i woke up today, feeling extremely heavy; this weight of doubt, guilt, acceptance have all combined. i sprung right up, wondering if i’m doing the right thing. i sat up wondering if she is okay with all of this- how much pain is she in? i look over and see her, and a wave of sadness takes over. the muppet song ‘saying goodbye’ plays repeatedly in my head, and i begin to cry.
right before the alarm goes off i have a dream. i was in what appeared to be a basement/laundry room environment, with ants running near me, performing their colony duties. they were moving back and forth near a tree (which was the connection between the room and the outside). suddenly i see a drop of what is clearly cat poop by my feet. it looked like it came from a kitten though. before i could look down again, the ants have pulled it away, over by this tree. i look over to the tree, and there are very tiny kittens and cats, resting. they were all the same tiny size (of a cat paw), no matter their age. the mama cats were protecting the kittens, who were in a state of rest. one of the kittens was getting ready to fall into the ‘present’ the ants brought over, and i lightly screamed, ‘NO!’, when the mother ran to move the kittens. the ants started going crazy, and a fight was getting ready to break out, right as the alarm went off.
the day has been filled with procrastination… i know in my heart this is the best thing to do, but my head keeps asking if it is. it’s very clear lumbia’s health has deteriorated, to the point where she’d regularly stopped eating much. at 12 years old, she weighed five pounds. she stops to eat for a few moments, then goes back in her space to curl up. she had stopped grooming herself essentially, and her energy’s just extremely low. her eyes no longer have the same life in them. i would look over to see if she was still breathing.
the closer we got to that moment of inevitability, i began to waver between nausea, butterflies, weakness and tears. that ride/walk to the veterinarian’s was one of the longest we ever had. i wanted to prolong those last moments with her. when we got there i didn’t even announce myself; i just sat down, took her out of the carrier and comforted her. there was a dog who came in around the same time, and his loud bark scared her. i have never seen her so calm at the vet before. she usually darts out of the carrier and out of my arms. like many other cats she disliked the fact that vet experience was out of her ‘comfort zone’. this was a huge sign to me, that she was telling me this was the end. she was just tired.
the receptionist finally asked if i had an appointment; i told her i did, and my name. she just walked towards me, grabbed the carrier and we walked to a part of the clinic i had never been to before, while i carried lumbia. her silence implied that she felt sorry for the both of us. it was very clear to lumbia that something big was going to happen, because the room we entered looked entirely different than the ones we normally go to when she’s gotten a check-up. the room, despite being slightly bigger than the majority of the rooms, looked and felt ominous, fort obvious reasons. i sit down, and lumbia proceeds to give me a big, long hug; with lots of nose kisses. i can only figure this is her way of saying goodbye. the nurse/assistant comes in and we deal with all the finances/logistics/signatures so i won’t have to do it before i leave. after a few more minutes with her, the assistant takes lumbia to get an IV attached to her front right leg.
he brings her back, and makes a lighthearted joke. he’s been making them consistently since the day before, when i brought her in to get weighed, and to make the final appointment. i don’t envy his position, where one needs to keep it light in order to not go crazy… surrounded by sickness and transition. he asks me if, in her final moments, i would like her on my lap, or on the table. i opted for her to be on my lap.
the doctor comes in after what seems like forever, with two needles. she walks in as i have tears streaming down my face. she has a sorrowful look on hers. i don’t envy her job either. she comments on how lumby looks tired. the first needle goes into the IV that is bandaged to her arm; she moves slightly as a natural reaction, but barely. she became so weak that she wasn’t even responding to needles. i could tell that she stopped breathing before the full contents of the needle entered her body. the doctor then put a needle with saline solution in the IV. it happened extremely quickly, and she left quietly. she did not have a seizure; no fluids or solids left her body.
it was approximately 4:35 pm.
the doctor moved her right front leg and her tail, so that her whole body ended up facing my right side. it looked as if she was just taking a nap. the leg that was still bandaged was covering her right eye; both of which were still slightly open, glossed over. i cried throughout this experience, but when she placed the stethoscope over lumby’s heart and declared that she was gone, i wailed. it does not matter how much you’re aware of the inevitable; when reality sets in, you’re still affected. i spent about 15 more minutes with her after she left, just crying and trying to make sense of how unreal this experience is, despite having experienced it before (back in 2004 with holly, who had pulmonary carcinoma). as she lay there lifeless, it was a lot easier to see how much lumby wasted away. lumby’s looks were deceptive, because she was a burmese kitty. her build was really stocky, even when she was wasting away. you could feel her ribs, you could feel her breastbone. i ended up feeling what felt like a lump in her belly, which led me to think even more that she was suffering from cancer. nine months ago, it was discovered she had kidney failure; however, one is able to usually stabilize (if not cure) said kidney failure. her health deteriorated to a point where she lost half her body weight. she stopped eating at regular rates. she began to vomit regularly.