Silence
I'm having a hard time right now. I've been meaning to blog for quite a while. I've had a lot of developments in my life, mostly related to acquiring domestic skills. It has been, for the most part, a really great year for my personal life.
However, the thing that has finally made me break radio silence is our poor little kitty's illness. Honestly, my actual reaction to our current situation is that I want to be more silent than ever. I want to make it go away, pretend it isn't happening. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to be experiencing this. But I can't stand the thought of letting this pass by unrecorded, unacknowledged. I need to honor her and let people know that she didn't just disappear, that we have all struggled as a family through this time, and that it's a really big moment in our lives.
Pipper is really sick. She has cancer. It's terminal. We found out on July 6th, the day after we got home from the 4th of July weekend. When we got home on Sunday, her breathing sounded congested, which was weird and new. I went to work the next day, called the vet, and they encouraged me to bring her in so they could take a look. They suspected a respiratory infection. I rushed home, made it to the office by 11:45am, and they told me they wanted to take X-rays instead of just sending us home with antibiotics, as they would do with a younger cat.
I had to leave her at the office until 2pm, because they had to "let the machine warm up" and then they were on lunch break, then they would take the images and I could pick her up. When I got there at 2pm, I was sort of in a fog. I remember feeling like I knew something was wrong, and I even picked up a pamphlet in the lobby about a Pet Loss Support Group at the local Humane Society. Then again, I can sometimes be a little bit pessimistic, so I tried to shrug that off. Unfortunately, the feeling was right this time. The vet showed me the chest X-ray, and I could see the masses. Lung cancer, she said. And since we had previously told her that Pipper's head had been twitching sometimes, the vet said she suspected it was probably being caused by brain cancer.
Silence.
Sobbing.
Deep breath. "What do we do?"
She explained that she expected Pipper to have "maybe a month."
Silence.
How do you respond to that? I just cried and stared at the X-ray. I nodded. I tried not to lose it. I tried to be an adult, for whatever that's worth. I mentioned my husband, and how much he loves our little cat. She said that he was welcome to call her any time if he had any questions. We should watch her appetite, her mood, her breathing. She explained something about a blood test and that she would get a second opinion on the X-ray, but it didn't really register, since I could see those masses with my own eyes. She said there would be no pain, but that certain symptoms would cause stress, which we shouldn't put Pipper through, if we could avoid it.
Ok, thank you. Can I call if I think of anything else?
Yes, of course.
I cried in the exam room for a little while, and the staff tried to give me some space to be with our kitty for a few minutes. I decided I needed to deliver this news to Jesse in person, so I took Pipper home, made sure she seemed comfortable, then drove up to San Francisco at about 3:00pm. I called Jesse when I was around the block from his work. He met me outside. We cried. I tried to describe what the vet told me, but I had a hard time delivering the same message myself. We decided to go straight home. I gave Jesse the vet's phone number, and he called her on the way home. She apparently told him that Pipper had "two weeks to a month."
We had a bad week. She was sullen, exhausted, sleeping in a different room. She sounded extra "congested" if she got up and moved around (though she didn't do much of that). She didn't lift her head up if we walked into the room. We found ourselves frequently laying a hand gently on her to make sure she was still breathing.
We continued to work. Our friends were so supportive. I had prepared myself for a couple of 'off' remarks, but was so grateful that everyone seemed to understand. I recalled all of my friends who had lost pets. I kicked myself for anything I thought I said to them that might not have been appropriate. I wished I could've done more for all of them. I realized that you can't fully understand this situation without some prior experience, and that made me sad, too. I know that this will haunt me whenever a friend says they're going through something similar. It breaks my heart to think of that.
The following weekend was hard. Pipper had some kind of tremor on Saturday while Jesse was with her. The whole situation had become overwhelming -- we didn't know when we would "know," and we didn't know if she was experiencing stress. We had sort of lost perspective, since we hadn't seen her normal behavior in over a week. It was very lonely.
On Sunday afternoon, she sort of perked up. I don't exactly know what tipped us off at first, but she seemed a little more interested in the world around her. We could walk into the room, and she would look up at us. It was different somehow.
By Monday morning, she was hanging out with us on the bed like old times. She started to greet us when we walked into the room. She was proactively acknowledging us. I can't explain how happy and relieved I was. It was as if she was saying, "Here I am! Remember me?" And we did. We could finally see that she was still the same, loving, upbeat cat. She just got a little winded if she walked around too much. But once she was able to rest up, she was engaged and interested and cuddly. She started climbing up onto our chests. She started biting my hair and licking Jesse's head (some of her favorite things). She was on our bed all day (not in the other room). She was back, and we were so grateful. It was such a great week.
