The future of Tuesday
Last night, we rushed Tuesday to the animal hospital yet again -- a different one, since one we had gone to in the past was too busy. The doctors were extremely helpful and talked with us at length. Tuesday was in an oxygen chamber; her blood pressure, heart rate and temperature were low, which the doctor said was common with congestive heart failure (those words made me turn cold). However, Tuesday was improving with the oxygen, so the vet decided it was still severe asthma, but there was most likely something else wrong, something they couldn't detect. We decided to keep her there until morning, just so they could monitor her. It was three in the morning by the time we came home. The waiting room had been cold. We were drained, fatigued, ready to pass out. I'd had several exhausting auras and a couple of simple partial seizures, and Adam and I talked for a long time, sitting on the lacquered wooden benches. And when the doctor came out with a form and asked what we wanted to do if Tuesday stopped breathing or went into cardiac arrest... we told her to check the Do Not Resucitate box. We were so tired. I kept wondering if I'd have the energy to walk to the car. I did.
We went home and slept, and just before seven Adam got up and went to pick Tuesday up. We went back to sleep. At twelve noon, we took her to the regular vet, who gave her another allergy shot, and gave us terbutaline and prednisone.
And together we made a decision, backed by my mother's advice over the phone. Because this will keep happening. The medication and the injections will only delay the inevitable. My cat is not healthy and she is slowly getting worse. And so... when it happens again, in two months or three months or whenever it may be, we will drive her to the emergency clinic one more time. For the last time. A final injection. She will sleep, and she will not wake up, and it will be quick, and she won't be hurting anymore. Mom tells me that it is the biggest kindness to Tuesday. There is no guarantee that spaying her will help her condition, and we cannot put her in surgery until she goes off the steroids, and that cannot happen if we want to keep her alive. Our options are badly limited. Jason will get Jupiter fixed soon, but Tuesday... there is nothing more we can do, and we all know it; even she knows it. She understands.
That's all. That's all I can talk about right now.
I know it's the best thing to do. And of course it rips me apart.
But it's the best thing.
We went home and slept, and just before seven Adam got up and went to pick Tuesday up. We went back to sleep. At twelve noon, we took her to the regular vet, who gave her another allergy shot, and gave us terbutaline and prednisone.
And together we made a decision, backed by my mother's advice over the phone. Because this will keep happening. The medication and the injections will only delay the inevitable. My cat is not healthy and she is slowly getting worse. And so... when it happens again, in two months or three months or whenever it may be, we will drive her to the emergency clinic one more time. For the last time. A final injection. She will sleep, and she will not wake up, and it will be quick, and she won't be hurting anymore. Mom tells me that it is the biggest kindness to Tuesday. There is no guarantee that spaying her will help her condition, and we cannot put her in surgery until she goes off the steroids, and that cannot happen if we want to keep her alive. Our options are badly limited. Jason will get Jupiter fixed soon, but Tuesday... there is nothing more we can do, and we all know it; even she knows it. She understands.
That's all. That's all I can talk about right now.
I know it's the best thing to do. And of course it rips me apart.
But it's the best thing.