I'm baaaaack

[pride_of_erin]

Um, hi. *waves sheepishly*

I know I haven't posted in about six months, but I have been around, keeping up with my f-list and commenting here and there. I'm going to make more of an effort to be a presence around here though - I feel bad that I haven't been, because my fannish friends are such an important part of my life, and I should be contributing like I used to. I did sign up for oz_magi again this year, so I guess that's something?

I kind of fell into deep hole of apathy after Rodney died. Which is terrible, because I know people on my f-list are dealing with actual human loss, while I got so torn apart over a cat - but I think it was mostly the guilt. I was didn't treat him as well as I should've during his last few weeks of life, because his behaviour was so frustrating, and then I find out that the whole time he was so sick and so brave, hardly letting it show how much pain he was in. I had put his behaviour down to fretting after his brother died (they were from the same litter, so Rodney had never been alone before, and it was a terrible shock to him). Then I realized that he was breathing kind of funny. I assumed it was just a cold (or a giant hairball that was stuck - he'd had plenty of those) and I didn't take him to the vet straight away, because I didn't want to seem like I was worrying over nothing, like I had in the past.


When I did finally take him to the vet, I was informed that Rodney's chest cavity was so full of fluid it was literally crushing his lungs and he only had 15% breathing capacity. FIFTEEN PERCENT. If a human only had 15% lung capacity, they'd be in intensive care; meanwhile my brave little boy was doing his best to run and play like he always had, only he was sleeping more and barely eating. Which I, clueless idiot that I am, put down to grief and laziness (he'd always been the laziest cat we'd ever had). So anyway, the vet put him in an oxygen chamber, which helped his breathing a little. The vet then told me that the fluid around his lungs was most likely either a sign of cancer or a massive infection - the only way to know for sure would be to do a biopsy. Unfortunately, in order to get that done I'd have to take him to a special animal hospital, where the fees just for his care would quickly run into the thousands and neither I nor my parents have that kind of money to spare. Plus doing that would have put him through more physical pain and emotional distress, because he'd never been away from home and left with strangers before, and he was a very clingy, wimpy cat. Definitely a mama's boy.

The vet then told me that even if they did figure out exactly what was wrong with him and start a treatment, with either diagnosis there was only a slim chance that he would survive anyway. By this point I was in a teary state of shock - I'd gone to the vet expecting him to tell me that it was nothing, and now I was facing the idea of Rodney dying, when just that morning he'd been playing with me, same as always. How could I not have known how sick he was? I was the worst cat mother ever. Eventually my mum helped me see that putting him down was the kindest thing to do at that point - he'd suffered enough. Trying to heal him would only cause more pain, with the more than likely chance that it wouldn't make any difference anyway. Giving consent was the hardest thing I've ever done - essentially telling someone that yes, they can kill this being that you love and promised to protect and care for. I had to fight to get the words out of my throat; intellectually knowing that something is for the best doesn't stop every natural instinct in your body from screaming 'no'.

I was there when he got the injection, stroking him and telling him I loved him. When the vet nurse brought him out from the back room where he'd been on oxygen, he turned immediately when he heard my voice, straining to get to me, like he was happy I'd finally come to take him home and away from this strange place with these strange people. The nurse said, "Wow, he sure knows his mum, doesn't he?"
I helped put him on the table and he immediately got up and turned around, heading toward the window, like he was saying, "No, that way, Mum; home's out there." That's when it really struck me that he'd never see home again - my heart cracked in two at that moment. I got him to lay down so he was still facing the window; so he had something nice to look at until the end. The nurse commented that he was a very good boy, doing what I told him to. And he was, god that faith that animals have in you, that blind trust. It would never have occurred to him that I was doing anything bad to him - his mum took care of him. That was all he knew.

Anyway, he did come home. He's now buried in our front yard next to his brother, Benji. I'd always had the feeling that one wouldn't last very long without the other - Rodney outlived him by exactly 2 months and 1 week. I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner; I was bracing myself for it happening somehow during the first weeks after Benji's death, but then time continued to pass and nothing happened, so I thought maybe I was wrong and he would live a good, long life. Unfortunately not. Poor kitties - they were only three and a half years old. I was a mess on October 5th, which would have been their fourth birthday.


Sorry for such a depressing post. I've been needing to get that out and it's taken six months for me to be strong enough to do it. God only knows how I'll cope when a human member of my family dies.

Anyway, in happier news - it's almost Christmas! (Well, it's happy-making for me). That means the return of my infamous smutty advent calendar!! I love you guys.

Comments

[pride-of-erin.livejournal.com]

{hugs back} Thanks, Lisa. I'm doing better now - I think it was harder because he was the first cat that was mine and not just the family's, you know?