By this past Monday, I had come full circle, and I started to really internalize that, even though she was upbeat and perky again, it didn't mean she was getting better. It was just a really awesome period of time that would help us remember our little buddy as her happy, lovable self. I was filled with gratitude every time I saw her, and I tried to hold on to all of those happy moments and not take them for granted.
On Tuesday, Jesse noticed that her breathing had changed again. This time, it was really shallow and fast. It only happened when she exerted herself, but it was still really concerning. She also starting to do something that resembled coughing, except it was very weak, and it made her really uncomfortable. She would cough a little bit, then rapidly try to change positions and find another place to be. She was crouching down and looked a little bit panicked. As soon as the coughing stopped, she would try to lay down and relax. I could only think that the weakness and fear was caused by her reduced lung capacity. The masses must be growing, and she's suffering. We were so worried.
On Wednesday, it was clear that she was getting really tired again. I would see her asleep in the middle of the floor, which she never does. It was as if she got tired somewhere between point A and point B, so she would just lay down and rest. In the morning, she was not on the bed with us. Instead, she was on the rug next to the bed, curled up and looking fairly uncomfortable. We found her sleeping in the other room again on Wednesday night.
Yesterday morning, she seemed extremely uncomfortable. Not only was her breathing quick and shallow (while lying still), but she would curl up next to us and *immediately* lay her head down (on the side) and try to go to sleep. She just doesn't ever do that. If we're up with her on the bed, she's usually trying to get us to pet her, or biting us, or just sitting quietly with her head up and eyes open. We knew she wasn't feeling good at all. It hurt to look at her, because we felt like she was in pain, or at least really uncomfortable.
We talked and talked and talked about what we were seeing. We cried. We pet Pipper, hugged her, cried. She seemed to be unhappy when we touched her -- she would jolt her head to look at us, and she almost looked scared. A couple of times, when we touched her, she would quickly get up and scoot a few inches away, and lay back down. She was clearly telling us to leave her alone, she wasn't feeling good.
On Wednesday night, I thought it might be coming. On Thursday morning, I felt the tension in the room, as we talked about our observations. I finally said it: "Do you think it might be time?" He said yes, he did. We cried.
We decided that "tomorrow" (today) would be the right time. We talked to her.
We went to work, I called the vet. They were as reassuring as they could be, and I made an appointment. I hated being at work. I cried frequently, I locked myself in a conference room with my laptop and a box of kleenex. I've been wearing my glasses, because crying dries out my contacts, and I can't stop crying.
I got home Thursday evening, and rushed into the bedroom to find Pipper curled up on a rug next to the bed. She looked so sweetly up at me, and purred when I pet her. It broke my heart. I started to really question our decision. Jesse got home, we visited Pip again. I told him I wasn't sure. We petted her more, and out of nowhere, she started squirming and her breathing became really shallow again. She let her head fall to the floor, and we noticed that she had a new way of positioning herself. Her paws were always up under her chest, like she was trying to hold herself up and reduce the pressure on her body. It was just another sign. It was like she was telling us, "I want to be happy to see you, but I'm not happy about anything right now."
We talked for a long time. We talked about compassion, pain, indecision, fear, love, comfort. We talked about selflessness, and I said that I think I finally know what that means in this situation. We need to swallow our fear of making the wrong decision at the wrong time, and help our little buddy out of the discomfort her illness is causing her. It's not about us or our sadness. It's about what's right for her in this situation. She can't make the decision for herself, but she's trying to tell us what we need to do.
It's Friday morning, and our little buddy is hanging out in the other room, away from us. She's uncomfortable. If we approach her, she sometimes looks at us, sometimes doesn't. She sometimes purrs, sometimes tries to get away. She still pulls her little paws up under her chest. I watched her try to place her paw a different way, maybe to hold her head when she puts it down, I'm not sure. But every time she tried to move her paw, she would immediately pull it back under, like she couldn't find the right position. Jesse is torn, because she clearly wants to be left alone, but he wants to hug her for every second she has left with us.
So, this is our last day. Our appointment is at 3:00pm. There will be plenty more tears today, and an outpouring of love for our little Pip, as she spends her last few hours in our house. It has been such an awesome experience to have her living with us. I've had lots of pets, all through my life. Having only one pet has been a very intimate experience, and I'm so glad that Jesse has been able to experience Pip's unconditional love. Our little family of three has been so happy together for the past four years. We love you so much, Pipper.
