Relapse

Everything has been going very well since we got the diagnosis last week. Then, yesterday morning, Fancy began to vomit again. Just a tiny bit of bile, no food, and she displayed no other symptoms. She seems to feel fine other than the vomiting. Last night I held off on giving her the second doses of medicine until she felt better. She’s done it three times now as of 5:00 this morning. But this morning, I heard her start to heave and woke up to find her on the floor beside the bed, standing next to a pool of smelly red bile. My nightstand and pillow and her spot on the bed were splattered with red. She heaved some more and up came another red pool. Blood. It’s on her nose where she’s bathed herself after the sneezes, too.

I’m trying not to panic. I know that the sneezing blood is secondary to the vomiting, but the blood in the vomit is new and ominous. It’s too hot for either of us in the bedroom so I’ve set up shop in the living room until Metropolitan Vet can open. I’m literally sick to my stomach; I’ve heaved a couple of times myself.

This nightmare was supposed to be over. We had a sound strategy, a strong leader, a good plan of attack. Now my head rages with “what ifs;” what if they diagnosed wrong? What if it is liver disease after all? What if there’s something else they missed completely? What if I’ve been unwittingly doing something to exacerbate it?

Nothing to do now but wait.

Day Five – (Possible) D-Day

Today is Maybe Diagnosis Day. If they were able to make the diagnosis definitively with the liver aspirate, we should hear today. I’ll not exhale until after that call.

Got the call at 1:00 this afternoon.

NOT LIVER DISEASE!!! The tissue samples showed no signs of cancer or other disease and they concluded that the inflammation was secondary to her not eating, and that the problem must be in her upper GI tract. She is scheduled for an endoscopy and biopsy tomorrow.

She’s been acting perfectly normal all day. Ate a full can of food between this morning and this evening. Pee but no poopage. At 6:35 pm, she did vomit twice, but only a small bit of bile, and she resumed normal activity afterwards. Even ate a bit of dry food about an hour later.

I cannot put into words exactly how relieved I am. I’m trying not to get my hopes  up too high, as we could still find out that it’s stomach cancer or something equally horrible. But it could also be something as mundane and treatable as an ulcer.

Here’s to tomorrow!

Update

Tomorrow will mark one full week since Fancy has eaten anything of any substance and not upchucked it. She’s not even interested in canned food, which is usually her favorite treat. I put a plate of it in front of her and she moves away from it quickly. I finally shoved it under the bed with her. Must remember to pick that up before bedtime, otherwise, I’m going to reek of Tuna Seafood Feast in the morning.

Today’s small victory – on the third try, finally got a Periactin tablet down her without her tossing it, spitting it out, or stashing it in her cheek until I’m not looking (seriously, this cat is half human). At least, I think I did. I watched her for a while to make sure she wasn’t holding on to it.

She hates me with a murderous passion right now. If she had opposable thumbs, I’d be sleeping with one eye open. I’d hate me, too. I shoved a syringe full of water down her after the Periactin. It won’t do much for her; she’s so dehydrated. But every little bit will help, I suppose. The earliest I can get her to the doctor is Thursday. God, I hope she makes it until Thursday.

I’m preparing myself. Going over the scenario in my head. Imagining every possible different way the vet might say the words, every possible different reaction I might have, every possible next step I could take upon hearing them. Preparing myself to come home to an empty apartment, with no big blue eyes staring up at me lovingly. No one telling me how horribly busy her sunbeam-sleeping day has been. I’m preparing myself to sleep alone every night, not to hear her soft purring from the other side of the bed or feel her making biscuits on my pillow. Not to wake up from a paw to the cheek and a soft meow. Something just seems so final about this time, so different. Something intangible, a certainty with which I’ve only ever felt one other emotion.

I’ve been Fancy’s catmom over half my life. Before I could vote or drive or even cross the street without holding someone’s hand, she’s been my constant companion. I’ve never taken her for granted. Every day, especially for the past few years since we’ve been on our own, I’ve reminded myself that I’m so lucky to have her, and that it’s going to end sometime. But not now! She’s not ready. I’m not ready.

Being a Catmom

Fancy has been sick for a week now. This all started 13 months ago and has been on and off ever since. This time is different. Usually she’s vomiting but otherwise okay. This time, she’s not eating, drinking, pooping, grooming or stretching. She’s not fighting me when I try to give her medicine. Terms like “renal failure,” “pancreatitis,” and “liver disease” float around in my brain.

As the vet examines her, as I ask my parents for their advice, as I comfort her when she’s in pain, I hear what nobody has had the courage to say yet, too. That, if she doesn’t get better this time, it may be time to make the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. I cry just thinking about it. In the meantime, I pray, and I do all the research I can do.

And I wake up at night when she wakes up, and I hold her when she’s sick and I clean her when it’s over and I keep her favorite napping corner clean and supplied with the fluffiest blanket. I give her the prednisone every other day, the Periactin when she hasn’t eaten in over 24 hours, a syringe of water every two hours to keep her hydrated, the Cat Lax to help her digestive system.

She never leaves my side when I’m sick or hurting. She’s been with me for well over half my life. I literally don’t remember a time, don’t have a memory of which she’s not a part. If it comes time to make this decision, I don’t think I can do it.

God, please help her.