The surgery and chemo are not cures, and both have a success rate of only about 50%. If we did either one, assuming we were in the lucky 50%, they would only hold off the cancer for a couple of years, at best. And they would not be good years.
She would have to take liquid medication every day. She would need to be sedated for blood work, because she's such a fighter that they need four people to hold her down. She would need to go to the vet constantly, which would terrify her. If she developed an infection, which is common, she would need to be hospitalized, possibly for days.
She wouldn't want that.
The vet can't tell us how much time she has left. It could be a few months. It could be a few years. But however long it is, we want her to be happy. Not scared, not sedated, not hospitalized, not resenting us.
|Even after surgery, she still gives impromptu backrubs|
I can't even look at her without tearing up right now. And I don't know if that will ever change. But it's my job to make sure she's happy, as well as her sister, and her human brother. So I'm doing my best.
Everyone is being a real trooper about this. Both of the girls are snuggling me a lot more than usual, because they know I'm sad, even if they don't know why. The boy hasn't questioned why I've been running into my bedroom with my phone and coming out with puffy eyes all week.
I don't know how to "get over" something that hasn't even happened yet. If she was gone, I would know that no matter how sad I was, I was slowly inching towards better days. But I'm not. I'm trying to make some good days up until I have my worst day ever, and I know it's coming. I just don't know when. Sometimes, when I look at her, she seems like a ghost. Just reminding me that she'll be gone one day.
I want to take a million pictures of her. I want to record the sound of her purr. I wish I could record the way she feels when she's lying on my lap. This is, without question, the worst I have ever felt in my life. And I've lost other animals before. And people. But I've never had so much up in the air, so much left unknown before. All I can do is pat her and cry and feel this overwhelming dread for what comes next.
I can't imagine how the boy will take it. She's been his big sister his whole life. She actually lets him pat her. What cat allows a four-year-old to pat them? As soon as we took the front rail off of his crib and turned it into a "big boy bed," she was right in there, snuggling him in his sleep. When he cries out at night, she beats me to his door, and then jumps into his bed before I'm halfway across the room. Every time.
And Chevelle. Will she understand? She acts tough, but she loves her sister so much. Who will clean her ears when she's gone? I don't know how to do that. The vet always compliments me on the cleanliness of their ears, and I tell him I have nothing to do with that. They've always taken care of each others' hard-to-reach areas.
This is when I really question religious people. How can you believe that there is someone who would let this happen? How could anyone do this to such a sweet, perfect cat? And how could you worship someone like that? If there was a God, he would be a world-class asshole. And you're not allowed to get offended, because I'm grieving, so can it. And please, if you think that this is the right time to try and convert me, you are on the wrong blog.
So that's that. I'm going to try really hard to be upbeat. For Molly, for my family, and for you. I don't know what the hell I'm going to write about in the coming days. I can't keep writing about what a bummer my life is right now. I have my tattoo coming up on Saturday, so there's that. I'm not even excited anymore. I hope I don't look at that tattoo and think about what was going on when I got it for the rest of my life. That would suck. But at least I'll have one blog topic that isn't about crying and cancer.
|This was her gift to me on my 30th birthday.|