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- Apr 7, 2017
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I turned 40 yesterday, and lost a piece of my heart.
My beautiful, sweet, loving cat Daniel, who I was fortunate to have for 13 years (far too little time), passed away a little after 9am.
Last Friday he was diagnosed with lung cancer and he was gone in a mere week.
I took him to the vet on Monday to have his eye looked at. He had lens luxation. The surgery would cost $3000-$3500 and was a six hour drive away. I could not possibly afford the surgery, and he was 13 and HATED the car, so as heart broken as I was, I made the decision to treat the luxation with glaucoma drops. I made an appointment for that Friday to have the pressure in his eye checked, to decide about pain medication. By the time Friday came I had noticed that he was having labored breathing, and was more lethargic than he had been. I decided to have x-rays done because I thought he might have had aspiration pneumonia. The results took a half an hour, and when the vet showed me the x-rays, he pointed out several white spots and said that while there was a chance it was pneumonia, I should prepare for the worst because he thought it was metastasised cancer, which is untreatable. It felt like someone had sucker punched me right in the heart.
He gave Daniel an antibiotic shot, just in case, and told me I would know by the following week if the antibiotic was working, at which point we'd do another x-ray to make sure.
It was clear that it was cancer - as much as I did not want to believe it.
I got pain medication for him, recovery food, nutri-cal, KMR, and proceeded to syringe feed him as he wasn't interested in eating or drinking on his own, which I read could be the result of the pain meds he was giving, killing his appetite and possibly making him nauseated. He would go to the litter box when we put him in, and he would jump out on his own before we could take him out, sometimes running down the hall but would then flop to the floor with labored breathing from the slight exercise.
It all happened SO fast, that I still can't quite believe it.
I decided on Wednesday that I would make the decision to have a vet come to the house to put him to sleep, because the last thing I wanted was for him to die on the 40 minute ride to the vet, scared and stressed, in a cage in the car. The vet wasn't going to be coming through on Thursday morning, but it could be arranged for Thursday evening.
At 5:30am his breathing was more labored, and our neighbour who is a vet tech was coming to give him a shot of morphine to make him as comfortable as possible, since the tramadol was giving him less and less relief, and pilling him caused more stress which caused worse breathing. She gave him the shot and stayed with us for a while, telling us that we should turn the lights out, close the blind as light can affect them while on the morphine. She told me that some cats become agitated on the morphine, but the hope was that he would get several hours of relief from the shot before the vet could come.
About ten minutes after she left for work, Daniel began struggling. It was the worst thing I have ever experienced and I will FOREVER feel guilt that I had not decided to have him put to sleep the day before. I held him as he struggled, listening with horror as he gasped his last breaths. I felt like I was dying right along with him. I cried and held him and rocked him afterward, kissing his beautiful face, and head, his soft ears and his little grey body. I cleaned him, even though there was nothing to clean - I just needed to touch him, pet him, hold him. I placed him in his bed, wrapped in a towel, on my own bed. I was utterly horrified at how fast rigor mortis set in. It broke my heart to hold him so cold and stiff.
A friend of the family made a little coffin for him, and I cried more because the rigor mortis meant that he wasn't going to fit unless, I thought, his legs were broken which was almost as horrifying as watching him die. The clinic said that I could press his legs close to his belly and they wouldn't break, that it was the muscles that were stiffened in rigor and so I wrapped him in the hoodie that he and his brother slept in 13 years ago when they were kittens, pressed to my own belly, warm and full of KMR. I then wrapped him in a warm blue blanket that he used to sleep on and placed him in his coffin and I kissed him again and again, desperately trying to hold on to him. Each and every step of this process broke my heart a little more. He was buried under a tree in our yard, beside my first cat who was almost 21 when she had to be put down 13 years ago, and our 12 year old rabbit who passed away several years ago too.
I have been a mess ever since. I close my eyes and I hear him gasping, I see him struggling, his beautiful yellow eyes looking at me as if asking why aren't you helping me? I didn't want to make that choice, to ask someone to come to my house and kill my beautiful baby, the thought was a knife to my heart every time I thought it in those far too few days. I didn't know how fast the end was coming, I waited to late, he suffered at the end because of my own selfish worry about choosing to end his life - basically asking me to choose to kill a cat that was like a child to me. I will NEVER forgive myself for that. I will NEVER forget the horrible way he died, and that if I had just decided sooner, his end could have been peaceful, pain free, stress free, and that he wouldn't have been scared as the cancer suffocated him. He was beautiful baby boy and I failed him terribly at the end.
I now live with those horrible memories and see every place he used to stretch out and sleep and imagine him still sleeping there, trying desperately to cling to the good memories, and not drown in my own guilt.
