Things we will miss…

As we trimmed our Christmas Tree last night, it wasn’t long before my wife said, “You know who would be here in all her glory.”  Of course, she was referring to Precious.  The picture left shows her a few Christmasses ago playing under the tree.  Precious loved Christmas, everything from the ornaments to the tree skirt – where she used to lay throughout the Season.

As we begin to come to terms with the fact that she’s gone, its a good time to remember her for the things that she used to do, that were unique in our minds.   These are the things that we will miss going forward – part of the void, if you will. 

Here are a few things that come to mind:

• Upon entrance to our house, being greeted at the door, and then as if she was expecting someone “better” to have arrived, to be snubbed upon recognition that it’s “only you”.

• Her coming to life at mealtime, and my sneaking her lots of left overs under the table, including poltry and fish. 

• Coming back to find her sitting in my chair at the table when I’d get up to get something off the stove or counter

• Sharing a few licks of Ice Cream (and whipped topping/cream – her favorite)

• When the baby is crying, having her come down and bite my wife’s ankles to get her to do something to help the baby (and her crying out).

• Her graceful play, and her unique high pitched scampering sounds

• Her private fortress under the bed

• Her sitting in her spot under the dining room table

• Her carrying the “Little Green Man” toy all the way up the stairs (or down the stairs) and presenting it as “gift” to us with a cry

• The fact that she used to groom me at night when laying next to me on the bed; sort of weird but it was her way of showing affection

• Her attentive response to a high pitched offering of “fishie, fishie” (aka cat treats)

• Her scampering in the snow on special occasions (she was an indoor cat)

• Her darting out from under the bed to claw a string dangling just beyond the bed skirt, and darting back after missing (over and over); a fun game

• Her soft motor pur

• Her skunk swaggering walk (tail up)

• Her way of eating – licking everything endless before moving to use her teeth

• Her growling at Presley, late into the night, and their endless late evening battles

• Her coming into our room at 2 or 3 (fairly regularly) in the morning, and waking us up by scratching the top of the dresser drawers, and then running away and hiding where I couldn’t reach her (repeat loop)

• Her appearance at our Annual Christmas Party and social grace of taking a seat

• Her pushing open doors (often for Presley)

These are but a few of the things that come to mind.  

Update on Presley:  Presley has been very affectionate lately.  We try to engage him as often as possible in every family gathering and episode.  He’s been extra clingy to me since Precious‘ passing, which I’m happy to accomodate.  He’s sensed our sadness, and I’m sure he has some of his own – wondering where Precious is.  He’s been eating and drinking as usual (a good sign), and has spent a lot of time under his scratching post looking out.  He and Precious had a touch and go relationship, but she would often groom him for about 5-6 minutes, until the point where he would begin to bite her.  He often sat next to her or followed her and booted her out where-ever she was sitting.  That probably goes with the regular behavior of the alpha cat.

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Her passing, Guilt, and the Void

I couldn’t write as much as I wanted two nights ago when she departed this Earthly plane for a better existence.  Now with a clearer mind, and my emotional state more stable, I can coherently make a few points.  And again, I remind you that some of this is therapy for me, and some of it is for other people who may go through losing their pet.

This post is divided into three sections.  The first, is the hellish experience of what it was like to bring our pet for euthanasia.

The second is to talk through the day after and the feelings of guilt that comes over you with having to make such a decision, and how I’ve started to deal with them.

And the third section deals with the void and where we go from here.

As I mentioned, Tuesday I brought Precious to the vet for one final visit, the hope was that the doctor could give her a steroid shot to see if she could perk up.  When we arrived he said that he could give her the shot but that after seeing her state that it wouldn’t do any harm.  I was puruaded by that argument to not give the short even though he was ready to administer it. I have to say that at this moment (and particularly yesterday), I wish I had said, “yeah, go ahead”.  For whatever reason I left that day, not giving her the shot.  Would it have produced a burst for her?  Yes, even if short lived.  This decision was on me, not our vet who was willing to do anything to satisfy my needs.  But the truth is that a steroid shot most likely wouldn’t have cured her neurological disease.

