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It’s times like these you learn to live again
It’s times like these you give and give again
It’s times like these you learn to love again
It’s times like these time and time again
– Dave Grohl
The day finally arrived.
It was one I imagined for nearly three years – when I didn’t put it out of my mind. I never wanted this day to come but deep down inside I knew sooner or later I would put Chloe to sleep.
Thursday. September 29, 2016. 3:53 p.m.
September was a brutal month, emotionally. It wasn’t her kidneys. It was something completely out of my control.
Cancer.
Dastardly cancer!
It took her sister. And her other sister.
It started this summer. We thought she had an elderly cat condition that affected her jaw. It was something she handled with grace last year but the grinding sound this time around when she tried eating was different. It was loud. It was annoying. It was just wrong.
After feeling something rigid under her jaw by her chin I took her to a specialist. Is this my greatest fear coming to pass?
Indeed it was. The doctor gave me a best to have and a worst to have. Then, just like when her kidney’s failed almost three years ago I prayed. Damn, did I pray.
Each prayer felt unanswered. In actuality, each prayer was answered. Just not what I wanted. Not only was the mass cancer, it was the worst kind of cancer. Nothing could be done. Time with my 18 year old cat was nearing an end.
I always thought her her kidneys would eventually fail. She was given weeks maybe a month or so to live three years ago. Not on my watch! I nursed her back to health and with an army of medication and blistering dedication I managed to get her blood count from kidney failure levels to a manageable chronic disease with BUN and creatinine values just above normal.
Eventually, each day developed into a successful routine. Morning, noon, afternoon and evening. It was a lot, yet it wasn’t. The total time involved was probably 15 minutes or so. But the commitment required vigilance. And lots of patience. On my end and Chloe’s behalf. After a few months it was, well, normal.
Back then, plans made weeks, even months out, were always met with speculation. Will Chloe be here? Will she crash while I’m gone? The day before? The day of?! Should I even make plans? After a while, the concern flittered away and all seemed well. Nevertheless, I constantly pondered the future. Because I knew…
But the cancer diagnosis forced me to live in the present tense. Rather quickly, I lost the past and the future made no sense. As her health slipped I stopped thinking about what lies ahead. I stopped thinking about next week. Even tomorrow. Perhaps this is what Jesus meant in Matthew 6:34 when He said, “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Today has enough trouble of its own.”
Indeed each day did have enough trouble of it’s own. In fact, for nearly five weeks not one of those weeks went by without the thought that this was the week. This weekend, perhaps. Monday most likely. Maybe even tomorrow. Then she’d show some life. She wasn’t ready, therefore neither was I. All you need is now.
Of course, I never wanted this day to come. Truth be told, I didn’t want to believe it. For my wife and I, losing our pets is gut wrenching. But Chloe was my cat. And my intensive care giving duties to give her life past failing kidneys only served to endear her more to me. And I’m sure me to her. I don’t know God’s plan for this world, but whatever plot He has in mind, let it come to pass before Chloe’s fate came to pass. Save me from this cup…
Fat chance.
I had already imagined that awful day at the veterinarian’s office many times. And it went down pretty much on cue. She was given a sedative first, around 3:46 p.m., which I thought sealed the deal. I was unprepared for how effective it was. In many respects, she was gone then. Her heart beat but she likely had no consciousness.
That morning my wife and I prayed. We stopped the miracle prayers by then. Now we just wanted a sign. Is today the day? Living in the present tense makes you appreciate every minute, every hour, every day given. She looked miserable but showed signs of her old self. I’d be haunted for who knows how long if I pulled the trigger early. Yes, most pet owners would have done so upon learning about the failing kidneys, three years earlier. Sane pet owners would have done so weeks earlier if not a month back.
Not us.
During this long, excruciating process I asked my wife if our love for animals is a mental disorder. She didn’t take that one well. It’s a legitimate question, though, I think. Animals, you know, are perfect. Humans screwed everything up.
Just about every sermon at church revolves around bringing the unbeliever on-board. I. Don’t. Have. The. Gift. Of. Evangelism. But I also suffer from cynicism. Though it should probably be spelled sinicism. I’ve been injured by the non-Christian and Christian too many times to count. Chloe never hurt me. And, sometimes I just don’t care about other people. They do it to themselves. They know better. At least they should. Seriously, if you live in the United States and haven’t made a decision – Yes or No – for Christianity there’s not much I can do. At least that’s what I think.
We’re certainly running to and fro, aren’t we?
My new normal, which is a normal I spent most of my life living, feels strange. I have nothing to do. Last night around 9 p.m. I felt the itch. It’s time. But Chloe no longer needs fluids. That’s about the time I’d “fill her up.” Every night for two years and 11 months.
I don’t heat her wet food in the microwave every morning. Afternoon. Evening. Or open a fresh can, which she really loved. I used to blend it in a food processor, if you can believe that. No more pills or capsules for which she literally opened her mouth for as a jabbed a pet piller halfway down her throat. I know she didn’t care for it much but, man, it sure appeared as though she knew why I was doing what I was doing.
I don’t pull her food upon coming home so she has an empty stomach for one of her medications. The aluminum hydroxide to absorb the phosphorus sits in the fridge now. I still shake it so it doesn’t solidify. I’ll donate it to someone experiencing the new normal. An empty bag of lactated ringers sits in the mud room. A half-full box remains in the adjacent closet. I remember the last time I hydrated her. The night before. Still holding out hope…
I don’t want to go back to normal. I liked the new normal. The old normal feels hollow.
Boy do I have a lot of time on my hands.
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