Mood: slightly uncomfortable and chilled
Wearing: black pants, black flats, no socks, lavender 3/4 sleeve tee-shirt.
Listening to: The Commitments soundtrack #2
I think my cat Chelsea is going downhill.
She is 18 years old. She’s on two different medications. I caught her peeing on the living room rug last week, so I hauled her to the vet. They couldn’t take a urine sample (because she’d just pee’d on my rug, duh) but they gave me a bunch of antibiotics. But that wasn’t the disturbing part. She’s down to 6 1/2 pounds now. That means that she has lost half of her weight… she used to be 12 pounds. That gives me a queasy feeling, knowing that, thinking about that. It’s like she’s concentration camp kitty and there’s no reason for it.
So all week, I’ve been shoving antibiotics down her throat and feeding her her favorite canned food instead of her normal dry, trying to coax her to eat a bit more. Esteban’s back from Vegas, so I made him take her to the vet yesterday. I didn’t ask what she weighed, but they were unable to take a urine sample again. They got home and Esteban caught her trying to pee in his office. He changed the box again.
This morning, I gave her her food and shut the door so she could eat it without Tilly chowing it up. She was trapped away from the litter box about 15 minutes… it normally takes her about 10 minutes or so to eat.
When I opened the door that separates the kitchen from the dining room again, she was away from the food dish. I went into the living room and she was standing in the same spot I had caught her in last Saturday, about to pee again. Now, I know that I had kept her away from the box, but there is no reason that she should have not been able to “hold it” for 15 minutes. I have a feeling that it wouldn’t have mattered if the door had been open or not, because she’s pee’d there other times when the box was accessible.
I scooped her up and tried to put her in her box, but she stepped right back out. Then I picked her up again and gave her the medicine and her pills. I put her down and then she went into the box and used it.
This brings up tons of weird feelings. When Pookie died, it was hard and painful. I felt numb and I just didn’t want to think about him. But now, with Chelsea, we’ve been having the feeling that she’s been getting senile. She walks very stifly and she really doesn’t like to go down the stairs to the basement (which is why the litter box is in the dining room for her). She will not jump more than three feet. She’s meowing all the time.
I think it’s time.
This really brings up horrible reminders of when my great-grandmother had alzheimer’s disease and then had her stroke. I wasn’t involved in the decision to pull the life support system. The decision had been made by the time that I found out. She was already declining when I got to the hospital, wheels turning toward the inevitable conclusion. All in all, it was for the best, everyone kept telling themselves this. However, it seemed not right to me. If we would have fed her, she would have lived. She basically dehydrated and starved to death, her skin loosening and falling away from her face toward the earth. It was almost possible to convince yourself that it was the right thing to do, but then disturbing things would happen… she would grip my hand with her hot velvet paw and cling to this world. Together, we’d sit in that room, absent of beeping life support machines, and I’d turn the television to shows I’d think she’d enjoy… John Wayne, the Waltons. She died during Lawrence Welk. It was on in an empty room.
Even when Pookie had to be put to sleep, it was bad. We weren’t expecting it. His kidney’s had failed and Esteban made me make the decision because he “couldn’t do it”. I was racked by guilt over this for three years afterward. Should I have tried harder? Should we have done dialysis for him? Would he have recovered? Was I being driven by monetary concerns or my compassion for him?
So anyway, this “it’s for the best” attitude is falling flat. In my logical brain, I know that my great-grandmother had specified that she did NOT want to be a vegetable on a bed, being supported by machines. She was terrified by the thought of not being able to feed herself. But I wonder if she wanted to go? I can’t help but think that when you are actually IN the bed, actually feeling yourself slip away, that you’d want anything ANYONE to fight for you, to fight to bring you back. I think that I failed them both.
And now Chelsea. If I have her put down because she’s peeing on my rugs, won’t it just be because I don’t want a smelly rug? Or is this peeing a behavior caused by dysfunctioning and failing senses?
And the worst part of this is that I know already that I can’t rely on Esteban making the decision. It will go on and on and on because he will never bring himself to suggest that we put her down.
I hate being the adult.
