We just said goodbye to her sister, Boo, last September. 33 days before her (their) 9th birthday. It was far too soon for Boo and it was a long, drawn-out death that came after a year of consistent wasting away with agonizing decisions and doubts that will haunt me forever, despite how hard we tried to save her. I thought for sure it was a fluke thing, the doctor assured me it was, but here we are preparing for the worst. Again.
I took Rascal to the vets office last Friday for a check up and to see about this acne-looking crap on her chin that seemed to be driving her nutty and didn't look right. Because she's technically a senior cat they encouraged me to run some tests to not only see why her chin was behaving like a surly teenager but to take a peek at her kidneys and other things since she was none too happy having her guts squeezed and my (awesome) vet wanted to make sure it wasn't just Rass being disagreeable at being touched. (Which is the norm for my cantankerous queen. You need permission to look in her general direction even on a good day.)
Rass was whisked away from me, poked, prodded, had her chin shaved in a most unflattering way and I was sent home with some antibiotics and the promise of a phone call. All to the tune of three hundred, fifty-four dollars and twenty-nine cents. Ouch. And it wasn't fun for her either.
Of course that wasn't as painful as the message I received on Saturday afternoon. The blood tests were already in and the diagnosis came back unfavorable; kidney disease. In other words, kidney failure. Her death sentence, to be brutally honest. Thankfully it's been labeled as mild, early stages, whatever, so a smidgen of hope is still there.
Well, not hope really, but the wish that things will progress slowly and she'll be around for as long as possible but with cats it's completely unpredictable since they just have to be the mystery fucking domestic animal and things can go haywire without cause or explanation at any time and somehow I think they like it that way because it's no joke they run the world and wouldn't want anyone to ever have the upper hand. Ever. Little bastards.
I was strangely calm about it on Saturday, thinking it was OK and I would be OK and she'll be OK until she's not OK anymore. Even while whitey was comforting me and ready for my immediate meltdown it didn't come. Until yesterday.
I had to bring her back to the vet for a couple follow up tests so we could get a better handle on where this kidney failure is on the scale of mild to say your goodbyes. I wanted to wait until I got paid again but the doc didn't, so my worry went up a notch from there.
She had to have a blood pressure taken and X-rays, sailing through the former while her mama fretted then it was reported that Miss Thing had become a very unhappy girl when stretched out and pinned down for the images and that was all she was going to put up with today.
While she was off being radiated I was given a lesson on how to prepare an IV of Ringer's lactate to give subcutaneous fluids myself (GAH!!), how to dispose of the sharps and the best way to poke your cat with a giant needle being warned that it's going to take "some practice." And that's where my panic attack started.
You see, Rascal and I have not always gotten along. Didn't see eye to eye, if you will, and she had little to no interest in me for a very long time. Boo was my little girl and while I had affection for Rass, or KeeKee as I call her most of the time, she was very independent and aloof and the little fucker ran from me most of the time so eff it. Then whitey moved in and turned her into a lover and when Boo died she changed. She was happier, more affectionate, and funnier. She really turned into another kitty and we've been bonding every since.
Let me tell you, I LOVE this girl. Like I didn't think I ever would. She's still a freak and can be annoying but she's weird and hilarious and sweet and beautiful and I feel guilty as hell for thinking she was a turd for such a long time. I don't want her going anywhere but here I am, going into support mode, paranoiaville, obsession alley. Not to mention the cost. OMG, the fucking cost.
I take care of my animals and I always say the universe sends me the ones that no one else would take because they're always great animals but fucking expensive with bizarre maladies that I'm obligated to tend to. Unfortunately it beats the shit out of my pocketbook and I'm not made of money. I hate it being a consideration but it is a consideration. 2 visits have already totalled a few dollars short of $600.00 with the drugs and tests and special foods. And that's just the beginning.
So, I'm in it. The worry and the watching like a hawk and the anguish that she'll not feel well and be in pain and have to go through all kinds of nasty shit at my hands and I'll be losing another baby in such a short time. I know it's all part of life but dammit, it's a shitty, shitty part.
There will be pills shoved down her throat daily, needles, dreaded car rides, distress, fear, uncertainty, etc. etc. etc. And to top things off right before we left the vet said she heard a heart murmer that was new. God. Damn. It.
I don't say any of this looking for sympathy. I know I have a lot of health issues myself and have been stupidly extra sick this year and there are millions of people who have it worse then me, but it's my blog and I'm overwhelmed with sadness today. I'm just plain overfuckingwhelmed altogether.
I appreciate all of the well wishes I always get, I really do, so I'm not fishing for more or expecting any or trying to be Debbie Downer or thinking life sucks or saying why me. I'm just fucking bummed. Today I'm really fucking bummed.
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