either way.
Steroids don't cure the cancer. They merely give him some symptomatic relief and stimulate his appetite so that he would eat. In essence, they improve his quality of live and stave off the inevitable.
This past week has been awful. His appetite and thirst have returned somewhat, but he is becoming thinner and increasingly vague. He's still "in there", though. He knows when he's being petted and purrs gently. At times, though, he's like a ghost. At times the effort of walking seems too much and he plonks himself on the floor in unusual spots and falls asleep.
About the only muscle with strength appears to be his jaw. He hates the steroid pills, clamping his mouth shut when it's medicine time.
We've decided that tomorrow, Friday 27 January 2011, will be his last day. His life will have lasted 15 years and 1 week exactly. I want to spare him the inevitable suffering that his last days could bring.
So. What are the "Five Stages of Grief"?
Forty-odd years ago, a lady called Elisabeth Kübler-Ross categorised grief into a five stage model. It seems apt to use her model to describe what we've been through this past week.
1. Denial
Our boy's been such a constant in our lives for all these years. Now, in the space of a week, it seems that his immortality has been lost. Moreover, he's wasting away in front of our eyes.
I admit that when the diagnosis and prognosis were given, I mentally challenged them. Without opening him up they couldn't be certain of anything, surely? His loss of appetite and other symptoms could surely be caused by something else? Perhaps he does have cancer but that doesn't mean that his issues were related and that his time with us was short.
I then did some internet research. Over and over I came across stories of cats that went from diagnosis to death in under a fortnight. Cancer hits them hard and fast.
In many ways I'm still in denial. We've made appointments with the vet and the crematorium. I still think he's going to pick himself up and somehow prove to us that he's fine.
2. Anger
My anger was shortlived, but it was there, albeit misdirected. I was angry at other road users who blocked me from getting home quickly. I was angry at myself for not noticing sooner that he'd gone off his food. I was even angry at our builder for all the delays, which made us miss four of the last months of his life.
I'm not angry anymore, at least for now.
3. Bargaining
It's not really "bargaining", but I do find myself making up standards by which I can judge his state. "If he sleeps with us at night there's still a chance". If he eats this or that. If he goes outside...
4. Depression
It's safe to say that I've been distracted to the point of thinking that most day-to-day necessities are pointless.
5. Acceptance
That's the toughie, isn't it. I'm still crying spontaneously on too-regular a basis to say I've accepted it. I do believe that once he's gone, naturally in his sleep tonight or through euthenasia tomorrow, that things will be easier. The doubt of what will happen and whether we're doing the right thing will become void. I'm certain that if we have to put him so sleep we'll feel horribly guilty about it, but if we don't and he suffers for even a minute longer than he needs to, it'll be terrible.
So, there you go. Life and death in London town.
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