knocked down, cried out
There's been a lot going on with Will. My medications. I'm happier, generally. I felt like life was getting better.
Then my mom called me on April 1st to tell me French Fry has cancer. It was not an April Fool's joke. And I didn't even bother asking because that's just...cruel, and as crazy as my mom is, she wouldn't do that to me.
This has been at the forefront of my mind. I wanted to come down that weekend but knew I had to prepare for my apartment inspection, so I made plans to come down the weekend after. Knowing that my mom would be in Iowa helped sweeten it. I'd get time with my Frenchie and not have to deal with her shenanigans.
At first I fought it. I asked about operation options. I knew money was an issue with my mom since she filed for bankruptcy, but I was fully prepared to look into my options and whip out my credit cards. Anything for my baby, my best friend. But my mom talked me out of it, and I accepted our decision. He's a cat and he wouldn't understand why we'd be putting him through so much pain, and besides, she said, the cancer's spread through his body. All we can do is make his last days happy and comfortable, and take comfort ourselves in knowing that he has had a VERY good life where he has been loved and doted upon.
I thought I'd be prepared to see him but the minute I came inside and hugged him I felt nothing but bones. He's lost so much weight - the cat I once referred to as Chunkers McFlufferton now has a spine that I can feel every bone on. The worst was when I went to feed him, though. He opened his mouth twice to speak but nothing came out. And then it happened - a weak, weak, high-pitched cry. It should have been no different from the past - where he would whine for food whenever someone was in the kitchen - but now it sounds so desperate and sad. I broke down immediately realizing how weak he really was and reality set in.
It was a rough night for me. I couldn't stop crying. Back when my mom would allude to French Fry dying one day in the future (yeah, one of many reasons I don't like talking with her), I would brush her off and tell her he was invincible and would never die. In the back of my mind I knew I was fronting, but I never thought he would go like this. I thought he'd live to the ripe old age of 17 or 18 and just...die of old age. Not cancer at age 12/13.
I had to help him up into bed, but we snuggled all night until sleeping, when he jumped off the bed as he always did in the past. I found him in the morning sleeping on the living room rug, then had my heart broken continuously as he meowed for breakfast in the kitchen, fed him, and we cuddled more while I ate breakfast and watched Spongebob.
I spent much of the day with Nancy and my cousins but couldn't stop thinking about him. I finally got home around 6:00 after dinner. Fed him again, and then he came to visit me on the couch. He seemed to have some of his energy back and looked like he wanted to jump up on the couch but was still unable to, so I picked him up. (;o;) But he's sleeping now on my legs, which have fallen asleep.
He's still the French Fry I adored for the past decade and then some. I don't know if this will be the last weekend I get to see him. It would be great if his appetite came back more, but I know that's not how it works with cancer, especially in cats. I just want him to be happy, and I know hanging out with him and giving him loves and snuggles are all he wants.
Then my mom called me on April 1st to tell me French Fry has cancer. It was not an April Fool's joke. And I didn't even bother asking because that's just...cruel, and as crazy as my mom is, she wouldn't do that to me.
This has been at the forefront of my mind. I wanted to come down that weekend but knew I had to prepare for my apartment inspection, so I made plans to come down the weekend after. Knowing that my mom would be in Iowa helped sweeten it. I'd get time with my Frenchie and not have to deal with her shenanigans.
At first I fought it. I asked about operation options. I knew money was an issue with my mom since she filed for bankruptcy, but I was fully prepared to look into my options and whip out my credit cards. Anything for my baby, my best friend. But my mom talked me out of it, and I accepted our decision. He's a cat and he wouldn't understand why we'd be putting him through so much pain, and besides, she said, the cancer's spread through his body. All we can do is make his last days happy and comfortable, and take comfort ourselves in knowing that he has had a VERY good life where he has been loved and doted upon.
I thought I'd be prepared to see him but the minute I came inside and hugged him I felt nothing but bones. He's lost so much weight - the cat I once referred to as Chunkers McFlufferton now has a spine that I can feel every bone on. The worst was when I went to feed him, though. He opened his mouth twice to speak but nothing came out. And then it happened - a weak, weak, high-pitched cry. It should have been no different from the past - where he would whine for food whenever someone was in the kitchen - but now it sounds so desperate and sad. I broke down immediately realizing how weak he really was and reality set in.
It was a rough night for me. I couldn't stop crying. Back when my mom would allude to French Fry dying one day in the future (yeah, one of many reasons I don't like talking with her), I would brush her off and tell her he was invincible and would never die. In the back of my mind I knew I was fronting, but I never thought he would go like this. I thought he'd live to the ripe old age of 17 or 18 and just...die of old age. Not cancer at age 12/13.
I had to help him up into bed, but we snuggled all night until sleeping, when he jumped off the bed as he always did in the past. I found him in the morning sleeping on the living room rug, then had my heart broken continuously as he meowed for breakfast in the kitchen, fed him, and we cuddled more while I ate breakfast and watched Spongebob.
I spent much of the day with Nancy and my cousins but couldn't stop thinking about him. I finally got home around 6:00 after dinner. Fed him again, and then he came to visit me on the couch. He seemed to have some of his energy back and looked like he wanted to jump up on the couch but was still unable to, so I picked him up. (;o;) But he's sleeping now on my legs, which have fallen asleep.
He's still the French Fry I adored for the past decade and then some. I don't know if this will be the last weekend I get to see him. It would be great if his appetite came back more, but I know that's not how it works with cancer, especially in cats. I just want him to be happy, and I know hanging out with him and giving him loves and snuggles are all he wants.