Pan 1998-2008

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?

Today Could Have Been Worse

I picked a bunch more tomatoes today. See?


Yes, some of them are only slightly red. But seeing as I was laid off today, I wasn't sure when I'd next get up to the garden to pick, so I took everything that was even slightly red.

And more basil, and some catnip.

And three green beans, but they were gone before I was in the car.

Yeah, yeah, laid off. It wasn't a shock (they're restructuring the whole office: good-bye to 40% of Marketing), and it was almost a relief to know, after the weird and worrisome weekend of wondering.

Harold greeted my lunchtime return with open arms:


He actually was glad to see me; this was after he got used to the idea. Yeah, Mom's home, yawn, whatever, nap time.

And best of all by far, I got to bring the baby home. He's no worse than he was*, which is a huge relief given my black fears and visions.

*I mean, plerual effusion doesn't even sound as bad as congestive heart failure, right?

He's home.


Today could have been far worse.

Anyone in Greater Boston need a proofreader/copywriter/copy editor? Anyone? Bueller? I haz mad word skillz, y'all! Seriously, keep me in mind, would you?

As if Monday wasn't already going to bite

Since I have to take Pan to the vet on Monday and leave him there* and worry about him all day, I already expected Monday to be rotten.

*I hate leaving him there. Hate it. Even leaving both boys to be fixed ten years ago was hard for me. Now? Horrible.

Then at work today, we were told that there are going to be some layoffs. We'll find out who are the "lucky" ones next week. Some time.

So in between worrying about my cat, I can worry if some unknown outplacement person will be showing up at my desk to tell me I'm one of them.

After I spend the entire weekend trying not to think about either situation.

Yes, this month is not going to go down in the books as one of my favorites.

Now, I must turn off the computer, as round 42 of the latest thunderstorm is coming in. I checked the weather map, and the end of this storm is currently leaving Trenton, NJ (about 300 miles away). I hope I see Harold again before morning, but I'm not going to hold my breath.

Y'all will excuse me, I'm sure

But I only have four days to spoil Pan utterly, completely, and like never before. Monday he has to go to the vet for a chest x-ray. His breathing is going weird again.

If he writes a country-western song this weekend, the title will probably be, "The salt in my fur is from my mama's tears".

Either that, or "I used to think mama was crazy (now I know for sure)".

Of cats and gardens, up and down

Harold went to the vet on Saturday for his annual check-up.

Does that make it sound like I sent him off on his own? More accurately, I took Harold to the vet on Saturday for his annual check-up. He was a very good boy. He didn't fuss for his shots, allowed the poking and prodding, and only made the occasional attempt to hide behind that molecule in the air right over there. Even the vet thought he was good:


(The situation with Pan, of course, means he shouldn't lose weight. Harold could stand to lose a little, but try that balancing act and see how well it works.)

It wasn't as bad as last year's check-up was. Last year, in addition to having to go in the car and be at the vet, poor Harold got a thunderstorm, too. It was all his worst things at once, poor baby. So this year, although no fun, wasn't as bad as that.

She didn't mean anything bad by it
The vet was really nice, and I know she didn't mean to upset me. But when we were talking about Pan (who only goes to the vet now in emergencies), she said something very cheery about how it's great that he's still doing so well, so long after his diagnosis with CHF.

Still. So long. From March.

I truly am grateful for every day he gets. I am. I'm very conscious of not knowing how long I will have him.

When I see him curled up, I check that he's breathing.

When I leave, I wonder how he'll be when I get back.

The vet said in March that it could be months, could be years, they just can't say for sure, and trust me, I get that.

It's not that I disagree with her. Every single day we get is great. I guess I just didn't need to be reminded.

It's never going to be enough, of course, no matter how much time he has in the end. Making it through the past four months has enabled him to get to ten years: in April, ten years old; in June, ten years that I've had him. Ten years is both a long time and not enough, not nearly enough.

And over the past four months, even more than in the last few years, I've wondered, far more often than I'd like, how I'm going to get through it, when the time comes. Not will it be bad, but how bad will it be? How will Harold and I do, when that train hits?

Enough of that for now! Here is the end of the depressing part:


Or, technically, the ends.

How does my garden grow? It grows!
Meanwhile, the garden weekended well, leading to a bumper crop:


Peas and green beans. I also picked more basil, whew, that stuff is growing! And some of these things don't grow quite straight:


Not that there's anything wrong with that. About five minutes after coming inside, I had the green beans and this:


I have a half-decent cuke that I'm trying to be patient with.


I'm nervous, though, since a look at the rest of the garden plots showed me that the critter-thing really likes cukes:


A lot of plants are missing leaves. Mine haven't been nibbled since the first time, a few weeks ago, but seeing the nibbles in other plots makes me edgy. I may pick that cuke sooner and smaller, rather than waiting much longer.

Camera focus continues to elude me. I suppose it's possible that someday I will learn to make the camera focus on what I choose, and that would be nice, but I get some interesting shots this way.

Waiting for the Train

I've known for a few years now that Pan has a heart condition, and although there have been some scary moments, on a daily basis it hasn't been very worrying. He showed no symptoms, the medications were preventive, he was his same old self, all's right with the world.

Now that he's in CHF, I'm having much more trouble forgetting it. The labored breathing, although easily corrected by the new med, was an obvious reminder that he is not 100% healthy. And even with the breathing back to normal, I'm still having problems.