Wednesday was a long day for all of us.  In the early morning, I fed Precious food and water by syringe, and I dropped my oldest child to daycare in the morning around 9:15 am, and went to the dentist for my annual cleaning at 11 am.  Of course, the clock wouldn’t cooperate as time seemed to speed toward our 2:45 pm appointment.  I fed Precious some water and gave her some food by spoon (I wasn’t about to torture her with the syringe with two hours of life left in her – that seemed a bit unfair), and I gave her water via syringe.  I tried to give her some Cool Whip (something she used to enjoy, but she woudl have none of it).   Then I just held her for some time, and let out some streams.

My wife and I with our six month old in tow, drove to our family vet.  No pet carrier for the long ride this time, we wrapped her in a blanket and held her for the ride.  We arrived and brought her in, the people at the desk knew why we were there, and to say that the next twenty minutes were some of the saddest I’ve ever experienced is probably an understatement.

We brought her in, and left her in the blanket on the table.  The doctor came in, gave her one last examinination and assured us that we were making the right decision.  Sadly, the doctor prepared Precious.  We placed our hands on Precious and tried to comfort her. To make matters worse, Precious fought back (showing more vigor than she had the day before), pulling back her paws which made me second guess my whole decision right there.  It took the doctor three times to administer the drug by needle, each one was painful to watch.  Her veins were constricted which made it more difficult. And finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she faded off.

My wife and I just cried.  And cried.  We touched her head.

In a few weeks time, we’ll pick up her ashes and personal urn.  She was cremated by a reputable service, we were told. 

We thanked the doctor, he again assured us that our decision was the right one, and we left to pick up our 2 and half year old from daycare.

Obviously that evening was incredibly sad.  The details about our feelings that evening are not worth commenting on here; they are apparent.

The second part of this entry is dealing with the guilt.  Pet loss brochures talk about guilt you feel taking the step of euthanasia for a suffering pet.  But I cannot easily place “quality of life” in the same catagory with suffering due to injury or respiratory illness, or pain derived by other types of diseases.  So hence, my guilt is not so easily overcome by the logic of simple humanity.  And after all, we do not really know what Precious wanted to do. 

I know that she wouldn’t eat or drink on her own.  Did I give her enough time to try to do so?  I put food and water near her private area, near her own liter box.  She never went near it while we watched her.  Which is why we were feeding her by syringe.   

My last imbeded memory of Precious’s mobility is of her trying to crawl along the floor as she did the night before.  She was using her front paws to drag the rest of her body to find a place to hide.  But was she coming out of it?  Could we have waited a few more weeks, or a month?  That’s what I ask myself.  The true answer is probably no, she probably wasn’t coming out of it.  Central neurological disease doesn’t “go away”.  Could I have taken care of her and fed her by syringe for days, months and years?  To what end, 90% of her day was her laying in the same spot where she was last left unless someone picked her up and moved her.

Putting your pet down seems cruel, and feels cruel.  The alternative to this was watching her lose more body weight, have other bodily functions breakdown including kidneys, etc, and watch her become further depressed and disoriented.  But who wants to be the one to play God?  Who wants to decide who lives and who dies?  I’m sure humans go through this making decisions about humans quite often.

The last part of the guilt is not having spent the money to perform the MRI or CatScan.  $2000- $3500 is spending a lot of money (on top of what was already spent) to know specifically what was wrong.  But all the vets agreed that performing the Scans wouldn’t have produced a cure, since whether it was a tumor or disease, it couldn’t be remedied.  Second, the Scans may have revealed nothing at all they told us.  Still, I think what if it was something else that our x-ray didn’t show or the blood work performed couldn’t pick up.  I guess I’ll never know. 

My wife has reminded me over and over and over as I’ve tried to resolve the puzzle that if the doctors (all six of them) had felt there was something that could have been done, that they would have recommended proceeding with scans or full work ups.

I know I cannot fully heal until I can get it through my thick skull that I did as much as I could do within reason.  There was no hidden cure buried somewhere in a treasure chest for me to uncover that would have saved Precious.  There will be no voices from the sky to help me understand why Precious’s time was up, and what I could have done better.  What steps I could have taken, or should I have paid more attention to her behavior earlier, would I have been able to head this off? 

I guess these are all circular arguments.  But I need to come to peace with this.

