Wed. July 15, 2009
After nearly 3 years and a dozen death threats, Maxine seems ready to go. She struggles to stay upright and wobbles on four bony legs. Her fur is thinning, gray-specked and no longer shiny. Her eyes look distant and hazy.
I don’t want to keep her here longer than she wants to be here. I don’t want her to suffer.
Max has fluid around her heart and lungs and digestive problems. This year the vet also found tumors. But she did not seem to be in pain and even purred at the vet that day, a definite first. She ate well and played with her mousy. She was not ready to go yet.
It's amazing she's lasted this long. After she was hospitalized in 2006 following a spewing spree that left her dehydrated, we worked out a regiment of steroid pills and Pepcid. Dr. Whisler gave her an estimated 3 to 6 months to live.
No heroic measures or invasive procedures. She wouldn’t want it that way. I wanted to maintain some dignity for my beautiful girl, who has been at my side for 15 years.
The 3 extra years meant sleepless nights when Max got sick or woke me up because she was hungry again, a sign that the steroids were working. Or she would fight or fuss with her new roommates, two rescued kittens we adopted that entertain and annoy her in equal measure.
I will let her go, I’ve said, if she will just tell me when it is the right time.
Last week was bad but she rebounded and started eating again. I left notes for the catsitter to that effect when we left town Thursday. She once again seemed to defy death.
Day one. “She seems normal,” texted our catsitter of several years and several long trips. “No problems.”
Day two, my cell phone didn’t get any text messages so I thought all was well.
Day three my husband picked up a facebook message from Saturday: “Hard time pilling Max today, she hid under bed. I had 2 resort 2 using broom 2 get her out. Got her pilled under dining room table. Gave shot, b/c she's grumpy.”
A broom? A pill and shot? The shot was to be given once a week instead of pills, an extra large dose if needed. The steroid reduces inflammation and makes her hungry; it’s not a happy pill. However, Maxine seemed fine when we got home Sunday night and happy to see us.
But not for long. She ate little and has not kept steroid pills down since we got back. She’s thrown up every night and morning. With no food in her system, a white foamy liquid comes out. I gave her Pepcid to settle her stomach, and she kept that down, thankfully.
Max has taken to hiding, under the bed or dining room table when I come out of the kitchen. She knows where the pills are. She’s made it clear she wants no more of them. I want to respect her decision.
But no more steroid pills… means the end is very near.
Max is on hunger strike rations. She eats to please me, but barely. She eats from my fingertips. She sips tuna juice. She licks gravy from Fancy Feast cans. Then she walks, crookedly, away.
I wonder when to call the vet. Reason for appointment? To put her to sleep.
It seems logical and humane but also awful --- scheduling her death.
Is it better to let her die at home or help make it peaceful and painless – and planned - with both of us present? The latter always made sense and I want to be there at the end to comfort her. And I want my husband to get us there and comfort me.
I had the vet’s number in front of me all morning and couldn't make the call. Is Thursday better or Friday? For Jack’s work schedule? For me? For Maxine? Either... Neither.
When I got myself together enough to call, it was 12:23. Uptown Animal Hospital closed at Noon. I sigh in relief, but I know it is temporary. I’ll be in this same place tomorrow.
Her face is still beautiful with big blue eyes, white eye liner and black mask. But her scrawny body is a shell of her former healthy self. She still purrs instantly when I pet the top of her head.
I look in her eyes and believe she is ready to go. I got the message, Max, thank you.
I thought I was ready to let her go... but this is still a hard call to make.
Postscript - Fri. July 17 - 10:00 a.m.
I've just returned from the vet, with an empty carrier. My girl is gone. She fell asleep purring with me and my husband at her side this morning. I am not making this up: the vet was crying when he came in the room. She was really skinny, he noted, as well as jaundiced and unsteady.
She was still so beautiful, even at the end, that it made the reality harder to believe. But she is gone and I am now on the roller coaster ride that is grief. Rest in peace, pussycat.
1 comment:
When I had this same dilemma, I had an in-home vet come over, but not to put my Irving to sleep. I wanted her to evaluate him. Easier phone call to make.
She said either decision I made would be the proper one. He was sick and wouldn't be getting better, but he was alert and aware that day.
I couldn't make the decision to have him put to sleep that day. He'd had a really good morning and I wanted to see if maybe he was on an upswing.
The next morning was bad for him. He was so weak that he was walking on the tops of his paws. It became obvious that there was no quality of life, and no upswing, for him, so I made a second call to the vet and asked if she could come over that afternoon. She could, after her other appointments.
I laid on my bed with Irving and rested with him, petted him and told him how good a cat he'd been and how much I loved him. It was two hours of perfect grace for both of us.
I asked the vet to come in without ringing the bell (I left the door unlocked for her) and Irving wasn't alarmed when she got there. He passed away on my bed, while being petted and whispered to by me.
I'm glad I had it done at home, even though it was more expensive. Irving was calm. I miss him more than I can express, but I know my decision was the right one for both of us.
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