It's like waiting to get hit by a train. You know it's going to hit you, but you don't know when. It could be today, could be two years from today. It will hit you, and it will hurt like hell when it does.

And thus, with almost everything he does or doesn't do, I worry: is this it? Is that a bad sign? Is he breathing? Does his throwing up mean something more than indigestion or a hairball? Is his heart beating too fast? Does he want to cuddle because he senses something? Does he not want to cuddle because he feels bad?

And the underlying question to all questions: What should I do?

Intellectually, I know that I'm doing what can be done. He's on medications, I'm monitoring his weight and watching for any other symptoms, I'm keeping his life happy and low-stress. Emotionally, though, I have trouble accepting that. The situation is broke and I want to fix it. I can't forget, even for a day, and if I can't fix it, I wish I could forget.

Pan has always been my baby. He was my first choice that day I walked into the Humane Society, ten years ago this summer. I love Harold too, love him lots, but Pan is a mama's boy and extra dear to my heart (a bonus re: cats versus human kids is that you can say things like that, even put them on your blog for all the world to see, without worrying about therapy bills later). All the preparation in the world isn't going to help me when the time comes. And not knowing when the time will come is ... unsettling.

In my situation, do you think you'd rather know, or not know, how long he has left?

About a cat

Yesterday afternoon I talked to the vet about Pan and the latest medication, and, well, it turned out to be an excellent night to already have ice cream in the house. And to sit and watch TV* with a cat on my lap, trying not to sniffle.

*The Bruins won, which was nice, like something was going right. It's kind of like they're trying to make me feel better lately.

As I mentioned last week, I had mixed feelings about the medication, because if it didn't work, I'd have to take him to the Place of Major Stress (aka the vet), but if it did work, that meant he has entered the phase of heart disease that is cruelly called Congenital Heart Failure*. And, after a week, it had indeed worked.

*I'm going to abbreviate it from now on. CHF might stand for Continued Heart Function, right? After all, his heart does continue to function, for now. Might be months, might be years ...

His breathing was definitely closer to normal after seven days on the medication, without that hiccup that disturbed me so. Which is good, of course. Except for the whole idea of if the medicine works, it's CHF.

What it boils down to is, he adds the new med to his regimen (can you believe my cat has a regimen?), and we're going to try him on a lower-salt food, and "keep his life as stress-free as possible".

Which on the one hand makes me nod, and on the other hand makes me laugh. Stress-free? How much stress does he have? He doesn't have a job or bills to pay or snow to shovel or to cook or clean up after himself (though there is the whole issue of bathing by tongue, but he seems fine with that) ... honestly, he's had quite a good life since June 27, 1998 when I picked him up from the Humane Society with his brother*.

*They're not actually blood brothers, but they don't know that.

I grant you, he'll be taking no long car trips, or even short ones unless emergency arises, but otherwise what? I should try not to yell at him when he bites my fingers. I think that's the most stress in his daily life these days, and to be honest he seems more startled than stressed if I yell. If he could speak (English), I expect he would say, "What, now you don't like that?" Because he always acts as if this is a new policy, a sudden change to what was previously not merely allowed, but encouraged by me. Even though I have never, not once, liked being bitten by him, or encouraged it in any way.

And the thing is, I know that after he's gone, that will be one of the things I remember about him. He used to bite my fingers, and he expected me to love it.

So, I'm feeling tense and fragile and other un-fun things. I'm braced for the next blow, and can't seem to relax my shoulders. I think perhaps I will go start a swatch with the sock yarn, the nice bright cheerful sock yarn. With a cat on my lap, perhaps. Gosh, sock needles are going to feel like toothpicks coming from the blanket and its US 11s.

This week ... oh, this week

There's a line in Douglas Adams' The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul that came to mind today:

Kate, who didn't realize that the day was still only softening her up for what was to come, made the mistake of thinking that it had just reached a climax of shock.

Substitute week for day, and here I am.

I wasn't happy to have my eyes dilated on Tuesday.

I was quite unhappy with my fouled-up oil change yesterday.

But.

Pan's had a little hitch to his breathing lately, which I probably wouldn't even notice except for his heart condition. I monitored it for a while to see if it would get better, or worse, and it did neither. I decided that I'd better get in touch with the vet just in case. Even though I'd rather pretend that everything was fine, you know. Because if ... something ... happened, I would never forgive myself if I hadn't done what I could. (Although I've already found that in cases like that, you'll blame yourself either way.)

So, yesterday I e-mailed the vet and explained the situation, because I don't want to bring him in unless I have to. He gets SO stressed at the vet, and stress is SO bad for his heart, blah blah blah. Of course I'll take him in if I have to, but do I have to?

I talked to the vet today, and after we discussed the options (which both suck, as the vet more or less said) (that's not the word he used, though), we're trying Pan on another medication first, to see if it helps. If not, I'll have to bring him in for an exam and possible x-ray.

The catch? I don't know if I want it to work, the new med. Because if it does, it means he has fluid in his lungs, which means congestive heart failure. That's hard to say, hard to type, and hard to face. Pan's my baby, I've had him for 9 years and 8 months, and I'm Not Ready for ... anything. You know.

Perhaps there is something to be said for being an ostrich. I have a week of giving this med before I talk to the vet again. If I just try not to think about ... things, would that be so bad?