Where do I go from here?

Clearly there will be a void.  More so for me since I adminstered her meds, food and water for 9 days through the end.  And Precious and I had a special bond.  Precious used to groom me at night in bed (I know it may sound gross to some of you) until I would say, “Thank you, Precious.”  And then she would stop and tend to herself after a few rubs and pets.  Those moments just can’t be replaced.

There will be a void for Presley, our male Himalayan (one year Precious’s junior) who is suffering too.  And don’t worry, he is getting extra love, and extra attention from all of us.  But we cannot be there for him 24/7.  It’s going to be hard for him being the sole remaining member of his species in the house.

I need to get over the grief.  Or better said, come to terms with the loss in a way that isn’t burdensome to my family (who are all grieving) or to others.  This doesn’t mean forgetting, as much as it means accepting.

This is probably hard for some readers to understand. 

What’s in the future?  A playmate for Presley?  We have talked about it.  Not as a replacement of our dear Precious, but as an addition to the family.  Mentally and physically, we are far off from making a move in that direction.  We have so much on our plate these days.  We even put off our moving effort so that Precious wouldn’t feel the brunt of moving boxes and continuous disorientation of every room (Cats are particularly sensitive to the whole process of preparing to move, and moving).

I think I’ve written enough for now.  Thanks for reading.

 

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Precious, Our Friend, Our Loving Companion: Rest in Peace

This entry will be short.  I haven’t the energy to write the volumes I have in my head.  And right now I just feel incredible sadness, and a void a mile wide and a mile deep.  Like a hole in my heart.

Shortly after 2:45 p.m. today, our Precious entered Heaven. 

The sadness we feel tonight is overwhelming.  We miss our dear furbaby in a way I’m sure is foreign to those who have never had or lost a pet.

Since I cannot write anything original tonight, I’m going to republish two poems that have some meaning to us at this time.   I will provide more in the coming days about today’s experience.  Right now, we are trying to take care of each other, and our other Himalayan Sealpoint, Presley, who is clearly affected by this tragedy (also a quick note of thanks to those in the Petloss.com chatroom- thank you for your kindness and understanding).

The two poems are:  Rainbow Bridge by Author Unknown, and The Journey by Crystal Ward Kent.

Rainbow Bridge

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge.
There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together.
There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.
The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together….

Author unknown…

THE JOURNEY

by Crystal Ward Kent

Copyright 1998 – All Rights Reserved

When you bring a pet into your life, you begin a journey — a journey that will bring you more love and devotion than you have ever known, yet also test your strength and courage.

If you allow, the journey will teach you many things, about life, about yourself, and most of all, about love. You will come away changed forever, for one soul cannot touch another without leaving its mark.

Along the way, you will learn much about savoring life’s simple pleasures — jumping in leaves, snoozing in the sun, the joy of puddles, and even the satisfaction of a good scratch behind the ears.

If you spend much time outside, you will be taught how to truly experience every element, for no rock, leaf or log will go unexamined, no rustling bush will be overlooked, and even the very air will be inhaled, pondered, and noted as being full of valuable information. Your pace may be slower — except when heading home to the food dish — but you will become a better naturalist, having been taught by an expert in the field.

Too many times we hike on automatic pilot, our goal being to complete the trail rather than enjoy the journey. We miss the details — the colorful mushrooms on the rotting log, the honeycomb in the old maple snag, the hawk feather caught on a twig. Once we walk as a dog does, we discover a whole new world. We stop; we browse the landscape; we kick over leaves, peek in tree holes, look up, down, all around. And we learn what any dog knows: that nature has created a marvelously complex world that is full of surprises, that each cycle of the seasons brings ever-changing wonders, each day an essence all its own.

Even from indoors you will find yourself more attuned to the world around you. You will find yourself watching summer insects collecting on a screen (How bizarre they are! How many kinds there are!), or noting the flicker and flash of fireflies through the dark. You will stop to observe the swirling dance of windblown leaves, or sniff the air after a rain. It does not matter that there is no objective in this; the point is in the doing, in not letting life’s most important details slip by.

