Our cat died
[This post ended up being about me, and about our cat dying. I still need to write about the aftermath and about Ellric's reaction (using 'need' in the literal sense here), so I'll probably put that in a second post.]
Last week, we noticed that Ember, our black cat, was acting sick. Not eating or drinking as much as usual; a bit listless. Saturday, Sara took her to the vet, who told us she was dying, and had maybe a week to live.
This is the cat that I caught with my bare hands over thirteen years ago, under a friend's apartment's pool deck. The cat who hid under our couch that afternoon, but explored the apartment that night, making little 'mew's every time she moved from one area to another. The cat who hissed in anger for weeks at our second cat, a grey kitten we had hoped was her litter-mate but wasn't. The cat who would come up next to your chair and mew at you for attention, then arch her back away from your fingertips juuuust out of reach. The cat who I dubbed 'stealth kitty' for the fact that I would find her in my lap purring, but have no recollection of her actually jumping there. The cat who would sleep on the bed in the comforter valley between my legs, before Ellric came along and we evicted them from our bedroom at night. The cat who, with her 'brother' Ashes, we shipped across the country when we moved to Seattle to all live with my parents, and who hid in their unfinished basement for weeks before eventually consenting to explore the rest of the house. The cat who eventually got comfortable enough with my father that she would jump up in the little triangle of space behind him in his office chair when he was working on his computer. The cat who loved to chase bugs, and rattle her teeth menacingly at birds on the other side of the window. The cat who... The cat who...
I remember when the pets of my childhood died, but what I don't remember is the dying. A dying member of the household looms large, and I found myself trying to pick my way through what felt like a field of landmines of potential bad decisions and regrets. Where do we put her that will make her the most comfortable? Do we force her to eat or drink? Did we make the right decision to let her die at home, and not have her put to sleep? How much talking about it is too maudlin and how little is too aloof?
She slept her last few nights in Comforter Valley again, and we held and pet her a lot. Sunday we were able to spend most of the day at home, with her either in our laps or nearby on the heater vents where she loved to curl up. But Monday it was off to work and school for the three of us. Monday morning I fed her some tuna water out of an oral medicine syringe left over from Ellric's last antibiotic regimen. Though she was hardly moving at that point, when I came back to check on her five minutes later, she seemed more alert, and I gave her some more. I hoped I wasn't prolonging the agony, and conversely that I wasn't shocking her system. I left her on the bed where she had slept and turned the electric blanket on low, hoping it would help keep her warm.
Of course, once at work, I felt like an idiot for leaving on an electrical appliance when not in the house. I came home on an earlier bus that night, partly to beat the rest of my family home in case she had died, and partly because I had visions of fire engines surrounding my house. When I finally turned down our street and found no sirens or flashing lights, I sighed in relief.
And when I rushed into the bedroom and saw Ember jerkily raise her head to look at me, I burst into tears. I apologized for leaving her alone, wrapped her in a soft blanket, and sat with her in the living room, gently petting her.
That was when I received my first gift. As my hand rested on her side, I could feel her purring. That's all I wanted--for her to be comfortable. You can't ask a cat that, though, and I had felt so helpless, not knowing if what I was doing was even noticeable. But she responded, and I knew I had done the right thing.
After dinner and storytime and brushing teeth, Sara and Ellric when to bed, and I stayed up at the computer, the cat on a pillow and in a blanket on my lap. She was barely moving at all at this point, sometimes stretching or twitching, but never so much as rolling over. I made plans to work from home the next day, on death watch with the cat if necessary. I couldn't leave her alone again, not this close.
As the night got darker, she would be so still that several times I wondered if she had already died. I'd rest my hand on her side, and feel her heart. About midnight, she started to act uncomfortable, and I fretted as I tried to help. Lift her head? Lower it? Readjust something? I did the best I could, and scratched her ears.
And that was when I received my second gift. As she relaxed again and I scratched her left ear, her left hind leg started twitching in that familiar sympathetic scratching impulse. She had responded! She was happy to have her ears scratched! At the very least, she wasn't thinking about any pain she might have had. I slowed down the scratching and stopped, and she stopped too, relaxing. And a minute later, when I put my hand again to her side, I could only feel the reflection of my own heart beat. I kept her in my lap a while longer, just to be sure, but soon there was no doubt. She had died. And, wonder of wonders, I had done the right thing. I had been there with her when it happened. I eased her passing with the right decision at the end.
The whole process was quite existential for me. I thought a lot about dying and death and other members of my family. I thought of my mother's struggles with her declining father. I imagined what I might do when my parents get old, or if Sara's health declines. I thought about my own death. What's the equivalent of purring? What does 'comfortable' mean to a human, to Sara, to me? I don't have many answers. I might feel, like I felt at times with Ember, that I don't have any answers. But even without the answers, if you're paying attention, you can be there when the gift is given.
