Losing Romeo
Jan. 9th, 2016 06:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonoranrnTechnically two days ago now (1/7), I had to euthanize my beloved Romeo. This post is about that and, therefore, not exactly light-hearted and happy. I think I need to write it out, to help me process and move forward.
I guess it was about a month, maybe less, that Romeo started to act not himself. He just seemed to age suddenly. I mean, I knew he was getting old. He had just turned (or was about to turn) 17 so it's not like I thought he was a kitten anymore, but he and Dante had always continued on being healthy, active cats. They both had some grey fur, some arthritis, and Romeo didn't always move around as easily as he used to, but I was sure both of them would see 20, easy. The last vet visit (albeit 2.5-ish years ago) they had clean bills of health except for some tooth decay and gingivitis. Hearing, sight, everything was fine and, really, continued to be so. Then it just changed for Romeo. It seemed like all of a sudden he was an old cat. Not quite so spry, a little occasionally confused or disoriented, gait a little unsteady. Also he kept having these episodes in which he would blink quickly and twitch his head a bit; they almost looked like little seizures but he never seemed to have the after-seizure (called post-ictal) phase that includes marked confusion. And, strangely, his meow got quieter. Some days were better than others, but I finally decided he needed to see a vet so I took both of them in on December 30th. (Looking back, I knew he wouldn't make it through another year and, in fact, was a little worried about our leaving town on the 16th, but I really thought we'd have more than 8 days.)
The vet gave Dante the ongoing clean bull of health, even deferred blood work as needless at that time. Romeo he was more worried about due to his increased heart murmur and new probably neurologically-caused symptoms. He drew blood, including some kitty heart enzymes, and when he called back the next day he confirmed what we both believed -- he was showing signs of heart problems (and some kidney problems). Doc suggested an echocardiogram to evaluate the heart and to check his blood pressure at that time. I thought if he had high blood pressure that could explain his episodes, maybe he was having TIA (transient ischemic attacks, AKA "mini-strokes"). If he pressure was elevated, doc would put him on some blood pressure medicines that could also help his kidneys. If his echo checked out, then we could go ahead with the dental cleaning he desperately needed and his overdue distemper vaccination. (He'd lost 2 lbs since his previous visit which is a lot when you only weigh 9 lbs.)
Jesse and I talked things out and I thought a lot about what to do over the next week. I finally decided that we'd forgo the echo and I'd see if the doc would be willing to do the vaccination and dental cleaning anyway, with me having full knowledge that his possibly poor heart could mean he wouldn't survive anesthesia. I figured I could be there when they sedated him for the cleaning and so if he slipped away during the procedure, at least I'd have been part of his last conscious moments. If he made it, the plan was lots of treats and love for as long as he had left. I was scheduled to work Tuesday thru Thursday and decided I'd call the vet on Friday to tell him my decisions.
In the days before I went back to work, Romeo was more and more needy. Seeking attention, wanting even more to be near me. He was still eating and drinking normally; his intake had actually improved a bit, likely thanks to the vitamin B injection the vet came him. He was sleeping a lot and not hunting his toys like he usually does and had more periods of wobbliness, but he made it up on the cat tower each day and seemed okay. He hadn't been coming into the bedroom much in recent days and one of his new common spots was a little den-like place under the living room shelves, tucked back behind a trunk. He always did like tucked away spots so I didn't think all that much of it, but I did miss having him around in the bedroom at night.
The evening of the 6th I was getting ready for work and bustling around. He got up onto the cat tower with no trouble and we had a little love fest before I left for work. Jesse hadn't been feeling well and also had been awake during the day, so I figured he'd go to bed soon. Turns out that was true. He stayed up a while, puttering about and hanging out with the animals and whatnot. Romeo got all the deli turkey he wanted (he had treats and whatnot every day since the vet visit) and Jesse went to bed.
I got home and Romeo was lying under the shelves, but not back in his den. He didn't come to see me, which was highly unusual. I hung up my coat and went over to see him to check on him. I was keenly, acutely worried. His mouth opened in a silent little meow and he tried to come out to see me, but he couldn't walk. I helped him out from under the shelves and set him on his feet. He took one wobbly step, then his right front leg kind of folded under him at the shoulder and he rolled down onto the side of his face, his neck, and his shoulder. I tried a few more times with the same results, then gathered him up into my arms. He couldn't hold his head up.