You will find yourself doing silly things that your pet-less friends might not understand: spending thirty minutes in the grocery aisle looking for the cat food brand your feline musthave, buying dog birthday treats, or driving around the block an extra time because your pet enjoys the ride. You will roll in the snow, wrestle with chewie toys, bounce little rubber balls till your eyes cross, and even run around the house trailing your bathrobe tie — with a cat in hot pursuit — all in the name of love.

Your house will become muddier and hairier. You will wear less dark clothing and buy more lint rollers. You may find dog biscuits in your pocket or purse, and feel the need to explain that an old plastic shopping bag adorns your living room rug because your cat loves the crinkly sound.

You will learn the true measure of love — the steadfast, undying kind that says, “It doesn’t matter where we are or what we do, or how life treats us as long as we are together.” Respect this always. It is the most precious gift any living soul can give another. You will not find it often among the human race.

And you will learn humility. The look in my dog’s eyes often made me feel ashamed. Such joy and love at my presence. She saw not some flawed human who could be cross and stubborn, moody or rude, but only her wonderful companion. Or maybe she saw those things and dismissed them as mere human foibles, not worth considering, and so chose to love me anyway.

If you pay attention and learn well, when the journey is done, you will not be just a better person, but the person your pet always knew you to be — the one they were proud to call beloved friend.

I must caution you that this journey is not without pain. Like all paths of true love, the pain is part of loving. For as surely as the sun sets, one day your dear animal companion will follow a path you cannot yet go down. And you will have to find the strength and love to let them go. A pet’s time on earth is far too short — especially for those that love them. We borrow them, really, just for awhile, and during those brief years they are generous enough to give us all of their love — every inch of their spirit and heart, until one day there is nothing left.

The cat that only yesterday was a kitten is all too soon old and frail and sleeping in the sun. The young pup of boundless energy wakes up stiff and lame, the muzzle now gray. Deep down we somehow always knew this journey would end. We knew that if we gave our hearts they would be broken. But give them we must for it is all they ask in return. When the time comes, and the road curves ahead to a place we cannot see, we give one final gift and let them run on ahead — young and whole once more.

“Godspeed, good friend,” we say, until our journey comes full circle and our paths cross again.

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Realization Day

Today I took Precious up for a Vet visit just to either receive a steroid shot, or to come to some finality about where things really stand.

Despite my best efforts, she’s lost quite a few pounds.  It’s been hard to get her to swallow the food being given to her by syringe.   I went through a period of guilt today, as if I didn’t try hard enough.  I swear she was getting as much food as I could get into her, and yet the results were inadequate.   I feel that I may in some way have failed her which is quite a painful thought.

After consultation with the doctor, and some teary-eyed discussion with my wife, we’ve come to a sad conclusion that it’s time for Precious to go to the Bridge. Tomorrow at 2:45 p.m. she will be helped to cross-over so that she may be fully recovered and play in the meadows and fields free from the harsh realities and limitations of this plane of existence.

Thoughts about death and dying are complex and none of us have the answers.  Admittedly, I’ve been struggling more and more with these kinds of questions lately.  And the question:  “Do pets go to Heaven?” is just another layer in the puzzle.  I know what I want to think and believe.   And even if it defies all logic and all rational thought – I want to believe that around 3 p.m. Eastern Standard Time,  Preciouswill be playing in green fields and eating “fishies” to her heart’s content.  And I want to believe that when it’s my turn to go, that my Precious will be there waiting for me.

In coming posts, I will try to capture the happy moments we spent with this special kitty.  There are so many little stories and moments that they are worth remembering in the littlest detail.

Tonight I held Preciouson my lap for the last time.  I petted her soft head as she slept quietly, occasionally opening her eyes (probably more out of annoyance than anything else).   She’s resting in her special box tonight.

Tomorrow is going to be an incredibly tough day.

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Symptoms of Vestibular Syndrome / Brain Disease Video and Links

I’m adding this video link so that others may benefit from viewing it.

Vestibular Syndrome in cats effects their ability to code/encode signals to and from the brain.  This could also result from cancer, infection, or brain disease or whatever else it might be.

We noticed Precious (shown in video) making a circuling motion a few days after she began falling down.