Grace and peace to you all.
Last week, we noticed that Ember, our black cat, was acting sick. Not eating or drinking as much as usual; a bit listless. Saturday, Sara took her to the vet, who told us she was dying, and had maybe a week to live.
This is the cat that I caught with my bare hands over thirteen years ago, under a friend's apartment's pool deck. The cat who hid under our couch that afternoon, but explored the apartment that night, making little 'mew's every time she moved from one area to another. The cat who hissed in anger for weeks at our second cat, a grey kitten we had hoped was her litter-mate but wasn't. The cat who would come up next to your chair and mew at you for attention, then arch her back away from your fingertips juuuust out of reach. The cat who I dubbed 'stealth kitty' for the fact that I would find her in my lap purring, but have no recollection of her actually jumping there. The cat who would sleep on the bed in the comforter valley between my legs, before Ellric came along and we evicted them from our bedroom at night. The cat who, with her 'brother' Ashes, we shipped across the country when we moved to Seattle to all live with my parents, and who hid in their unfinished basement for weeks before eventually consenting to explore the rest of the house. The cat who eventually got comfortable enough with my father that she would jump up in the little triangle of space behind him in his office chair when he was working on his computer. The cat who loved to chase bugs, and rattle her teeth menacingly at birds on the other side of the window. The cat who... The cat who...
I remember when the pets of my childhood died, but what I don't remember is the dying. A dying member of the household looms large, and I found myself trying to pick my way through what felt like a field of landmines of potential bad decisions and regrets. Where do we put her that will make her the most comfortable? Do we force her to eat or drink? Did we make the right decision to let her die at home, and not have her put to sleep? How much talking about it is too maudlin and how little is too aloof?
She slept her last few nights in Comforter Valley again, and we held and pet her a lot. Sunday we were able to spend most of the day at home, with her either in our laps or nearby on the heater vents where she loved to curl up. But Monday it was off to work and school for the three of us. Monday morning I fed her some tuna water out of an oral medicine syringe left over from Ellric's last antibiotic regimen. Though she was hardly moving at that point, when I came back to check on her five minutes later, she seemed more alert, and I gave her some more. I hoped I wasn't prolonging the agony, and conversely that I wasn't shocking her system. I left her on the bed where she had slept and turned the electric blanket on low, hoping it would help keep her warm.
Of course, once at work, I felt like an idiot for leaving on an electrical appliance when not in the house. I came home on an earlier bus that night, partly to beat the rest of my family home in case she had died, and partly because I had visions of fire engines surrounding my house. When I finally turned down our street and found no sirens or flashing lights, I sighed in relief.
And when I rushed into the bedroom and saw Ember jerkily raise her head to look at me, I burst into tears. I apologized for leaving her alone, wrapped her in a soft blanket, and sat with her in the living room, gently petting her.
That was when I received my first gift. As my hand rested on her side, I could feel her purring. That's all I wanted--for her to be comfortable. You can't ask a cat that, though, and I had felt so helpless, not knowing if what I was doing was even noticeable. But she responded, and I knew I had done the right thing.
After dinner and storytime and brushing teeth, Sara and Ellric when to bed, and I stayed up at the computer, the cat on a pillow and in a blanket on my lap. She was barely moving at all at this point, sometimes stretching or twitching, but never so much as rolling over. I made plans to work from home the next day, on death watch with the cat if necessary. I couldn't leave her alone again, not this close.
As the night got darker, she would be so still that several times I wondered if she had already died. I'd rest my hand on her side, and feel her heart. About midnight, she started to act uncomfortable, and I fretted as I tried to help. Lift her head? Lower it? Readjust something? I did the best I could, and scratched her ears.
And that was when I received my second gift. As she relaxed again and I scratched her left ear, her left hind leg started twitching in that familiar sympathetic scratching impulse. She had responded! She was happy to have her ears scratched! At the very least, she wasn't thinking about any pain she might have had. I slowed down the scratching and stopped, and she stopped too, relaxing. And a minute later, when I put my hand again to her side, I could only feel the reflection of my own heart beat. I kept her in my lap a while longer, just to be sure, but soon there was no doubt. She had died. And, wonder of wonders, I had done the right thing. I had been there with her when it happened. I eased her passing with the right decision at the end.
The whole process was quite existential for me. I thought a lot about dying and death and other members of my family. I thought of my mother's struggles with her declining father. I imagined what I might do when my parents get old, or if Sara's health declines. I thought about my own death. What's the equivalent of purring? What does 'comfortable' mean to a human, to Sara, to me? I don't have many answers. I might feel, like I felt at times with Ember, that I don't have any answers. But even without the answers, if you're paying attention, you can be there when the gift is given.
Grace and peace to you all.