Crash

It has been a rough week. A very rough week.

Last Friday I took Crash in for some routine arthritis treatment. It should have been an easy day with him hanging out in his cage and getting loved on by all my coworkers. When I pulled him out of his carrier I noticed bloody saliva on the side of his mouth. I asked the doctor to take a look at him when she had a chance. She looked in his mouth and noticed an ulceration. It’s on the right hand side of his mouth, where the gums and the lip meet. She suspects the ulceration is a fast growing cancer called a squamous cell carcinoma (read more about this nasty cancer here and here).

We didn’t know for sure if it was cancer, the only way to find out for sure is a biopsy. Crash is old, almost 20, and has numerous chronic health conditions so there were concerns about putting him under anesthesia. He might not make it through surgery, and if he did, the effects of the drugs could be detrimental to the rest of his body; my particular concern was for another pancreatitis flair up. We did some lab work to see if he was healthy enough to undergo surgery.  His labs came back fine, no particular red flags there. I talked with the doctor and we determined there was no “right” or “wrong” answer here. I could do surgery to have the ulceration biopsied and risk anesthesia, or I could leave it alone and find out soon enough if it is indeed cancer.  Was it worth it to take the risk on surgery? What if I put him under anesthesia, he didn’t make it and the biopsy comes back negative for cancer?

The  thought that I might only have weeks left with Crash was enough to make me want to do surgery. I figured if he did pass while under anesthesia, at least it wouldn’t be painful. Yet, despite that leaning, I just couldn’t decide.  So I emailed his doctor and said I wanted to do a cardiac ultrasound.  Crash has had a heart murmur and an arrhythmia for a number of years now.  The doctor told me that if I was uncertain a cardiac ultrasound (Echo) would be the next step. I couldn’t decide what to do. I spent part of my Goddaughter’s Baptism praying for guidance and I asked the universe to guide me towards the most benevolent outcome. Which is how I ended up doing an Echo.

Though a series of very fortunate events, I was able to get Crash in to see the Cardiologist who was visiting our office on Monday. We did the echo and it certainly made up my mind. He is in heart failure. His prognosis is guarded. He would never survive surgery. We are now just waiting to see which will get him first. Thankfully at least Crash seems to be asymptomatic for both his cancer and his heart failure.  I started him on two new heart medications and a lower sodium sub-q fluids on Wednesday.  He seems to take to them well enough. If he shows signs of really not wanting to take the new medication we will discontinue it immediately. Everything is about making him comfortable now.

For the first few days after Crash’s grim diagnosis–heart failure and suspected squamous cell oral cancer–I was a wreck. I tried to keep a stiff upper lip at work. There are way too many triggers when you work at a vet’s office and are trying to not think about your ill cat. I continuiously broke down crying. One day I was sitting on the couch crying hysterically when Crash came over, jumped in my lap and made me pet him. I started crying even harder then. I am treasuring every moment; even the 4:30 am paw-across-my-face-’cause-he’s-hungry wake up call.

I realized though, that Crash is no different than he was last week. He’s no different than he was last month, or the month before. He acts exactly the same. He eats as well as he ever does–which is to say many small meals throughout the day, and he never knows what he wants. He still snuggles. He still fights his medication with just enough energy for me to know he feels well (but not enough to know he really hates them.) He hasn’t been highly active in a number of years, so there is no decrease in energy. This has been the biggest help for me. The only thing that has really changed is that I have some idea of a timeline for when Crash might pass. Considering I knew he was nearing the end, this shouldn’t be such a big shock to me. He displays so many of the symptoms of the cancer, but he has displayed those symptoms for months. And they are symptoms for many other diseases that he has. He certainly doesn’t eat like a cat who has a cancerous growth in his mouth.

