The olivia Update

Just about every day, somebody asks me how Olivia is doing. (In fact, as I was typing that sentence, a coworker stopped at my desk and asked, "So, how's the cat?")

It's touching that so many people care about this little kitty (and, by extension, her person). Most of these people have never met Olivia. Most never will. But they all have (or have had) pets of their own. They all know what it's like to deal with a major illness in that pet. And most, if not all, have faced that moment when there's nothing left to do but stop fighting, let go and say goodbye.

Fortunately, we're not at that point yet. Each visit to the vet yields its share of good news and bad--progress on some fronts, challenges on others. Her blood test shows she's less anemic? Yay! It also shows her phosphorus is up? Boo! She gained a tenth of a pound last week? Cool! She lost that same tenth of a pound by the next visit? Not as cool. Her phosphorus level is going down? About damn time! Her creatinine (toxin) level is going up? Crap.

(That last one was serious enough to merit a rush visit to the hospital to check Olivia's blood pressure--which, as it turns out, is "terrific," to use the vet's own word for it--and, consequently, up her IV fluids to help the kidneys better flush the toxins out.)

Every challenge has been met by adjustments in treatment--more fluids or meds here, different or fewer meds there. I have to give herthe aforementioned fluids every day, along with an appetite stimulant now every other day), an antacid (by injection once a day) and a phosphorus binder in the form of a liquid squirted into her mouth (12cc per day, delivered in as many smaller doses as my schedule will allow).

To say she despises this process would be a vast understatement. Every time I have to give her the phosphorus binder, she tries to spit it back out at me or drool it out. Much of my apartment (and my clothing) is covered in white speckles. I always apologize after every treatment.

And, clearly, she forgives me. The photo above was taken right after such a session. She ran out of the bathroom, licked her "wounds" for a few minutes, then jumped up beside me on the couch, curled up and took a nap.

And that's how it goes these days. Olivia has her good days and bad. Sometimes she absolutely loves her kibble, sometimes she looks at me like I've just put a bowl of shit in front of her when I have, in fact, given her something she'd eaten and thoroughly enjoyed just a couple of days before. And, unfortunately, she figured out Ms. Christopher's old trick of hiding under the super-heavy Memory Foam bed to avoid medication/a trip to the vet. I finally had to disassemble the bed and let the mattress and box spring sit inside the frame rather than on it, leaving it flush with the floor. Olivia was not please.

Overall. though, the little girl's appetite and energy are definitely better than when I took her to the hospital six weeks ago. I'm feeding her a wide variety of foods, all lower in phosphorus than her beloved Friskies, and many times she kills the new stuff. She's responded well to the medication, and the hope is that she will keep responding well.

Even if I have to be realistic and accept that my vet and I are only postponing the inevitable, I can still enjoy the little triumphs and small bits of fun, like last night, when I did a load of laundry (still trying to get out those phosphorus binder stains) and accidentally picked up one of Olivia's favorite toys: a white pom-pon given to her by Dee at the last HMB. When I found it in the drier later, I tucked it into my pocket and, when I got back upstairs with the "clean" clothing (the binder stains still more or less in place), I tossed the pom-pon down the hall. Olivia immediately tore after it, swatted it around the hall and trotted back to me, pom-pon in mouth. I threw it down the hall again, and she brought it back again. We repeated this at least a dozen times. She even brought it to bed with her.

She's still here, still with me, still eating and pooping and calling to me from the living room window when I get home. We may have less time together than either one of us had hoped for, but we have the here-and-now. And that will have to do.