"Euthanasia literally means 'good death' and refers to a painless and peaceful death." "Euthanasia means 'good death'... painless and peaceful."
"Euthanasia ... painless and peaceful."
I must have repeated this silently to myself a thousand times this weekend.
It was my mantra.
It was my lifeline.
My last post ended with our Kitty at a Veterinary Hospital and a desperate Internet search. This post begins with an empty spot next to me on the couch and a completely broken heart.
When we picked Cattington up from the Hospital Wednesday morning she was quiet but breathing normally. The Doctor told us that removing the fluid from her lungs had a good result but warned us that her heart condition meant that it would happen again. Maybe in a week, maybe in a month - but it would happen again. And sticking a needle into her lungs to drain away fluid is not an acceptable treatment for Congestive Heart Failure. When we brought her in on Tuesday night they didn't advise treating her at all. Doctors I am learning, are not as much in the hope business as they are in the realism business.
On Friday morning we took her to her regular doctor at Hyde Park Veterinary Clinic. The staff there has long called her their Miracle Kitty but now they were telling us that she was running out of time. But of course, the question always is - how much time is left? They admitted that there was no real way to know, upped her medication and we took her home.
Once back home it quickly became clear that she was not going to get better. She takes three presecriptions to control her heart condition. One keeps her blood thin to try to prevent her from forming clots. Another is a diuretic to keep fluid from building up in her longs. She was refusing to eat so she wasn't getting any of her medications. We were starting to become very afraid that without her medicine she was in danger of throwing another clot or drowning in the fluid in her lungs. On Saturday morning we called her vet back and asked them when they could come over. The earliest home visit they had available was 2 PM on Monday afternoon - a day and time that seemed both way too soon and way too far away.
So began a waiting game. Waiting for her to eat. Waiting for her to drink. Waiting and watching for her to just breathe in and out. Our desperate hope was to keep her going through the weekend - not only so her own doctors could treat her at home but also just to get a couple more days with her. Our fear was that her condition would worsen and that we would end up with her at the hospital in the middle of the night, in distress, afraid, and suffering which is the exact opposite of what we were trying to bring her. Five different times we saw her struggling to breathe and made the decision to take her to the hospital. Five different times we put on shoes and coats and scarves and packed her in her carrier, one hand on the door. Five different times we stopped and waited and decided to give her another chance. Five different times she was able to readjust her position and begin to breathe easier again.
Small moments of unexpected Grace
During those last few days she spent most of the time to herself, but there were several unexpected moments of joy and grace. On Friday night she slept all night in bed with us in what had always been her special spot, up against my stomach. What an wonderful gift that was - feeling her warm little body snuggled up against me. Truly special. But then beginning the next morning she started refusing food and water and after that night she never ate again. We closed off the bedrooms so that we could keep a closer eye on her but for the most part we respected her need to be left alone. The few times we were actually able to get her to drink water quenched our soul as much as it quenched her thirst. You would have thought we had never seen anything as wonderful in our lives. And of course, throughout the weekend we never stopped second guessing. - wondering if we were being loving, or selfish.
Then on Sunday, a little miracle.
Before she got sick our Kitty's favorite thing, after fresh tuna and belly rubs was sitting on the window overlooking "Cattington's Kingdom". She would lounge in the London sunshine, checking out the drunken antics at Victoria Pub, the deafening 11 PM recycle collection at Norjahan Indian Restaurant, the incessant barking of Parker and Rocko on their nightly walks. She was scared of her shadow but loved watching the comings and goings of London life safely from her perch high above it all. Since her first blood clot back in May she had not had the strength or the desire, to jump up and sit on her windowsill. And even when we would lift her up there it seemed like the stimulation was too much for her - the way you just want to hide under your covers with the TV off and the door closed when you don't feel well.
On Sunday morning the gray and gloomy weather we had been experiencing for weeks on end finally broke. The sun came out and the people of London came out along with it. I was
sitting on the couch, watching our baby laying under the dining room table and checking her breathing for probably the thousandth time, when she got up and walked over to her
window sill. She stood up on her hind legs to test the distance and then launched herself up there, easy as can be. She sat there regally in the sunshine for hours. Watching the world go by. Interested in everything and everyone. Almost as if she was memorizing every detail. Almost as if she was saying goodbye.
Assigning human characteristics to animals is so common that there is a word for it:
anthropomorphism. We want to believe that they are just like us. That they observe and feel and dream and think just like us. Did Cattington know her time here was coming to an end?
Was she enjoying one last afternoon in the sun? Was she saying one final goodbye to all of her favorite London landmarks? Was she at peace with it? I have no idea, but I want to think so. I do know that for us, seeing her on that sill; watching her bask in the sun and show interest in the rest of the world for the first time in months, was what we needed at a time when we were second guessing every decision we made. Was it a miracle? To us it was. And looking back to those afternoon hours on Sunday is what is holding us together even now.
Our pets are part of our family - our companions, our confidants. They are with us through the good and bad that life throws at us. Kitty had been left behind by the owners of the house that I moved into the day my divorce became final. We were both abandoned, unloved, alone, and afraid. She was my solace and my sounding board during those dark days. A few years later she was my seatmate on a Southwest Airlines flight as we joyfully packed up and moved to Florida where I would marry the man of my dreams. She was our teammate as we made the decision to begin a new adventure in a country we had never even visited. She moved into a million dollar flat in Central London and little Kitty became posh Cattington. I like to think we gave her a good life. A life full of love and attention and adventure and fun. As my son said "not too bad for a street cat from Tennessee".
Our beloved Kitty quietly left this earth at 2:15 Monday afternoon. She was laying on her favorite blanket, in her Dad's favorite chair. The last thing those beautiful green eyes saw was her Mom's loving face and the last thing she heard was us telling her how much she was cherished and loved.
We are at peace with our decision. We are thankful that she died comfortably here at home, but her leaving has left a hole in our hearts. Our little three person family has lost it's most beloved member and we will never be the same. Somehow, through sheer force of will she was able to make it through one last weekend, giving us time to say goodbye, and leaving us special gifts along the way. We will treasure those moments for the rest of our lives. And we will never forget our little Miracle Kitty's last, most special miracle.
Comments