However, the thing that has finally made me break radio silence is our poor little kitty's illness. Honestly, my actual reaction to our current situation is that I want to be more silent than ever. I want to make it go away, pretend it isn't happening. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to be experiencing this. But I can't stand the thought of letting this pass by unrecorded, unacknowledged. I need to honor her and let people know that she didn't just disappear, that we have all struggled as a family through this time, and that it's a really big moment in our lives.
Pipper is really sick. She has cancer. It's terminal. We found out on July 6th, the day after we got home from the 4th of July weekend. When we got home on Sunday, her breathing sounded congested, which was weird and new. I went to work the next day, called the vet, and they encouraged me to bring her in so they could take a look. They suspected a respiratory infection. I rushed home, made it to the office by 11:45am, and they told me they wanted to take X-rays instead of just sending us home with antibiotics, as they would do with a younger cat.
I had to leave her at the office until 2pm, because they had to "let the machine warm up" and then they were on lunch break, then they would take the images and I could pick her up. When I got there at 2pm, I was sort of in a fog. I remember feeling like I knew something was wrong, and I even picked up a pamphlet in the lobby about a Pet Loss Support Group at the local Humane Society. Then again, I can sometimes be a little bit pessimistic, so I tried to shrug that off. Unfortunately, the feeling was right this time. The vet showed me the chest X-ray, and I could see the masses. Lung cancer, she said. And since we had previously told her that Pipper's head had been twitching sometimes, the vet said she suspected it was probably being caused by brain cancer.
Silence.
Sobbing.
Deep breath. "What do we do?"
She explained that she expected Pipper to have "maybe a month."
Silence.
How do you respond to that? I just cried and stared at the X-ray. I nodded. I tried not to lose it. I tried to be an adult, for whatever that's worth. I mentioned my husband, and how much he loves our little cat. She said that he was welcome to call her any time if he had any questions. We should watch her appetite, her mood, her breathing. She explained something about a blood test and that she would get a second opinion on the X-ray, but it didn't really register, since I could see those masses with my own eyes. She said there would be no pain, but that certain symptoms would cause stress, which we shouldn't put Pipper through, if we could avoid it.
Ok, thank you. Can I call if I think of anything else?
Yes, of course.
I cried in the exam room for a little while, and the staff tried to give me some space to be with our kitty for a few minutes. I decided I needed to deliver this news to Jesse in person, so I took Pipper home, made sure she seemed comfortable, then drove up to San Francisco at about 3:00pm. I called Jesse when I was around the block from his work. He met me outside. We cried. I tried to describe what the vet told me, but I had a hard time delivering the same message myself. We decided to go straight home. I gave Jesse the vet's phone number, and he called her on the way home. She apparently told him that Pipper had "two weeks to a month."
We had a bad week. She was sullen, exhausted, sleeping in a different room. She sounded extra "congested" if she got up and moved around (though she didn't do much of that). She didn't lift her head up if we walked into the room. We found ourselves frequently laying a hand gently on her to make sure she was still breathing.
We continued to work. Our friends were so supportive. I had prepared myself for a couple of 'off' remarks, but was so grateful that everyone seemed to understand. I recalled all of my friends who had lost pets. I kicked myself for anything I thought I said to them that might not have been appropriate. I wished I could've done more for all of them. I realized that you can't fully understand this situation without some prior experience, and that made me sad, too. I know that this will haunt me whenever a friend says they're going through something similar. It breaks my heart to think of that.
The following weekend was hard. Pipper had some kind of tremor on Saturday while Jesse was with her. The whole situation had become overwhelming -- we didn't know when we would "know," and we didn't know if she was experiencing stress. We had sort of lost perspective, since we hadn't seen her normal behavior in over a week. It was very lonely.
On Sunday afternoon, she sort of perked up. I don't exactly know what tipped us off at first, but she seemed a little more interested in the world around her. We could walk into the room, and she would look up at us. It was different somehow.
By Monday morning, she was hanging out with us on the bed like old times. She started to greet us when we walked into the room. She was proactively acknowledging us. I can't explain how happy and relieved I was. It was as if she was saying, "Here I am! Remember me?" And we did. We could finally see that she was still the same, loving, upbeat cat. She just got a little winded if she walked around too much. But once she was able to rest up, she was engaged and interested and cuddly. She started climbing up onto our chests. She started biting my hair and licking Jesse's head (some of her favorite things). She was on our bed all day (not in the other room). She was back, and we were so grateful. It was such a great week.
