I did not think I would be sharing this intimate detail of my life with the world but, hey, it’s a blog so there you go. To say that the month of March 2022 was hard on me is an understatement. I miscarried at 5 weeks and it took me over a week to just stop bleeding. A week later, I was starting to physically and emotionally heal, the hormones were going down, and then I realized my cat was not well. He had been steadily dropping weight for a couple months but I assumed it was due to living in a snowy climate for the first time. Within days of noticing it, he began to get lethargic, slow, rarely moved, rarely ate. He was making a wheezing noise every time I stroked his belly. His eyes were dull and he looked so fucking miserable. I’ve had him 8 years. I couldn’t handle seeing him like that. I assumed he was dying but I wasn’t willing to ‘give up the ghost’ yet, pun intended.
We contacted an emergency vet and after discussing his symptoms by phone, they advised not waiting to see the regular vet (they couldn’t see us for 8 days). We bit the bullet and brought him in.
Now I’m the first person to tell you that emergency veterinarian medicine can be dicey. It’s a whole lot of money to find out there’s nothing that can be done. It can be tempting to say ‘screw it’. But my baby was clearly suffering. When we got there, they took him in, ran tests and said they’d call as soon as they knew something. I won’t go into all the details but the point was simple: it’s extremely likely he has cancer and it’s riddled his intestines so he can’t get nutrition. He’s likely in a lot of pain and prolonging it with palliative care is the only option beyond euthanizing.
Gut. Punch.
I knew it was coming. I truly did. I knew it. And yet? And yet, and yet, and yet. I look down as I write this, closing my eyes and knowing how fucking horrible it is that you will leave a building and your beloved pet will not. They asked what we wanted to do and I said keeping him alive another two weeks was cruel and it wasn’t about me. It was about him. His life was the only thing that mattered in this case. The vet agreed.
1. The reason I’m sharing this is two-fold but the main center is my specialty: COMMUNICATION.The vet’s office, Animal Emergency Hospital, was the best possible place to have such a horrible experience. I’m not saying that as a plug. I’m saying that out of relief. I remember standing in the private sitting room they gave us, with couches and a nice coffee table, like an exam room for a spa, and looking on the counter I noticed a large rack of business cards for all the vets and nurses on staff. Every single one of them is a woman. Every. Single. One.
It occurred to me that the work vets do, the level of care and empathy needed for innocent animals who are suffering and need intuitive support is, not surprisingly, perfected by an entire staff of women. Can men do it? Of course. Is this about gender binary? Hell no. But in that moment, knowing my sweet black panther would never lay beside me again, knowing that all these loving caring humans around me were women was an extremely comforting feeling.
The part that hit me the hardest, in terms of communication, was the level of non-verbal and verbal these vets and nurses used. Their tones and body language were perfect. They were low, calm, peaceful, and overflowing with love and sorrow for me. The doctor’s eyes were constantly searching mine to ensure I was understanding the reality of things and also to make sure I didn’t have questions. They all literally extended themselves to me, and my partner, from the moment we walked through the door.
Remember, I was emotionally wrecked. I had just miscarried. I was now losing my 8 year old fur baby. My sweet Onyx. I remember the doctor explained every single thing, step by step, exactly as it would happen. She moved slowly, deliberately, with intense kindness so strong it was tangible. She hated seeing his pain. I felt her sorrow for his suffering as much as I felt my own. When we finally collected him in my lap to give the last dose, she breathed slowly with us. She shifted her breath, consciously or unconsciously, to slow everything down for us, giving us the space, the space between breaths, to let him leave. It was an energetic doorway of dignity that she held open for us with both hands and a bowed head. As my little boy laid his head down for the last time, I felt something inside me break open. And I wept. And the vet staff carried on, caring for us through the loss.
The nurses were so incredibly kind. They took Onyx and dressed and prepared him in a special box with his name on it so we can bury him properly. They asked permission before they took him. They came back and always knocked on the door, explaining exactly what was going to happen, handing his body back to me with armfuls of love.
