In about 16 hours I drop Bug off at the vet. He's sleeping peacefully and I'm a wreck.
I've been wondering why I'm handling this so badly. So time for a therapy session
One: The long wait. I made the decision to have the leg taken, only to find that the surgeon wasn't available for 10 days (other surgeons would have been 3-4 weeks). Bug has been exemplary about letting me change the bandages every two days - but it's getting to be a bloodier mess each time (lots of mopping up in the bathroom afterwards). Yesterday as I was doing it, I told him that this would be the last time - in 48 hours he wouldn't have a leg to bandage any more.
Two: I don't have enough distractions. Even John (co worker) said that it probably made it harder to sit at home alone, thinking about it. He's right.
This has been a siege, not a crisis: I just counted, and it was 12 weeks ago today that I felt a bump on his leg. At the time I thought abscess or cyst - take him in, get it drained, job done. After 12 weeks of mostly waiting (A week on antibiotics just in case it was an infection, two weeks to get the sarcoma taken off, time spent healing and being cautiously hopeful, now more waiting for the amputation). Coincidentally, it was almost exactly 12 weeks from checking Bob into the hospital at Shands until the day I came home alone, most of it just waiting while things when from OK to not so OK to bad to worse, with nothing I could do about it but just sit there.
But at least then I had Bob. Even then I could talk to him, lean on him, sometimes even climb into bed for a cuddle. I wasn't alone.
Three: And this is the biggie. I'm breaking a vow I made to myself 15 years ago, the last time I did this to a cat. Azrael was my soul cat (you get those once in awhile). And he got a sarcoma on his leg (hind leg - more meat and skin there). I just found notes on my old blog - which was unusual for me; at the time I posted only positive stuff, so losing animals, people, and jobs wasn't noted. But I did a post after he lost his leg. I remember having the sarcoma removed several times; protective amnesia let me forget that it was seven times over a three-year period. Finally, one day his entire leg was swollen. I called Dr. Sanders and he told me "that's all I can do. It's time to put him down." I begged him to take the leg instead - and he did. I wasn't strong enough to lose Azrael. But that final swelling was apparently enough for the "rarely metastasizes" cancer to do just that. A few months later it was in his lungs and we put him down.
I've never forgiven myself for doing that to him, making him go through that because I wasn't strong enough. I said I would never do that again - and yet, here I am.
I'm telling myself that it's different this time. He's had the sarcoma for three months, not three years. Dr. Sanders didn't want to amputate - Dr. Farmer and Dr. Poppell both recommend it. But only time will tell if he a) can get along all right as a tripod, and b) if it indeed hasn't metastisized. More waiting.
Four: At least this one is small. I've been having actual physical pains in my gut, stressing over this. But it hit me this morning that it's not entirely the stress. Dr. McSoley (dentist) as well as putting me on antibiotics for the tooth (there's a pocket of infection between the roots) also put me on Motrin - 800 mg of ibuprofen three times a day. I haven't been thinking straight - I know that my body can't handle that. I can only take a normal dose for about three days before it messes with me, and I've been on this much for four days. The inflammation is gone, so I'll go off the ibuprofen (or at least cut it way down) and that should take care of the physical pain.
The emotional distress? In 16 hours I have to stop second-guessing myself; the decision will have been made. Then there's a few weeks of physical healing for him, and a few months of paranoia on my part, praying that I haven't repeated the mistake I made before.
Therapy session over. Time for coffee and a book.
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