By this past Monday, I had come full circle, and I started to really internalize that, even though she was upbeat and perky again, it didn't mean she was getting better. It was just a really awesome period of time that would help us remember our little buddy as her happy, lovable self. I was filled with gratitude every time I saw her, and I tried to hold on to all of those happy moments and not take them for granted.
On Tuesday, Jesse noticed that her breathing had changed again. This time, it was really shallow and fast. It only happened when she exerted herself, but it was still really concerning. She also starting to do something that resembled coughing, except it was very weak, and it made her really uncomfortable. She would cough a little bit, then rapidly try to change positions and find another place to be. She was crouching down and looked a little bit panicked. As soon as the coughing stopped, she would try to lay down and relax. I could only think that the weakness and fear was caused by her reduced lung capacity. The masses must be growing, and she's suffering. We were so worried.
On Wednesday, it was clear that she was getting really tired again. I would see her asleep in the middle of the floor, which she never does. It was as if she got tired somewhere between point A and point B, so she would just lay down and rest. In the morning, she was not on the bed with us. Instead, she was on the rug next to the bed, curled up and looking fairly uncomfortable. We found her sleeping in the other room again on Wednesday night.
Yesterday morning, she seemed extremely uncomfortable. Not only was her breathing quick and shallow (while lying still), but she would curl up next to us and *immediately* lay her head down (on the side) and try to go to sleep. She just doesn't ever do that. If we're up with her on the bed, she's usually trying to get us to pet her, or biting us, or just sitting quietly with her head up and eyes open. We knew she wasn't feeling good at all. It hurt to look at her, because we felt like she was in pain, or at least really uncomfortable.
We talked and talked and talked about what we were seeing. We cried. We pet Pipper, hugged her, cried. She seemed to be unhappy when we touched her -- she would jolt her head to look at us, and she almost looked scared. A couple of times, when we touched her, she would quickly get up and scoot a few inches away, and lay back down. She was clearly telling us to leave her alone, she wasn't feeling good.
On Wednesday night, I thought it might be coming. On Thursday morning, I felt the tension in the room, as we talked about our observations. I finally said it: "Do you think it might be time?" He said yes, he did. We cried.
We decided that "tomorrow" (today) would be the right time. We talked to her.
We went to work, I called the vet. They were as reassuring as they could be, and I made an appointment. I hated being at work. I cried frequently, I locked myself in a conference room with my laptop and a box of kleenex. I've been wearing my glasses, because crying dries out my contacts, and I can't stop crying.
I got home Thursday evening, and rushed into the bedroom to find Pipper curled up on a rug next to the bed. She looked so sweetly up at me, and purred when I pet her. It broke my heart. I started to really question our decision. Jesse got home, we visited Pip again. I told him I wasn't sure. We petted her more, and out of nowhere, she started squirming and her breathing became really shallow again. She let her head fall to the floor, and we noticed that she had a new way of positioning herself. Her paws were always up under her chest, like she was trying to hold herself up and reduce the pressure on her body. It was just another sign. It was like she was telling us, "I want to be happy to see you, but I'm not happy about anything right now."
We talked for a long time. We talked about compassion, pain, indecision, fear, love, comfort. We talked about selflessness, and I said that I think I finally know what that means in this situation. We need to swallow our fear of making the wrong decision at the wrong time, and help our little buddy out of the discomfort her illness is causing her. It's not about us or our sadness. It's about what's right for her in this situation. She can't make the decision for herself, but she's trying to tell us what we need to do.
It's Friday morning, and our little buddy is hanging out in the other room, away from us. She's uncomfortable. If we approach her, she sometimes looks at us, sometimes doesn't. She sometimes purrs, sometimes tries to get away. She still pulls her little paws up under her chest. I watched her try to place her paw a different way, maybe to hold her head when she puts it down, I'm not sure. But every time she tried to move her paw, she would immediately pull it back under, like she couldn't find the right position. Jesse is torn, because she clearly wants to be left alone, but he wants to hug her for every second she has left with us.
So, this is our last day. Our appointment is at 3:00pm. There will be plenty more tears today, and an outpouring of love for our little Pip, as she spends her last few hours in our house. It has been such an awesome experience to have her living with us. I've had lots of pets, all through my life. Having only one pet has been a very intimate experience, and I'm so glad that Jesse has been able to experience Pip's unconditional love. Our little family of three has been so happy together for the past four years. We love you so much, Pipper.
posted by rooni @ 2:01 AM
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