It had happened. What I was worried about had happened. My beautiful, beloved, blue-eyed boy seemed to have had the massive stroke I was expecting. I figured it was coming but was hoping it would be so massive as to just kill him outright. That he'd go in his sleep or at least with only a moment of discomfort. I dreaded the thought of him being incapacitated, paralyzed, confused, scared. Yet all that happened, right there, in front of me.
I looked to Jesse who told me that Romeo had seemed a little right when he'd gone to bed, that he (Jesse) hadn't been awake long. He said Romeo had gone under the shelving into his den and Jesse wasn't sure he'd been to the litter box all night. For some reason, this mattered to me so I rushed into the bathroom and tried to help Romeo stand in the litter, but he couldn't. Then I realized he probably hadn't had any water either, so I tried to get him to drink but he couldn't. I don't know why I bothered with either of those things; I wasn't thinking too clearly, I suppose. Finally I sat on the floor, my cat in my arms, and told Jesse we had to go to vet. Right now. Romeo's eyes were wide and full of fear and confusion. His head lolled around before settling against me. He didn't (or couldn't) purr. He just whispered the tiniest of meows.
The 24-hour emergency hospital is just around the corner. They have records on Romeo, though it was a different vet he went to on the 30th. I wrapped my coat around Romeo and held him close while Jesse drove. I knew I wouldn't be bringing him home and kept petting him and telling him it would all be over soon. At one point, he lost control of his bladder and urinated all over my lap. He tried to look up at me and mewed again. I told him it was okay, it didn't matter, I wasn't angry. That I loved him. Over and over, that I loved him and that it would be over soon.
As soon as the receptionist looked up and saw us he paged overhead for an technician to "come to the front for an emergency". I didn't have to say a word, it must have been written all over my tear-streaked face. One came out, gathered Romeo up, and headed for an "Authorized Personnel Only" door, saying she was going to take some vitals and someone would come out and get a history. I begged her to let me come back, told her I was afraid he was dying, but she wouldn't let me. If I was the praying type, I would have prayed them, to at least let him live until they got him back to me so that he could die in my arms, not on a cold table surrounded by strangers. Instead, I took a deep breath and told the next tech what I could. She said she'd be back, leaving me to stand hopelessly, tearfully, by the counter. I wandered around, lost for a bit before sitting on the waiting room bench, clutching a box of tissues, with Jesse beside me.
A few minutes later they took us into a small room and the vet came in, told us Romeo was stable. She said she thought he had a seizure (I still don't think that's right) and he was post-ictal. Said in cats his age, brain tumors were not uncommon and that was likely what was causing everything. (I still think it was a stroke brought on my high blood pressure, but it doesn't matter, really.) Then came the options. Blood work, urinalysis, scans, medications. I shook my head and told her no, no, absolutely not, I wasn't going to put him through that. I told her I knew when we left the house we wouldn't be bringing him home. She said she understood, that she just wanted to make sure we had all our options, then said, "okay, so to be sure, you want us to euthanize him".
It's the easiest decision to make, really. You know it's the right thing to do. And it was decision I had already made, in an instant, when I realized how bad things were. I knew there would be no recovery, that all the meds and tests in the world wouldn't fix him. I knew the last true act of love I could perform was to help him go. The two most important decisions I ever made involving that cat were to bring him home on that first day, and to say goodbye on the last.
She told me how it would go, that the first medication was a sedating one that they also think has amnesia-inducing properties. (I assume Versed, we use it in people too.) She said that would make him relax and slow his breathing down, but he probably wouldn't close his eyes like he would if he were sleeping. The next injection would stop his heart and would work in less than a minute. She would listen to his heart and tell me when he was gone.
A young man came in as there was paperwork to do. (There always is.) The decision had to be made about what to do with his body. We had three choices: take him home with us, to a mass cremation (no cremains returned to us) or a private cremation which would result in his cremains in a small box. We chose the mass cremation -- he didn't like being outside and didn't like the cold, so burying him was not an option and I had no idea what I'd do with his ashes for similar reasons. They also offered to make an imprint of his paw in clay. We took them up on that; I'm waiting to hear when it will be ready.
