I'm afraid

I am worn out with worrying about Pan.

I haven't been good for much this week. I got through the interview Monday morning fine (at least as far as interviews go), but otherwise, it's been a major effort to do simple things like pick up books at the library or buy food. Going to my stitch and bitch group Monday night was good, a fine distraction and I really enjoyed it, but that's an exception this week.

I'm in limbo. Pan hasn't been himself for several weeks, and it's wearing on me.

What's Changed
He's not eating that I can see, so of course he's losing weight. He won't even eat special treats like cheese or tuna, and now when I pet him, I can feel bones that I never did before. He's still drinking, but how long can a cat live on just water? I want to think that he's eating when I'm not around, but I'm pretty sure that's wishful thinking.

He also doesn't care for Pill Pockets anymore. Sniffs them and looks at me like, yeah, so? I bought a pill shooter and it's better than trying to get them to the back of his throat by hand, but tonight after I dosed him, he threw them all up.

He walks slowly and cautiously, like he's not sure everything's going to work.

His fur looks spikier than it ever did, which is surely an odd symptom. It doesn't bounce back after I pet him, but stays disturbed for a bit.

On Monday, every few minutes, he'd make a series of odd noises, like mini-sneezes. Pft, pft, pft, all day. He's pretty much stopped doing it, but it was freaky. And according to the vet, not a usual related symptom to his condition.

On the Plus Side
He does purr, he curls up with Harold, he snuggles (tentatively) with me.

Lately he comes to the bathroom every day after I shower, to lick the water.

So far he can still jump up on chairs and beds and laps, as well as ever.

But sometimes he looks at me, and I know I'm anthropomorphizing, but it's all I can do not to cry. I try not to, because he's always gotten upset when I'm upset, and I don't want to upset him now, but it's so hard.

I'm afraid.

When I had to take him to the vet last month, I hated it even more than he did, because he hated the experience, while I hated the possibilities. The combined stress of going in the car, being at the vet, the sounds and smells of all the other animals; not good for his poor heart. I knew what could happen, while he didn't.

He doesn't know now. He's not scared, and that's good. But I am. It's like this enormous THING, which I don't want to think about and can't not think about, and it's between me and everything else I should be doing. Whether it's vacuum the rug or find a job ... I just can't do it.

History
When my last cat, Honey, died, it took me completely by surprise.

Looking back, there were signs, but at the time I didn't recognize them for what they were. When the vet wanted to keep her over the weekend to give her fluids for dehydration, I was sorry to leave her there, but not overly concerned. I thought I would be picking her up Monday evening and we'd be fine again. I was oblivious.

That Monday afternoon the vet called me at work to say that I could come pick her up any time, because there was nothing else they could do.

It hit me like a ton of bricks.

I went to get her, and took her home, and she died a few hours later. Looking back, especially now, I can't decide if it was better not to know ahead of time that it was coming. It was such a shock ... but was it better in the long run, like ripping off the bandage? I just don't know.

I hope that Pan won't die any time soon. "Hope" doesn't seem a strong enough word for how I feel about this. But knowing that he might, that he could ... it's not a good feeling. In fact, it's a rotten, horrible, awful, "I can't tell you how much I hate this" feeling.

Life Changes You
After Honey died, I tried to distract myself with reading. At the time, I was a big mystery fan, and a new Karen Kijewski came in. She wrote a series about a PI named Kat Colorado, which I had really enjoyed. I don't remember which one this was, but it started with a man who was missing: he'd gone out on his boat, I think, and never came back. Kat went to talk to his wife, who wailed, "He's dead! He's dead and gone! He's dead and he's never coming back!"

Not the best distraction. I closed the book and never picked it up again. A true case of "It's not you, it's me."

I don't read as many mysteries as I used to. It was all the serial killers that started to get to me the most, but I simply don't handle the deaths in general as lightly as I used to.

It seems like this week, I'm one emotional extreme or the other. I'm a wreck, sniffling on the couch ... or, I'm numb. Listless. Unmotivated. Sitting staring into space. Sometimes, I'm not even thinking about things, but I'll take a breath and find it's all shaky. He isn't going to get better, I know ... but why can't he get better? Why not?