SAY GOOD NIGHT, CHLOE

The night before the appointment, I lie with Chloe on my stomach, trying to memorize every curve and marking. I look into her green eyes which appear cloudy and unfocused at times (probably due to the pain) and think: "Tomorrow at this time, she won't be here. This is the last time we can do this."

She has stopped purring and lost six lbs. since the vet diagnosed her inoperable tumor under her tongue at the end of January. Now it's the second week in April and the two of us are exhausted from fighting it.


In the past month, I've made and canceled the appointment twice. But this last one has to be the one.

Chloe lies quietly submissive in our bed. She can still come and sit on my lap when I'm at the computer. She can still sleep at night with her paws wrapped tightly around my arm or her head pressed against mine. But there is no more wish to eat or drink. No energy or will to go outside or look out the window.

I've been syringe-feeding her (12 ML) since the diagnosis. She's unable to use her tongue to lap up food and drink.

On the wall is a Christmas card my friend Tom in Los Angeles sent, wishing me and "the Squeaker" a happy new year. When I lived in L.A., Tom used to come over for a "Reiki Exchange," since we are both practitioners of that Japanese hands-on healing technique. He got a kick out of Chloe because she was one of those "talking" cats. Instead of meowing, she actually tried to talk and it would come out in various squeaks.

But as the cancer progressed, she lost the squeak to an actual meow (if stressed to the max). And finally silence. That was one of the hardest things for me. Knowing that she could no longer speak. Like a stroke victim.

Like humans with cancer, Chloe underwent some physical desecration. She could no longer groom herself and the black goo that sometimes drooled from her mouth coated the white chest fur under it. That fur fell out, piece by piece, revealing pink skin which soon was covered with downy new white fur growth.

She lost so much weight that I could feel her vertebrae and her little ferret face now looked like a kitty skull. To tell the truth, I was almost afraid to take her to the vet for the final shot because he might think, "Why didn't she just put this cat to sleep when I told her there was no hope?"

Typing this, I wonder if I should bother to go on with these details. They can be found in other, probably more helpful blogs. They can be depressing or scary if you have a cat with cancer and are trying to gain hope. Or they may confirm what the human wants to know: "Is the fur falling out part of the process? Will Essiac (the herb mixture I used and which some claim has helped their cats) cure my cat's disease?"

Fur falling out is a definite yes in this type of cancer. Even without chemo. About Essiac, I can't really say. It came highly recommended to me by someone who had much more success at keeping cancer cats alive. I suspect it did help give Chloe a quality of life for a couple months that she otherwise might not have enjoyed.

Essentially, I administered a combo of Essiac, raw protein diet, changed her kitty litter to non-toxic pine and gave her "Greens" (a combo of green antioxidants) mixed in water.

On a website, I'd read about a cat whose cancer went into complete remission and his human gave a long, expensive list of stuff that was used in bringing this about. It warned YOU MUST DO EVERYTHING ON THIS LIST. So maybe I failed due to lack of funds. Or maybe it was Chloe's time. She was 14 years old.

For years, I watched friend after friend lose their aging cats to illness. And inevitably, each blamed themselves. Yes, I've had a hard time not blaming myself for her toxic living conditions. Moving into a moldy old building in San Francisco where we were the only non-smokers, with no view at any window, and very little light...and the cheap kitty litter and cat food...all because of my own economic hardship...

Who am I to deserve a cat like this? How could she end up with such a bad caretaker?

Those were my thoughts. And in my defense, I cite this anecdote:

I have an uncle and aunt who dread Death. They have fought the very thought of it their whole lives. One day they were visiting a friend who was a nurse. This nurse told me afterward that my uncle shared with her his outrage at the fact that his wife's mother had died in a New York hospital. He was planning to sue the administration for malpractice -- blaming the inept nurses.

"How old was your mother-in-law?" asked his friend.

"86 years old!" my uncle yelled. "But that had nothing to do with it!"

More in the next post...(it will get worse and then it will get better...)