After rallying somewhat over the weekend with her new, improved meds, Ms. Christopher declined suddenly and rapidly starting Tuesday, when she was unsteady on her feet (never a good sign for a cat, one of the most surefooted creatures on Earth) and not inclined to eat, through Wednesday night, when I coaxed her to chow down on some Meow Mix lobster & crab combo even though she was having trouble walking, through Thursday morning, when I put her down on the floor (after keeping watch over her all night and getting not a wink of sleep) and watching her try to stand, cry out in pain and sit back down.
Superbadfriend told me a few days ago that Christopher would let me know when the time had come. She was right.
I kept her comfortable for the remaining hours before dawn, made the earliest appointment I could with the vet (who was as heartbroken as I was at this sad, sudden turn of events) and got her there by cab as quickly as possible (rush-hour traffic nothwithstanding). The vet made a brief examination, determined that Christopher's liver had finally given out and did the only thing left that we could do for her--end her suffering.
I would later take Chris down to Mom's house and, with my brother's help, lay her to rest, with one of her favorite catnip toys tucked between her paws, in the backyard, just a few feet away from Gray Cat (my Russian Blue who made it to 20 years old before having to be put down in 1997), Monkey (Mom's cat who passed last year) and several other family pets. I went to work for a few hours--sick as it sounds, the distraction was welcome--and finally, regretfully returned La Casa del Terror, which still smelled strongly of sick cat on a day that was too cool for open windows.
Olivia ran up to me and begged for food and attention, but then started searching the apartment for Christopher, looking under the bed and couch (two of Chris's favorite hiding places), around corners, in the litter pan. The two cats didn't like each other much, but they'd been roommates for nearly four years and Li'L O couldn't understand why the big fluffball wasn't there. "She's not coming back," I explained to her as calmly as I could through tears. "It's just you and me for now." And there were phone calls and messages from friends from coast to coast, grieving along with me.
The hardest part, though, was the minutes spent in the examination room, comforting my poor, dying Girlish Girl--my friend who'd blessed my life with unconditional love for 13 of her 15 years--while the vet and her assistant administered the muscle relaxant to ease her pain and the final injection to end it. The whole time, the vet, the assistant and I stroked Christopher's fur, telling her what a good, sweet kitty she was, even well after she couldn't hear or feel us anymore.
And so she was, as anyone who ever met her--and quite a few who didn't--knew well.
5 comments:
Aw, jeez. I keep telling myself I'm dead inside, so why am I crying? I hope you are feeling better today, though I'm sure you know there is no timeline for grieving.
I know what you mean about being in the exam room. When Luke was dying, I just wanted to get it over with. That might sound heartless, but it's the truth. I wanted him to stay with me forever, but he was dying right in front of me, and I wanted to end his suffering. Waiting for my family to meet me us at the vet was pure torture. I almost felt like I didn't get to say goodbye properly because I was worried about so many things. Did Luke know I was there? Was he suffering? What was I going to do without him? I just sat and held his head in my lap and kept telling him I loved him, that he did a great job and it would all be over soon. After he was gone, I felt a huge weight lift off my shoulders. Not that he was a burden; I never once felt that way. I think it was that this was the end of something wonderful. I don't think Luke regretted a single moment of our eight years together, and neither did I. Of course, in the weeks that followed, I went to a very bad place. So please take care of yourself. If you need to talk, let me (or somebody else) know. You don't have to go through this alone.
I think it was that this was the end of something wonderful.
That's the thing right there. Christopher and I had a great 13-year run together, and all of it except for the last couple of months was healthy and happy.
I know she's in a better place know, seeing her sister on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge, and that she's no longer in pain. But last night, when I went to bed, it was the first time since the first week after I moved into my original apartment in 1995 that I was going to bed without Christopher with me, and that was very weird and sad. Something wonderful has ended. Someone wonderful has left my life.
Left your life maybe, but not your heart. I know it's cliché, but it's true. It also doesn't make the loss any easier to deal with, but someday you'll call on those memories and smile.
I am so truly, deeply sorry for your loss. I have been through it sudden and utterly without warning as well as after a prolonged illness and it's never any easier. I don't like adding to the kitty cemetary on my parents' property. I'm glad that you were with her during her final moments. She was a good girl.
Yes, she was, Belsum. Yes, she was.
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