I remember the way he would gallop down the hall whenever he heard me get up - he was a BIG boy and he sounded like a little horse coming down the hall. I remember the way he would run for the door whenever he heard someone come in the house - we called him our Walmart greeter. I remember the way he would sit on the corner of my bed and meow at me while I was on the computer, tilting his head as if to say, why aren't you petting me - or more usually, why aren't you feeding me? I remember how tiny he and his brother were when my parents showed up home with them, several months after having to put my first cat down. They were desperate to bring me out of the depression I was in at losing her. And they were right - my beautiful Jack and Daniel brought SO much joy to my life, there are no words to describe it. They were two of the biggest cats I'd ever seen when they grew up, aside from a Maine Coon, and people would also comment that Daniel looked like a little dog he was so big. I remember them both climbing up my legs to sit on my chest as I got their formula ready every couple of hours for weeks after they were brought home. They were strays from a race track whose mother had disappeared (sadly she was likely eaten by a coyote), and my mother had intended to take just Daniel, but Jack was having none of it. She picked Daniel up and Jack clung to him, refusing to let go and so she took them both. I remember the way Daniel LOVED his cosmic catnip toys. How he would take the toy in his paws and rub it all over his head before he would use it as a pillow as he took a nap afterward. I remember the way he would sprawl on his back on my bed, starfished and so relaxed, his beautiful belly spots on full display. I remember how very much I loved him and still do.
I hope one day the good memories will overshadow the horror of the end, but I don't think the guilt will ever go away. One day I hope to see him again, and tell him how very sorry I am for not easing his passing when I should have.
I still cannot believe he's gone. I cannot believe how fast he deteriorated. I cannot believe I didn't notice something sooner. I cannot believe that I will never get to hold him, or kiss him, or pet him again. I am trying to be strong for my other four cats, and especially his brother. They're all a little off since he died. Normally they would be on bed sleeping, but they're in various different rooms in the house. I wonder if they can still smell him in here, as his body was in my room for a couple of hours before I could bear to wrap him up and place him in the coffin.
And now I look at my four remaining cats, and especially Jack, and wonder if any of them have cancer, or some other disease, that is hidden. I plan to take Jack to the vet and get several tests done - x-rays, blood work etc. to see if there are any tumors like those that showed on Daniel's x-rays. I cannot even bear to think of it on the one hand, but am terrified that he too will be perfectly fine until he isn't, gone before I even have the chance to truly wrap my head around the news.
I am exhausted with worry. I am exhausted with grief. I am exhausted by the knowledge that I failed Daniel on so many levels.
The grief I feel over his loss feels like it will consume me. I love all of my cats, but Jack and Daniel were my BABIES. They are the ones that got me through my grief over losing my first cat, and to lose one of them takes my breath away.
This is my beautiful boy, in good times and bad.
I'll love you forever, Daniel and will never stop missing you. <3
Daniel
2004-2017
If love could have healed you, you have lived forever
My beautiful, sweet, loving cat Daniel, who I was fortunate to have for 13 years (far too little time), passed away a little after 9am.
Last Friday he was diagnosed with lung cancer and he was gone in a mere week.
I took him to the vet on Monday to have his eye looked at. He had lens luxation. The surgery would cost $3000-$3500 and was a six hour drive away. I could not possibly afford the surgery, and he was 13 and HATED the car, so as heart broken as I was, I made the decision to treat the luxation with glaucoma drops. I made an appointment for that Friday to have the pressure in his eye checked, to decide about pain medication. By the time Friday came I had noticed that he was having labored breathing, and was more lethargic than he had been. I decided to have x-rays done because I thought he might have had aspiration pneumonia. The results took a half an hour, and when the vet showed me the x-rays, he pointed out several white spots and said that while there was a chance it was pneumonia, I should prepare for the worst because he thought it was metastasised cancer, which is untreatable. It felt like someone had sucker punched me right in the heart.
He gave Daniel an antibiotic shot, just in case, and told me I would know by the following week if the antibiotic was working, at which point we'd do another x-ray to make sure.
It was clear that it was cancer - as much as I did not want to believe it.
I got pain medication for him, recovery food, nutri-cal, KMR, and proceeded to syringe feed him as he wasn't interested in eating or drinking on his own, which I read could be the result of the pain meds he was giving, killing his appetite and possibly making him nauseated. He would go to the litter box when we put him in, and he would jump out on his own before we could take him out, sometimes running down the hall but would then flop to the floor with labored breathing from the slight exercise.
It all happened SO fast, that I still can't quite believe it.
I decided on Wednesday that I would make the decision to have a vet come to the house to put him to sleep, because the last thing I wanted was for him to die on the 40 minute ride to the vet, scared and stressed, in a cage in the car. The vet wasn't going to be coming through on Thursday morning, but it could be arranged for Thursday evening.
At 5:30am his breathing was more labored, and our neighbour who is a vet tech was coming to give him a shot of morphine to make him as comfortable as possible, since the tramadol was giving him less and less relief, and pilling him caused more stress which caused worse breathing. She gave him the shot and stayed with us for a while, telling us that we should turn the lights out, close the blind as light can affect them while on the morphine. She told me that some cats become agitated on the morphine, but the hope was that he would get several hours of relief from the shot before the vet could come.
