Entirely Adequate

So my husband says that if I write about this, I’ll feel better, but I’m not entirely sure that’s true because I don’t know what to write.

One of my cats is dying. Hell, ALL cats are dying, this one’s just on a downhill path: chronic renal failure, the kidney malfunction associated with bad luck and old cats everywhere.

Yin is 14 years old. That’s apparently the equivalent of a 70-something-year-old person, so it’s not entirely unexpected that he should have issues. Frankly, however, his brother has always been our “issues” cat, so I didn’t see this coming.

I’m sort of OK with the idea that he won’t be around much longer, more OK than random outbursts of tears and total lack of appetite would indicate. What I’m not OK with is that I just don’t know what to do. We were sent home today with antibiotics, blood pressure medicine and CRV cat food, among other gels and pills.

The most confusing bag, however, contains a big bag of subcutaneous fluids and a box of 100 needles.

Sure, I watched the vet give a demonstration of administering the “sub-Q,” and I’m pretty sure I can do it, but I’m not sure if I SHOULD do it. I don’t want to turn my cat into a patient, waking up each day only to await a needle and a bunch of pills. It seems … undignified. Especially if he’s not going to be himself, and he HASN’T been himself in a couple of weeks. He used to make every step I made, spend at least half the night sleeping beside me and bound upstairs every morning at 5:15 to wake me up. Now, he lives in the kitchen. Preferably on top of the refrigerator. I might add that he jumps on top of the refrigerator himself, so it’s not a mobility issue, just a lunatic issue. He’s always been a bit of a mad hatter.

I never thought I would miss my 5:15 wake-up meow, but I find myself wide awake at 5:20 every morning, wishing he would scamper up by my pillow and voice his discontent right next to my ear (he totally knows what ears are for). I’ve realized that I’m even going to miss the scratches on my arms, just because I’ve gotten so very used to them (Stockholm syndrome + bad cats go hand in hand).

OK, maybe I do feel slightly better. But I still don’t know what to do. Other than text message my mom because I didn’t tell her about the cat this weekend because I didn’t want to send us both on an apocalyptic crying fit that would pretty much screw up both days for everybody.

Being a grownup sucks. Being a control freak faced with an array of decisions with uncertain outcomes sucks even more.

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