I'm exhausted, emotionally. Not sure quite where I am physically.
Let me see. February 7. In 2020, this is when Bob's neutrophils (white blood cell count) had finally, after about a week's delay in starting to show up, finally hit the magic number of 1000. Which meant he could be released from the hospital and we could move to the Hope House. We could see said house (rehab center) from our room, and we had held in our hearts that if somehow we could get out of the hospital and down there, somehow things would be all right. Looking back, I realize they released him a bit too early. He hit the magic number on a Friday, and if they didn't let him go that day, administratively, they would have to wait until Monday. But if they had done that, he never would have gotten out, because by Sunday his numbers had tanked again. But I digress.
So we got to Hope House, and things were not OK, and thus began the two and a half most terrifying weeks of my life. The first night was all right - we were both exhausted, because a lot of work in the hospital (like his transfusions) took place at night, and it was rare for more than an hour to go by without someone coming in the room, or an alarm going off. We had been a month without getting more than an hour or two sleep in a row. So the first night, we slept. But he still felt terrible, and weak, and the second night couldn't get comfortable in the twin-size bed, and somehow the mattress shifted and slid halfway to the floor. At that time, Bob didin't have any platelets - he got transfusions of them every day, and went through them like Rice Krispies. A fall could cause internal bleeding and death. He, at the time, weighed about 270, I weighed in at 130. And I somehow picked both him and the mattress up and got it all back on the bed. Then I sat up the rest of the night, watching him. We spent the next day at the clinic, then I packed up the room and him and moved us to a hotel near the hospital where he could have a decent sized bed.
Today's blog has nothing to do with that. But it's where I'm at, mentally. Trying to take care of Bob while he steadily grew weaker, without that constant but comforting array of nurses in and out of the room.
This weekend I went a little bonkers. It hit me that it's been two years, and that while I've cleaned out closests and cabinets and drawers, and taken a dozen bags or so of stuff out of Bob's room, I had come to a halt and hadn't been in there since the holidays started.
I went a little crazy. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday I went tearing through that room. Three cars full of stuff going to the dump and donation. Another large load of stuff set aside for an artist friend. Ebaida wondered why I felt the sudden need to do this - what was the rush. I said it was time to let it go.
But his post isn't about Bob, or his room, or his hoarded stuff. It's about Tula. I can't remember if I've posted about her before, and don't feel like going back and looking. But at the end of December I took her to the vet - she has often had trouble with her teeth, and I thought she might have an infection. The vet agreed with me, gave her a shot with both an anti inflammatory and an antibiotic, but then said, "hmmmm." He could feel what felt like a thickening in her jaw. Maybe it was the infection. A week later I took her back for a followup. Both vets looked at her, then opened her mouth, and showed me the bone tumor in her jaw.
Nothing could be done about it. She went on steroids, which helped some. Her personality didn't change. Honestly - she could be annoying. She had a most raucous voice that she used constantly. She was always demanding attention, or treats. I had to lock her up while she ate because if not a paw would grab food off my plate, or off my fork. I said to myself - or to anyone I talked to about it - that I would let her live as long as she didn't seem to be hurting, could eat so she didn't lose too much weight, or lose her tortoiseshell attitude ("tortitude").
The tortitude stayed. She caterwauled, purred, pushed her way onto my lap, tried to grab my food, let the other cats firmly know that the special treats were just for her. And I think I tried to firmly ignore the fact that she was also pawing at her mouth. And didn't mind that I had to wash the blood out of the sheets after she slept with me. Or that she ate with just one side of her mouth, carefully. That she was starting to lose weight.
The mad cleaning of Bob's stuff was my subconscious yelling at me to LET GO.
This morning, I did. Tula is gone. My head, my gut, and my vet told me it was the right thing to do. Let her go *before* she started hurting too badly, before she couldn't eat, before she suffered. Let her go while she was still undeniably Tula.
My head, my gut, and my vet. But not my heart. My heart hurts. Because if Bob was here, Tula would still be. He'd still be holding out hope. He would have kept her going - at some point he would have mixed baby chicken with broth and then used a syringe to feed he when she got to the point that she couldn't eat. I can hear the strain in his voice "please please please please please eat." (I remember the time that a baby chick died, and when I went to take it to bury it, he asked me to wait a little longer "just in case.")
But I am not Bob. He was the eternal hopeful one - "maybe if we wait a little longer, it will be all right." I was the stoic, the realist - "this is how things are." We complemented each other, balanced each other. But he's not here, and I have to find my own balance, follow my own conscious.
Tula was getting worse, and was going to continue to get worse. My subconscious was yelling at me to let her go, while she was still undeniably Tula - still raucous, demanding, pushy. Accept that at some point, fairly soon, that she was going to suffer, to hurt, to be hungry because it hurt too much to eat. As my vet said - let her quit while she's still ahead. It was the right thing to do, the decent thing to do. But I feel that I somehow betrayed Bob's trust, and that hurts so, so much. I'm sorry, my love. Usually, after I've had a cat put down, there is a calmness afterwards. It's making the decision that's hard, but then you accept that the suffering is over, and there is a level of peace. Today - I've spent the day almost doubled over in physical pain, crying, because there was no suffering to end. The suffering is mine, not hers.
I love her. I let her go. Tonight I ate my dinner quietly, with no caterwauling and no swiping paw. I hated it.
Godspeed, my furry old friend. It was an honor to serve you.
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