About ten minutes after she left for work, Daniel began struggling. It was the worst thing I have ever experienced and I will FOREVER feel guilt that I had not decided to have him put to sleep the day before. I held him as he struggled, listening with horror as he gasped his last breaths. I felt like I was dying right along with him. I cried and held him and rocked him afterward, kissing his beautiful face, and head, his soft ears and his little grey body. I cleaned him, even though there was nothing to clean - I just needed to touch him, pet him, hold him. I placed him in his bed, wrapped in a towel, on my own bed. I was utterly horrified at how fast rigor mortis set in. It broke my heart to hold him so cold and stiff.
A friend of the family made a little coffin for him, and I cried more because the rigor mortis meant that he wasn't going to fit unless, I thought, his legs were broken which was almost as horrifying as watching him die. The clinic said that I could press his legs close to his belly and they wouldn't break, that it was the muscles that were stiffened in rigor and so I wrapped him in the hoodie that he and his brother slept in 13 years ago when they were kittens, pressed to my own belly, warm and full of KMR. I then wrapped him in a warm blue blanket that he used to sleep on and placed him in his coffin and I kissed him again and again, desperately trying to hold on to him. Each and every step of this process broke my heart a little more. He was buried under a tree in our yard, beside my first cat who was almost 21 when she had to be put down 13 years ago, and our 12 year old rabbit who passed away several years ago too.
I have been a mess ever since. I close my eyes and I hear him gasping, I see him struggling, his beautiful yellow eyes looking at me as if asking why aren't you helping me? I didn't want to make that choice, to ask someone to come to my house and kill my beautiful baby, the thought was a knife to my heart every time I thought it in those far too few days. I didn't know how fast the end was coming, I waited to late, he suffered at the end because of my own selfish worry about choosing to end his life - basically asking me to choose to kill a cat that was like a child to me. I will NEVER forgive myself for that. I will NEVER forget the horrible way he died, and that if I had just decided sooner, his end could have been peaceful, pain free, stress free, and that he wouldn't have been scared as the cancer suffocated him. He was beautiful baby boy and I failed him terribly at the end.
I now live with those horrible memories and see every place he used to stretch out and sleep and imagine him still sleeping there, trying desperately to cling to the good memories, and not drown in my own guilt.
I remember the way he would gallop down the hall whenever he heard me get up - he was a BIG boy and he sounded like a little horse coming down the hall. I remember the way he would run for the door whenever he heard someone come in the house - we called him our Walmart greeter. I remember the way he would sit on the corner of my bed and meow at me while I was on the computer, tilting his head as if to say, why aren't you petting me - or more usually, why aren't you feeding me? I remember how tiny he and his brother were when my parents showed up home with them, several months after having to put my first cat down. They were desperate to bring me out of the depression I was in at losing her. And they were right - my beautiful Jack and Daniel brought SO much joy to my life, there are no words to describe it. They were two of the biggest cats I'd ever seen when they grew up, aside from a Maine Coon, and people would also comment that Daniel looked like a little dog he was so big. I remember them both climbing up my legs to sit on my chest as I got their formula ready every couple of hours for weeks after they were brought home. They were strays from a race track whose mother had disappeared (sadly she was likely eaten by a coyote), and my mother had intended to take just Daniel, but Jack was having none of it. She picked Daniel up and Jack clung to him, refusing to let go and so she took them both. I remember the way Daniel LOVED his cosmic catnip toys. How he would take the toy in his paws and rub it all over his head before he would use it as a pillow as he took a nap afterward. I remember the way he would sprawl on his back on my bed, starfished and so relaxed, his beautiful belly spots on full display. I remember how very much I loved him and still do.
I hope one day the good memories will overshadow the horror of the end, but I don't think the guilt will ever go away. One day I hope to see him again, and tell him how very sorry I am for not easing his passing when I should have.
I still cannot believe he's gone. I cannot believe how fast he deteriorated. I cannot believe I didn't notice something sooner. I cannot believe that I will never get to hold him, or kiss him, or pet him again. I am trying to be strong for my other four cats, and especially his brother. They're all a little off since he died. Normally they would be on bed sleeping, but they're in various different rooms in the house. I wonder if they can still smell him in here, as his body was in my room for a couple of hours before I could bear to wrap him up and place him in the coffin.
And now I look at my four remaining cats, and especially Jack, and wonder if any of them have cancer, or some other disease, that is hidden. I plan to take Jack to the vet and get several tests done - x-rays, blood work etc. to see if there are any tumors like those that showed on Daniel's x-rays. I cannot even bear to think of it on the one hand, but am terrified that he too will be perfectly fine until he isn't, gone before I even have the chance to truly wrap my head around the news.
I am exhausted with worry. I am exhausted with grief. I am exhausted by the knowledge that I failed Daniel on so many levels.
The grief I feel over his loss feels like it will consume me. I love all of my cats, but Jack and Daniel were my BABIES. They are the ones that got me through my grief over losing my first cat, and to lose one of them takes my breath away.
This is my beautiful boy, in good times and bad.
I'll love you forever, Daniel and will never stop missing you. <3
Daniel
2004-2017
If love could have healed you, you have lived forever