I simply can’t understand how they do it everyday.
2. That night I had to call my oldest son and tell him was had happened. He was at his father’s house. Being a very mature 15 year old, having lost several other cats in his life as well as an aunt, my son is much more intimately familiar with death than most kids. He had suspected Onyx was ill back at Christmas.
When I called my son, despite being a complete mess, I instinctively knew I had to soften the blow. It had been so sudden, such a downhill drop so fast, my son hadn’t even been told we were taking Onyx to the vet. For him to suddenly lose a cat he’s had with us for 8 years would have been too much of a shock. So I shifted the narrative.
“I need to talk to you about Onyx.”
“Oh,” his voice dropped. “How bad is it?”
“It’s really bad honey.”
“Ok, so he doesn’t have long to live. Are you going to take him to a vet?”
This is where I try not to totally fall apart on the phone. “Well actually, Onyx got really bad last night, my love. So we took him to an emergency vet today,” I started.
“What did they say?”
“He’s likely got cancer that’s metastasized through his intestines,” I said, hearing my son breathing heavily, feeling the weight hit him through the phone. “They said he’s suffering a lot, my love.”
Notice I’m still using present tense for my son’s benefit. I don’t want him to know yet. I have to peel this onion slowly because we’re both going to be crying soon.
“Oh yeah, Mom, that’s not good. He’s suffering a lot. So are you going to put him down soon?”
I take a deep breath and quickly pray to Gd for the right words because none of this is me, it’s all Her.
“Well actually my love, Onyx was at the vet literally all day. He was super stressed just being there. After all the blood tests and cat scan and MRI, the doctor was clear that he would only continue to suffer and I told the vet that keeping him alive was the wrong thing to do. She agreed with me,” I say, letting the knowledge start to sink in.
I hear his breathing change, a sharp in-breath that most people miss but I’m his Mom and I know that sound. “So,” he says quietly, “So is he gone Mom?” His big grown man voice begins to shrink down to a little boy again.
“Yes, baby,” I’m crying now. “He’s gone now. We have him now. He is not in pain. I want you to know he was given medication all day long to stop all pain. So he wasn’t in pain while he was at the vet, just, you know, kinda pissed off that he had to be there at all. But he did not suffer today. I was holding him. Your step-dad was there right next to me. I held him while he went, my love. And we have permission from grandma to bury him near the creek on the farm so you can see him any time you want.”
He squeaks out an “Really? That… that would be really great. I would like to be able to see him whenever I want. I haven’t really had that options with the other cats. I’m sorry Mom. I know how hard this is. Thank you for telling me. Thank you for not letting him suffer.”
We both exhale. We say our goodbyes and I hang up. I’m a mess.
Here’s the point: My cat was dying. That wasn’t going to change. What made the ENTIRE difference that day was how these messages were communicated to me. It was HOW I was made to feel and HOW I made my son feel by communicating the story of this loss in a very specific way.
The vet’s office staff and doctor could have been cold, demanding money up front, ignoring our pain, been rough with my Onyx, not dressed him with care, not written his name on the box, not looked into our eyes. They could have been sterile and unkind and disconnected.
I could have called son, emotionless, monotone, and blurted it out in a single sentence. “Onyx had cancer and the emergency vet euthanized him today. Talk to you later.”
Even you, dear reader, feel the heavy blow of that hammer strike you in the heart and it’s not even your cat!
You get my point? It’s not just that my cat died; it’s that the messages that were delivered were done with slow steady compassion, for the person in the moment and for the long-run. It’s super cliche but also true: “People will remember how you make them feel.” Maya Angelou.
So I write this to share my sorrow. Because I loved my sweet boy so much. Because I needed to acknowledge the amazing work of the vet. Because I had to share with you the actual words that were said and how I navigated it. Because we all need to work on communicating better. Because no one needs to be hurt further when their sick animal lies in their arms. Because we can Be Better.
~N
