My baby girl died, was euthanized, yesterday morning, March 29, 2008, after a 3-year struggle with polycystic kidney disease.
Moley, named for her resemblance to the yard rodent at birth, had her fourth and final kidney failure last Sunday night, even while receiving sub-cu fluids, the usual fix, every other day since her last failure in January, so I knew it wasn’t good. After 2 days on IV fluids at the hospital, her blood toxin levels only increasing to impossible numbers, her wonderful vet recommended that she come home to spend some good time with me. She maintained her condition, was deeply happy, just lying in bed with us and purring, all that night and the next day and night. She was weak and somewhat uncoordinated, urinating pure water, always in the litter box except once in the bed, had to be given ammonium hydroxide and what food she would take with a syringe, but she was so happy to be with me, and I was grateful to the vet for encouraging that course. Friday morning, she even felt well enough to get up and go to the shower with me, a regular routine of ours that must be continued without her, where she will be very sorely missed.
She was scheduled for an ultrasound that day at a different vet, but I canceled it, since it would only be a source of trauma for her with no medical benefit, since she obviously was simply at the end of what her body could do.
Unfortunately, more blood tests that day showed a possibly fatally high potassium level, BUN and creatin levels of around 200 and 15, respectively, a phosphorous level of about 15, all putting her at risk for any number of horrible complications, seizures, stroke, heart attack, etc. Her vet was at a loss for how to explain how/why she was doing as well as she was, which, even with serious challenges uncharacteristic of her, was very well, very stable. She was given dextrose throughout the day to lower her potassium, and I picked her up again on the way home, not knowing if it was for a few hours, the night, the weekend….
When we got her home, she came out of the carrier, went directly to the open window to look out at the light rain, the trees blowing, the birds still around the feeder, things she loved. She meowed repeatedly, as if to tell us about her eventful week, wandered around the room with energy she hadn’t had in days, licked at some food on her own, jumped up on the counter and drank water out of the faucet (which was the only way she really enjoyed it), played with a cord I pulled back and forth in front of her. Then, over about a 30-minute period, she shifted back to the point where she had been the days before, and beyond. It was as if she had lived her life again over the course of an hour or so, from being a kitten to a 20-year-old cat at the end of life, except that she, of course, was only six. She grew weaker through the night, and began twitching and smacking her lips when I’d pet her, with smells coming from her mouth that were like death. I realized that every time I touched her or spoke to her, she’d purr immediately, couldn’t even seem to help it, always studying me with the same eyes of love and trust and reflection she always had. When she purred, she salivated more, and had always been very well-mannered and swallowed regularly so as not to drool, and either her saliva was so rotten with poisons that she couldn’t stand it, or she had developed or aggravated the oral ulcers that are common with the end stages of her disease. Either way, the bottom line was that she had several symptoms, any one of which could be fatal; anything we could treat still wouldn’t make her cyst-filled kidneys work; and my showing her love, and her showing it back, was now directly causing her pain.
Our vet had told me that if she seemed stable, I needn’t feel rushed or pressured to do it the next day, that she could probably wait until Monday or Tuesday. She even offered her home number so that if she crashed on Sunday, I wouldn’t have to take her to strangers. Her words gave me such a feeling of relief, of not having to spend the night with her doing a constant mental countdown, having the hope of more time, it felt almost like a reprieve, and I cannot even express how grateful I was for that. It made all the difference, even though I knew by midnight that I’d have to say goodbye to her in the morning. I couldn’t not touch her, and she couldn’t not purr, and it hurt her, and especially on top of everything else, it was unbearable.
I dozed for a couple hours, on and off, waking up to just look at her, pet her a little, help her drink, which seemed to ease the discomfort in her mouth, tell her I love her. Around 9, I asked Christy, my other, to wait downstairs for me, loved on Moley some more, kissed her head, and gently put her in her carrier, and we left. She was upset at first, but I kept my hand in where I could stroke her head, and by the time we got there, she was calm, and I was sobbing uncontrollably. We sat in the car for a few minutes, watching some birds out the window, and when we went in, the receptionist and a technician met us at the door, as though they’d been watching, both weeping, and showed us immediately into a room they had waiting for us.
My vet had left Moley’s IV catheter in from the previous day, so that I could just hold her close, and she could do what she needed to do from a few inches further away. She came in and told us exactly what she was going to do, borrowed Moley for a minute to hook up her line and give her a light sedative, and brought her back to us to love on until we were ready. I’d spent the night getting ready, so a few minutes later, we waved her back in. Moley was sitting on her towel on the edge of the table, leaning against me, in my arms with her head resting on my left hand, and hiding her face in my jacket. She looked out, Dr. Linton put the first, pink liquid into her line, and Moley watched the end of it as it crept up the tube, like she’d watched the meerkats on tv, or the leaves blowing around on the patio, or the little fur mouse I was about to toss for her to go after. When the next drug hit her system, I felt her body relax and her head settle on my hand. Christy, Dr. Linton and I were all crying, and a few seconds later, Dr. Linton told us Moley was gone. She checked her heart rate, looked at her eyes, warned us about the last breath or two that might come from her lungs as her muscles relaxed, and it was quiet. A few more moments passed, and she asked if she could take Moley to remove the catheter. She said they had a special box we could carry her home in, since we’d made our own arrangements for her cremation.
Then, for me, it’s a little better, the next part. It’s as though we’ve just gone in for another checkup, another treatment, whatever, and then we get to go home. She’s still with me, at least in body, and it’s as though reality is suspended for a little while. It’s not true yet.
When the cremation service lady came for her, I didn’t want to answer the door, wanted to grab Moley and hide, run out the back door, anything to keep her from being taken. Christy came down to let the lady in, one of the sweetest people in what has to be a hard job, and I managed to get control of myself, be pleasant, pet Moley’s soft head one last time, and hand her over into the lady’s care. It took everything I had not to scream at her and tackle her and snatch Moley’s body back as she got into her van with her and drove away.
At that point, the universe folded in on itself. The void that had been kept at bay was immediately and overwhelmingly felt. The loss was huge. She was so smart, so brave, so devoted to me, playful, curious, aware. It was she who had been my main source of comfort two years ago when I lost my first exceptional cat of 14 years, my beloved Vivian Judd. Moley had never slept with me before, but she spent the three nights following Vivian’s death on the pillow next to my head. Every time I moved, whimpered, anything, every time, she raised her head and looked at me as though she were awake and keeping watch the whole time. Often she would reach out and touch my face or hair with her paw. I kept a hand on her the whole time, and I survived those first days, that first huge void, although I still mourn her as well. Moley was rare and special, and I can say that even with two cats still in the house. I could fill a hundred pages with remarkable stories about her. I could cry over her loss for a hundred years. I am grateful, the humbling, on-your-knees kind of grateful, for the gifts of both Vivian and Moley, for their truly unconditional love and belief in me and my own goodness, for their friendship. I will miss her for the rest of my life.
Mama loves you, sweet baby girl,
| Moley Jane |
| 29, Mar 2008 |
| Kristin Mary Johnson |