I know people are judging me for adding new medications. I don’t care. He is my cat and my best friend.I will do anything in the world for this cat. I hope when the time comes I will have the strength to euthanize him before he starts suffering.  I realize that the new medications will, at most, only buy him a little bit of time. I don’t care. Crash saved my life when I was depressed. Crash, along with Sam and Muffin, made life bearable when the Depression took hold, but before I knew what was going on with me. He is the last of his litter. When Crash dies, a huge part of me will die with him. I honestly don’t know how I will carry on without him. I know that is why Sneakers came to me…but that is another blog post.

Now, it is all about loving Crash even more than usual. Loving him and appreciating him and enjoying every single moment with this cat. And since he has already assumed his regular position at the left corner of my bed, I guess that means its time for me to go snuggle him.

 

Grieving the Death of a Pet Part 2: Coping

This is part two in my four part series on grief and pet loss.  Click the link to read Part 1.

I had the chance to sit down with Becky Murray, a Licensed Professional Counselor at Veterinary Specialty Center in Buffalo Grove. We discussed the death of pets and the many ways that humans grief their furry friends. Murray agrees that grief is a “Bizarre  way of being” in part because it is so different from our normal way of being. We are used to schedules, routines, and a linear way of thinking. We complete tasks and move on to the next one. Grief is not like that. With grief the thoughts, memories and feelings are not linear. They can pop into our heads at any moment. Grief is also not something you finish, and move on from; not like the events that make up our daily lives. You can’t allot a set amount of time to grieve and then say “ok I’m done, on to the next thing!” Grief is not something you can check off your “to-do” list. As anyone who has lost a loved one—human or pet—can tell you, life is not the same after the loss.

Grief and loss change people. They change life; which is not to say that life doesn’t go on. It just isn’t quite the same. There are the immediate changes—not having your furry friend greeting you when you come home from work, the empty cat bed by heater, the food bowl you don’t have to fill.  And there are the larger changes; adjusting mentally and emotionally to losing your friend; the knowledge that you will not see them again (at least not in this life, in the form you are used to.)  These are huge changes. It will take time.

I made a memorial shelf for my cats who have passed.

In the days after my cats died I felt like life was never going to get better.  I didn’t know how I could go on living after such a loss.  According to Murray, that is normal.  When we are grieving it feels like we are doing everything so poorly, she says. “After the loss of a pet your goal should simply be to function a little better each day” says Murray. You can’t compare yourself to who you were before the loss of your pet. Instead, compare yourself to who you were the day after the loss.

What is important, she says, is that you function a little bit better over time. After we euthanized Muffin I spent the next 24 hours crying hysterically. I held her bed in a death grip; I slept with her bed and some of her toys, and I cried hysterically. I did not leave my house for two days. But on the second day I went longer between crying. I didn’t cry hysterically. I was slowly finding peace settling back in my soul. Even after the tears stopped flowing, there was a sting in my heart every time I realized Muffin wasn’t sleeping on her favorite chair or next to the pillows on my mom’s bed. I knew she wasn’t but you get into habits of expectation and it takes time to break those habits.  When my Sam died in 2009 I was at work. My parents called me to tell me he had passed and for weeks afterwards I panicked and tensed up every time my cell phone rang. I was terrified that something had happened to someone else.

I told Murray my stories of grieving my cats and mentioned that each time it was different. The pain was different, the thoughts and emotions were slightly different. She said that was normal. “Every loss is different” she says. This applies not just to each loss we experience—the loss of Sam left me numb and shocked for days, while Muffin’s death left me an emotional wreck—but also the how each person experiences their loss. While I cried hysterically over my cats’ deaths, other people may not cry in public. Some people want tangible memories of their cats while some don’t want anything physical to remember their cat by. Some people adopt another cat right away, some will never adopt another cat again.  Murray says however you grieve “as long as it’s not hurting you, not other others it’s ok.” Each person grieves differently but most of these people are experiencing what Murray calls normal grief.  Perhaps you expected to be crying hysterically, but find you can’t cry. Perhaps you don’t feel a crippling grief the way I did. That’s ok.   Murray says the way we grieve is “not a measure of our love” for our pets. We all grieve differently. Don’t judge yourself if  you grieve differently from your partner, your siblings, your friends.

