It Was Time

Just 23 days ago our Princess Coco was diagnosed with bowel cancer with no chance of survival. The docs said she didn’t have much time left but didn’t give us a ballpark figure. I hoped for months. We got weeks.

On Wednesday, I noticed that my Angel Kitten seemed less exuberant, she was moving tenderly, slowly and needed a lift to get back up on the bed. Our girl had been eating less and was plagued with diarrhea. I asked Jen if she’d noticed anything else. Yes. Coco’s breathing was labored—a LOT labored. The cat cancer doc said this was one of the main tells that it would be time to bring in the Grim Reaper.

Her breathing became, between Thursday night and Friday morning, so difficult that I asked Jen to switch our Visiting Angel of Death appointment from Monday to that very afternoon I wanted her suffering to be over. 

Tragically, no Friday afternoon openings were available. The only way to put my kitten out of her misery was to bring her to the animal hospital in the next town over. I didn’t want to compound Coco’s suffering by putting her in the carrier and bringing her to a flourescently lit, strange smelling, crowded hospital ER.

Jen was able to find and get in touch with the wonderful traveling vet who helped us, five years ago, when it was Rocco’s time to board the express train outta this life. The vet lives here in our little town and was going to come over at noon today to escort Coco to the other side.

The thing is, between the time Jen arranged all this and her arrival home, Coco’s condition had drastically worsened. It was awful—my, now bony, little girl was just laying on the bed panting, her eyes pleading with me to help her. Coco’s rendezvous with Bast was now past due.

Jen called the Animal Hospital to make them aware of our needs (and imminent arrival). We all piled in her car—Ten and I in the back with Coco, wrapped in her mint green fuzzy blanket, cradled in my arms. I was speaking soft, loving words and lightly patting her when she pulled a paw out of the blanket and rested it on top of my hand. She wanted to hold my hand. Was she, as she’s consistently done during our 15 years together, comforting me—telling me everything was gonna be OK? Or was she finding relief and solace in our joined paws? Probably both.

Surprisingly, happily, the hospital had a lovely, well appointed, dimly lit private room set up for us (MGH could take some lessons from the South Shore VCA’s set up). The doctor, nurse and admin were all tremendously empathetic and supportive—it was over and done calmly, compassionately and relatively quickly.

The only thing leavening my mondo sad right now is knowing she’s out of pain, her distress has ended.