They inserted the IV while he was still in the other room then a tech brought him to me, wrapped in a blanket. She explained the vet would be back in a few minutes with the medications, that she had been called into the operating room temporarily. We sat there, the three of us, in a tiny room. I tried to pull Romeo close but he wasn't comfortable that way; it was pushing on his affected side too much, I think. So I arranged him on my lap and we pet him and told him we loved him until the vet came back.
It went just like she said it would. The Versed made him slowly relax and he became soft and heavy on my lap. As his head started to slump, I cradled it in the palm of my hand. His breathing slowed. She pushed the other medication, I whispered my goodbye, and I watched him closely while she moved her stethoscope to his chest. I was expecting one last breath, a big sigh, as his life left him, but when she looked up and told me he was gone, I realize he'd slipped away without me knowing. Maybe that was his way of thanking me, by keeping me from being aware, of saving me the "no, no, no, wait, come back" I'm sure I would have gone through if I'd known the exact moment he died.
The vet slipped out, telling us to take as long as we needed, then either leave him on the table or call for someone to come get him. I don't know how long I sat there, looking at his face, stroking his fur (still so thick and soft), and cradling his head in my hand. I pulled the blanket over him more so I must have realized he was starting to get cool. Jesse gently placed a hand on me and said, "don't let him get cold". I knew what he meant and nodded. He went to tell them we were ready. A tech and the vet returned and, though the tech reached for him, the vet said she would do it. She lifted him gently, let me kiss him once goodbye, then carried him away.
So now we live the hardest part. All the "firsts". First day waking without him, first time coming home from work to him not here, first time filling the cat bowl without him trotting in to eat (no matter how much food there was in there before it was refilled). And all the little things -- the note I left Jesse about the first vet visit still sitting near the coffee pot finding one of his toys while shaking out Flannery's bed, his "old man treats" still on the counter, spotting one creamy whisker on the arm of the chair. Ripple spends hours sitting on the arm of the couch, waiting for us to bring Romeo back. Dante alternates his time on my lap (where he is now) and lying on the heating pad, though he (uncharacteristically) has not spread out across the whole thing -- it's like he's leaving room just in case his brother returns. Flannery (and all of us) look to the opening of his "den", like he's just there, out of sight, and will come strolling out any minute.
17 years and he was strong and healthy almost up to the end. He never was the ancient, old-looking cat who couldn't properly care for himself. He left this world as handsome as ever. We had a hell of a run together. I got him as a kitten when I was a lost, lonely 23-year-old living in Las Vegas and he moved with me to Arizona, New Mexico, and Virginia. He helped me through most of my 20s, all of my 30s, numerous heartbreaks, several jobs, nursing school. He learned to live with foster kittens, human roommates, birds, fish, even a dog. He learned to love another human almost as much as he loved me. He bravely hunted stuffed mice, turtles, and frogs. He ate almost anything and especially liked curry when he was younger (he lost the taste for that in his older years). Though he didn't like to be held or sit on laps, he wanted to be close by. He was "Proximity Cat". He was also my pillow cat, curled up next to my head, where I could fall asleep with my head against his warm, thick fur, listening to him purr. He hated doors being closed and would paw relentlessly at the bathroom door until I let him in. Though always the bigger cat, he deferred to Dante in all things except food. He was my "I'm a lover, not a fighter". He was a gorgeous cat and damn if he didn't know it. Not always the friendliest or most outgoing of fellows, he could be shy and skittish, but he was a fantastic judge of character. Above all, he loved me. And I loved him.
He was my Romeo.
