My neurologist recently confessed that what he does for people with my disease is really palliative care, which, according to Wikipedia, “focuses on providing people with relief from the symptoms, pain, physical stress, and mental stress of the terminal diagnosis. The goal of such therapy is to improve quality of life for both the person and their family.”
For the past two years my spouse and I have been providing what I hope to be the best palliative care for one of our cats, Ginger. Ginger used to spend nightly bath time with me but hasn’t in the past several months. Nearly two years ago — November 11, 2015 — she was diagnosed with kidney failure. Since then we’ve had someone help us with administering weekly, then 2x/week, and now every day, subcutaneous fluids. We’ve kept up with her finicky eating requests and have tried all sorts of special cat foods and baby foods. We’ve spoon and finger fed her. She’s had two urinary tract infections and I’ve prepared myself for her final stretch at least 3x in the last year. But I think now is really her final stretch. And I’m taking it a lot harder than I imagined I would.
I love all of my cats — past and current — but Ginger is special. We found her through a rescue group and her only back story was, “found at the San Leandro BART (train) station.” I would do anything to know her real back story. The foster rescuer said she wasn’t a lap cat but Ginger proved her wrong. Not only is Ginger a lap cat but she slept on my arm for years. As my body muscles diminished I had to change that practice since I’d wake up really sore. But we’ve always continued our close relationship. She’s wise, has a sense of humor, and she has proven to have an amazing fighting spirit.
Last week she had a stroke, or seizure, that was so frightening and surreal because she didn’t seem to show a lasting impact. Granted, she has lost a lot of weight and has stopped grooming in the last couple of weeks. But as I held her during the seizure I talked her through “letting go” and was awe struck that she survived and within a few hours back to her somewhat-diminished self.
I made an appointment for in-home euthanasia services, then cancelled, and now have rescheduled. I’ve been in this situation before and there was no ambiguity that the previous cats were in discomfort and ready to go. But Ginger just keeps proving me wrong. Until this afternoon. I hate having this control.
We put Ginger to sleep on Saturday morning. She came out of her heated pocket bed to be in our arms. She leaned back, smiled, and as the veterinarian said, she was “set free.”