Here are a few links on Vestibular Syndrome and other syndromes:

Vestibular Disease

Another Vestibular Disease information page from Canada West Veterinary Specialists & Critical Care Hospital

Description of Feline Nonsuppurative Meningoencephalomyetitis (“Staggering Disease”)

Toxoplasmosis in Cats from Cornell University

Another site on Toxoplasmosis from Cat-World

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Third and Final Opinion

Obviously, this week was tough as nails.

For whatever reason, I wanted yet another opinion.  My wife was unhappy with my decision to put Precious through another ride to the Vet given the fact that it creates an obvious level of discomfort for her.   

We opted to go to a 25+ year Veterinarian for one last opinion.  So on Wednesday, I made an appointment for Thursday.  This doctor is the one that my mother uses for her Dog, and is located Cromwell; honestly I didn’t expect a miracle solution out of the visit, but I wanted to feel comfortable knowing that a doctor of his years had looked at Precious, and if anything at all – we would have a chance to pick up additional food and medicine since the drops were close to running out.

The doctor was detailed and thorough, but he couldn’t provide specific answers, but did create some clarity around our remaining choices.  He recognized the neurological symptoms, but it was also one of those good days for Precious.  She seemed more alert than usual, and was unusually vocal because of her anxiety about going to the Vet. 

He read all of the information from the previous vet visits, and Tufts case write up.   He tested Precious for dexterity and noted that she was very responsive (more so than in the past three days). 

He reviewed what he believe to be three valid options available to us.  And he assured us that all three were reasonable options given everything that we have done and been doing.

1.  Provide her comfort at home, continue feeding and administering food and water, let things take their course. 

2.  Bring her back to Tufts for MRI and CAT Scan and full work up, and try to get to the bottom of it.  But understand that based on their diagnosis, that if it were a brain tumor or cancer, that they were correct in that not a great deal could be done to remedy the situation.  And there was also a chance that the Scan may not show anything at all anyway.

3. He offered to run additional blood tests and x-rays to see if something else may show up, but he also said that if we were going to think of spending the money at his office, that we might as well go back to Tuft’s.  He was right in stating that Tufts was “God” of Veterinarian Care, and he was more of the family style doctor. So by coming to him after Tuft’s, was sort of like having someone question the highest authority.  He was very nice about it, and incredibly sympathetic and empathetic, and he acknowledged that the larger hospitals can be a little less personable due to the number of cases they handle and their size.

The biggest and most important comment from him was that based on her level of activity he DID NOT recommend euthanasia at this point.  We felt a sense of relief after hearing him say so. 

Lastly, he offered to call Tufts to speak with Precious’s attending Neurologist.  And offer some of the insights he saw and see if he could deep dive into the prognosis to see if they thought additional action was really warranted.  He left and came back having left his phone and cell number for them to call back.  We thanked him, and he prescribed additional food and refilled the clini-drops medication.  He moved the doses of drops to twice a day to expedite remedy of an infection, if one existed.

Thursday evening arrived and Precious seemed to reach a high point again.  We had already been down this roller-coaster ride before but were pleased to see her licking and cleaning herself, walking straight lines and although still wobbling around, at least acting with some sense of recognition and “normalcy”.  This time, we knew better.  We knew it was only temporary. 

And Friday came.  I awoke at 5:30 am hoping to find Precious in the same spirits as I left her before I went to bed.  No luck.  She was back to a very lathargic state of being.  Feeding her was more of a chore as she seemed less willing to cooperate when I tried to use the syringe.  It was another sad start to the day.

Late Friday afternoon, the Doctor called with his impressions after consulting with Tufts.  He underlined the fact that the three options were still viable and none were wrong or immoral.  He suggested that we take the weekend to monitor her and then decide whether or not Tufts was back in the cards, or if we would let nature take its course.

We also asked about the rationale for Precious’s apparent mini-recovery.  He told us that this was due to how pressure was affecting the brain.  As the pressure grows, Precious appears less responsive, and during the times when the pressure dissipates or moves, she resumes a level of normal functioning.  He described it as the waxing and waning of the pressure on the brain (if related to the brain). 

We thanked him for his follow up, and he wished us well.  He offered that if things changed that we should call him.  Again, I can’t stress how pleasant and helpful Dr. E was.  I recommend him very highly to everyone.

