Slipping Away

It's been on my mind so much lately that I can't stop thinking about it - so I'm hoping that writing about it will help clear my head a little bit so that I can concentrate on some immediate things I have to concentrate on.

Milo is dying. And it's breaking my heart to watch him. I always knew this would hurt, and you know when you add a four-legged member to your family that you'll have to go through this one day, but the magnitude of my grief and the way it's affecting me is surprising, even to me.

In May, they found a mass on his lung. In June, he had major surgery to take it out. In July, we confirmed that it was cancer and that it was an extremely aggressive form. We started chemotherapy. And just this week, we found out that it's not working and that his cancer is spreading so quickly that the doctors weren't even expecting it. And after all of the visits to the doctor and the thousands of dollars spent on caring for him, we made the decision to stop treatment and focus on palliative care.

I am devastated.

So, now we wait. We wait and try to make him as comfortable as we can, and let him know that he's loved and cared for. I've had him since he was four weeks old, a little tiny kitten who used to fall asleep on my chest, right over my heart, and stay there for hours. He's the sweet, quirky cat who loves to jump up onto the bathroom sink so that you can turn the water on for him, who loves to spoon and cuddle with shoes, who lies on his back, belly exposed, because he's so comfortable in the safe home that we've given him. Everyone who meets him loves him, because he just wants to be loved and be around his people. And the thought of losing him, the experience of watching him slip away from me, staying the same sweet-natured cat despite getting a little more tired every day, is horrible. He doesn't appear to be in any pain right now, but I know that K and I will have to make a decision about his quality of life some day soon. The doctor said that the best case scenario for him is one month. After 12 years with me. I am not prepared to say goodbye, but that never really changes anything anyway.

The decision to stop treatment was both hard and easy. Hard, because I hate to feel like we're giving up on him in any way. And while I know that we've done everything we can, the problem still isn't fixed, and I hate that. Easy because...well, because he's been through a lot. He hates being in the car. He's terrified of the vet's office, although we have wonderful vets who have taken great care of him. But he just doesn't need to be a pin cushion anymore, since it's not working. He needs to be comfortable and happy - as much as he can be in the time we have left. Which could never be enough, but I'll take what I can get.