Beyond normal grief, there is complicated grief.  Complicated grief is when you find you are not getting better; you are not getting through the grief. If you find yourself dealing with complicated grief, or you know someone who is, please reach out for support. A licensed therapist can help work through the grief. However you may find that something as simple as reaching out to a support group can help with the grief.

Resources:

PetLossHelp.org

PetLossCanada.com

ASPCA/Pet Loss

Association for Pet Loss & Bereavement 

Veterinary Specialty Center- Counseling Services – You can find books and support hotlines here.

 

Phone Numbers: CVMA Pet Loss Helpline and Support Group: (630) 325-1600

Eighteen Years Wasn’t Long Enough

It is with tremendous sadness that I share my first post of the year. My dear sweet Muffin crossed to Rainbow Bridge last night. After a month of fighting so hard to keep going, it was clear that it was time to let her go.

Sweet Dreams Baby Girl 1995-2013

 

Shortly after finishing up my post last night I noticed that Muffin was having labored breathing. She sat down next to her food bowl and her sides were heaving. I thought perhaps it was a side effect of the chemo medicine I had just started her on. The kind nurse at the emergency room informed me it wasn’t, then said she thought Muffin might be having an allergic reaction. When they ruled that out I said I would monitor her, and if it didn’t improve in an hour I would bring her in. Well, it didn’t improve in an hour. So out we went on a very snowy New Year’s Eve. I knew in my gut that she wasn’t going to come home with us. Not the way I thought I knew previous times, but deep in my soul, I knew.  Sparing all the details at the ER, after examining her, they discovered fluid in her chest. As soon as the doctor told me that, I broke down in tears. I knew then that she had at most days with us. I had them drain the fluids. They got 180mL out of her before they had to stop, because she was  getting ornery. Then I knew, I knew she wouldn’t make it to 2014. I knew she wouldn’t make it to Thursday, when my regular veterinarian is open.

They brought her back to us, and we cried. She was finally done. You could see in her eyes, the fight had gone out of her and she looked so, so tired. Even as I knew it was time, part of me fought so hard.  Inside I was screaming, “No! NO! Don’t do it! TAKE HER HOME! MAKE HER BETTER!” Especially after I told the doctor of my decision. I wanted to grab her and run away. The realization (that I have been trying to come to terms with for weeks) that she wasn’t going to be around anymore stabbed my heart and tore it to a thousand pieces. I kissed her, hugged her, stroked her. I just kept telling her over and over her fight was done. I told her we would find a way to survive without her. I would have stayed there all night holding off just a little longer. I kept wanting to say NO! NO COME BACK! BRING MY KITTY BACK! But I knew that it would never happen. My kitty, my sweet Muffin was gone. Her spirit and personality and soul were gone. She was trapped in a failing body and nothing good would come of it. When I finally told my mom to let the doctor know it was time, I broke even more. As Muffin’s life slipped from her, I held her the best I could. Kissing her, loving her and told her her fight was done. Once she left me and joined her brother over the Rainbow Bridge, I lost it. I vaguely remember screaming, crumpling in on myself as I howled with grief at the loss of my beautiful little girl. I couldn’t leave her. I couldn’t leave her sweet, soft body behind. My mom finally went to get a someone so they could  take my sweet girl’s body away. I wouldn’t leave until they took her.

It has been so hard to cope. Part of me feels at peace. I am not worrying about her anymore. I am not stressed about her anymore. I don’t have to watch like a hawk to see if this round of medicine makes her better. I know she is not suffering. I know she is at peace. The other part of me is completely broken. Wondering how I will ever cope without her. Wondering how I will ever live without my girl and what the point is. I slept with a death grip on her bed and her Christmas stocking which was filled with some of her favorite toys.

So begins the slow process of healing. Please say a prayer for her. And let’s say a prayer that there is such a place as Rainbow Bridge so that one day we can all be reunited with our four legged loved ones.

Eighteen years ago I brought this tiny ball of fluff into my life.