Another long Friday night with our Precious girl.  But I was damned if I was going to give up. 

It was sometime between Thursday and Friday that I started this blog.  A week ago I thought about putting it together and may have even signed up for the page.  I didn’t really think that she would be still with us through the weekend.   

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What happened?

About three weeks ago, Precious began to hide a little more often.  We thought that some of it had to do with us moving our furniture around and packing boxes.  Some animals are sensitive to environmental changes and react with fear sometimes even if you rearrange furniture.

A few days later, we noticed that she was limping slightly on of her back legs.  My first thought was that my two and half year old might have fallen on her or played too rough with her, or our other Himalayan Sealpoint, Presley, might have nipped her.  We monitored this closely until the next day she started to fall down, and appeared to be struggling with walking about.

So I took her to our family Vet in Manchester (I’ll keep the names of hospitals and doctors private for now), and the doctor didn’t see the same symptoms or behavior.  Precious has always been “keyed up” when visiting the vets, so running on pure adrenalin, she behaved somewhat normally, and vocalized her interest in getting out of the vets office.  The doctor examined her and recognized that she was vocal when he touched her hips.  We took an x-ray which revealed  nothing unusual.  He gave her a combo steroid shot and pain relief or anti-inflammatory type medicine.

The next day, Precious appeared back to herself.  Moving, eating, scampering around.  We felt a sense of relief that perhaps she had just had a bad few days, and was on the way to recovery.

The following day, she slid back into her state of poor movement.  And she began circling and circling to the right.   She would circle until she would eventual straighten out and head in the direction she intended to go.  She also seemed to want to use the walls to guide her along a straight path.

I took her back to our family vet.  He opted to keep her for observation.  This time even her adrenalin and anxiety couldn’t mask her symptoms.  But he and his staff were fairly unsure of what it was; they suggested that it could be a neurosis of some kind –  possibily vestibular in nature.  Her prescribed two medications: Prednsione 5mg (small pill once a day), and Clindamycin Hydrochloride Oral Liquid Antibiotic (a dropper and a half once a day).

He pretty much indicated that he didn’t know the cause based on his limited technology to diagnose and determine the real underlying cause of her decline.  He did pull blood work which revealed nothing out of the ordinary except a small comment about the white cell count.  His recommendation was to keep her on the meds and perhaps seek a specialist hospital that could perform more specialized analysis.  He appreciated his guidance and effort, and began the next phase.

We called a number of area hospitals, and we settled on a animal hospital in Bolton that that was suggested by some friends of ours in the Agricultural Community; its well-regarded as an upstanding animal hospital that is widely used and recommended.  We took Precious up there, but pretty much had the same result.  At the suggestion of the doctors, we also had a tested for Feline Leukaemia which came back negative.  They opted that we had two choices, keep her there for supportive treatment (IV fluids, super-doses of steroids, etc) or send her to Tufts University Cummings School of Veterinary Medicine: (Foster Hospital for Small Animals) and get them to diagnose her.

After a few days of monitoring her, and seeing that she was back in decline, on Veterans Day, we took Precious up to Tufts for diagnosis.  Personally, I dreaded the long ride up the Mass Pike, and onto Route 30.  By this point I had read hours of material on the Internet about what this most likely was based on the symptoms. 

The doctors and residents at Tufts were wonderful to deal with.  They immediately took Precious in for examination.  After about an hour of waiting (which seemed like 10 hours), we were called in for a conversation about the results. The results were devastating.  In their opinion she had either disease of the brain, or a tumor, or even a form of cancer.  Immediately, my wife and I pretty much broke down.  Our worst fears came true.  Our loving companion was dying.

The doctor did mention that there was a Neurologist on staff and she offered to consult her briefly.  We agreed hoping that perhaps the neurologist would see something less fatal through examination.  The doctor brought us back in and pretty much advised that the Neurologist urged that we allow her to examine Precious before leaving or making a presumption about the diagnosis.  In fact, we got the impression that between doctors that the neurologist may have sort of gave the general doctor a hard time for not making the referral to begin with.  The only downer was that we would need to wait at least two hours before the neurologist could see her (and the doctor told us that when a doctor says two hours, it usually means two and a half to three hours). 

Did we care about the wait?  Not at all.  We had a glimmer of hope (which the doctor warned us to be prepared that the diagnosis could be the same).

My wife and I journeyed to the town over and stopped at a Pizzaria Uno.  The waitress must have thought we were out there with our red complexions and glazed eyes.  We barely ate, and sat there biding the time, and praying that there was hope, and that our companion would live. 

A lot of the conversation between us focused on all the wonderful moments and memories with Precious.  But with each story the pain and agony seemed to grow deeper and deeper.  Just days earlier, we were looking forward to our Christmas family photo with our two daughters and Precious and Presley (and perhaps us).  For the last seven years, Precious and Presley (the last six, he’s one year younger) have been included as signatures on our Christmas Cards.  The worst part of death of your companion pet is not the dying in itself, but the thoughts of what will no longer be.  The painful void. 

Simple things, like at every meal, Precious begging for scraps from our table.  I always shared a tidbit with her despite my wife’s insistent demands that I stop teaching our daughter bad habits.  Mimicing her family my older daughter often would try to slip food to Precious from her high chair, saying “Here, Precious.”

We journeyed back to the hospital through dense traffic, which added to our own anxiety.  Arrived and were brought into the consultation room for the update.  Our prays, thoughts, hopes and desires were on edge, when the doctor informed us that the neurologist had deemed that the brain damage was most likely in two areas – her brain and brain stem, and that the prognosis was the same.

There is no bartering with the doctors on these fine points.  Try as we did – to ask, rephrase questions, or find the loophole in their diagnosis, the fact was that the results were always the same.  A guarded prognosis with limited time.  We talked over the option of an MRI or CAT Scan, and all of the what ifs and surgeries, but when it came to the manner of resolving the problem, the results were always the same – chance of recovery being extremely poor even if cancer was found, and even if she survived the surgery.  And the introduction of anesthesia which could also complicate matters.

The doctors at Tufts Foster Hospital were very kind and patient.  They reminded us that it was O.K. to be upset and they even went as far as to say that they [the doctors] would be upset if we weren’t showing that we concerned and upset.   They left us to console each other.

About 15 minutes later, we opted to take Precious home.  Why put her through more psychological trauma? The doctor’s came out and showed us how to feed and provide water by syringe.  We were to feed her with Hill’s Science Diet Prescription (canned food) by mixing 50 cc’s of water, four times a day – about 20 cc’s a feeding, plus regular cc’s of water through out the day to keep her hydrated.  The best we could do is keep her comfortable and nurished.  They also suggested that if she stopped eating or drinking than we would have to consider taking other steps.  The thought of which felt like a knife through the heart.

We thanked the doctors for their help and empathy, and holding Precious in my lap, we quietly headed for home.

Thank you Doctor Amy Trow and your colleagues at Tufts for your empathy and support.

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Who is Precious?

In 1999, the year in which my wife and I were set to get married, we stumbled into The Magic Pet Shop in Wethersfield, Connecticut.  We happened across a tiny Himalyan Sealpoint kitten who captured our hearts from the moment we met her.  The pet store wanted the handsome sum of $600 which was very steep for two young people just starting put in their careers – and had a wedding to pay for on the horizon.  But she was such a beautiful little kitten that we couldn’t allow ourselves to leave without making her our own.   The fuzzy little kitten was so endearing to us that we named her Precious. 

So we took her home and she became our first baby, and family member.    And for the past eight years, she’s been our bunk-mate, playmate, alarm clock (even at 3 am), babysitter, furniture re-finisher, and most of all – our friend.

As of this writing, she is still with us.   I guess part of this web-log is an opportunity for me to share some of the pictures and stories about Precious, and a way for me and my family to deal with the tragic turn of events that started a few weeks ago when she began to show signs of neurological disease. 

This is not easy to write, in fact it’s a painful trip down memory lane since we know that she most likely will not be with us in the near future, perhaps not even for Thanksgiving. 

If you are a pet owner and have experienced such a traumatic turn of events such as seeing your pet suddenly and without warning become terminally ill, then you must understand what we are going through.  The idea of letting her go has to be the most difficult decision we have ever had to face.

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