"When he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun." -Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet
I guess it was about a month, maybe less, that Romeo started to act not himself. He just seemed to age suddenly. I mean, I knew he was getting old. He had just turned (or was about to turn) 17 so it's not like I thought he was a kitten anymore, but he and Dante had always continued on being healthy, active cats. They both had some grey fur, some arthritis, and Romeo didn't always move around as easily as he used to, but I was sure both of them would see 20, easy. The last vet visit (albeit 2.5-ish years ago) they had clean bills of health except for some tooth decay and gingivitis. Hearing, sight, everything was fine and, really, continued to be so. Then it just changed for Romeo. It seemed like all of a sudden he was an old cat. Not quite so spry, a little occasionally confused or disoriented, gait a little unsteady. Also he kept having these episodes in which he would blink quickly and twitch his head a bit; they almost looked like little seizures but he never seemed to have the after-seizure (called post-ictal) phase that includes marked confusion. And, strangely, his meow got quieter. Some days were better than others, but I finally decided he needed to see a vet so I took both of them in on December 30th. (Looking back, I knew he wouldn't make it through another year and, in fact, was a little worried about our leaving town on the 16th, but I really thought we'd have more than 8 days.)
The vet gave Dante the ongoing clean bull of health, even deferred blood work as needless at that time. Romeo he was more worried about due to his increased heart murmur and new probably neurologically-caused symptoms. He drew blood, including some kitty heart enzymes, and when he called back the next day he confirmed what we both believed -- he was showing signs of heart problems (and some kidney problems). Doc suggested an echocardiogram to evaluate the heart and to check his blood pressure at that time. I thought if he had high blood pressure that could explain his episodes, maybe he was having TIA (transient ischemic attacks, AKA "mini-strokes"). If he pressure was elevated, doc would put him on some blood pressure medicines that could also help his kidneys. If his echo checked out, then we could go ahead with the dental cleaning he desperately needed and his overdue distemper vaccination. (He'd lost 2 lbs since his previous visit which is a lot when you only weigh 9 lbs.)
Jesse and I talked things out and I thought a lot about what to do over the next week. I finally decided that we'd forgo the echo and I'd see if the doc would be willing to do the vaccination and dental cleaning anyway, with me having full knowledge that his possibly poor heart could mean he wouldn't survive anesthesia. I figured I could be there when they sedated him for the cleaning and so if he slipped away during the procedure, at least I'd have been part of his last conscious moments. If he made it, the plan was lots of treats and love for as long as he had left. I was scheduled to work Tuesday thru Thursday and decided I'd call the vet on Friday to tell him my decisions.
In the days before I went back to work, Romeo was more and more needy. Seeking attention, wanting even more to be near me. He was still eating and drinking normally; his intake had actually improved a bit, likely thanks to the vitamin B injection the vet came him. He was sleeping a lot and not hunting his toys like he usually does and had more periods of wobbliness, but he made it up on the cat tower each day and seemed okay. He hadn't been coming into the bedroom much in recent days and one of his new common spots was a little den-like place under the living room shelves, tucked back behind a trunk. He always did like tucked away spots so I didn't think all that much of it, but I did miss having him around in the bedroom at night.
The evening of the 6th I was getting ready for work and bustling around. He got up onto the cat tower with no trouble and we had a little love fest before I left for work. Jesse hadn't been feeling well and also had been awake during the day, so I figured he'd go to bed soon. Turns out that was true. He stayed up a while, puttering about and hanging out with the animals and whatnot. Romeo got all the deli turkey he wanted (he had treats and whatnot every day since the vet visit) and Jesse went to bed.
I got home and Romeo was lying under the shelves, but not back in his den. He didn't come to see me, which was highly unusual. I hung up my coat and went over to see him to check on him. I was keenly, acutely worried. His mouth opened in a silent little meow and he tried to come out to see me, but he couldn't walk. I helped him out from under the shelves and set him on his feet. He took one wobbly step, then his right front leg kind of folded under him at the shoulder and he rolled down onto the side of his face, his neck, and his shoulder. I tried a few more times with the same results, then gathered him up into my arms. He couldn't hold his head up.
It had happened. What I was worried about had happened. My beautiful, beloved, blue-eyed boy seemed to have had the massive stroke I was expecting. I figured it was coming but was hoping it would be so massive as to just kill him outright. That he'd go in his sleep or at least with only a moment of discomfort. I dreaded the thought of him being incapacitated, paralyzed, confused, scared. Yet all that happened, right there, in front of me.
I looked to Jesse who told me that Romeo had seemed a little right when he'd gone to bed, that he (Jesse) hadn't been awake long. He said Romeo had gone under the shelving into his den and Jesse wasn't sure he'd been to the litter box all night. For some reason, this mattered to me so I rushed into the bathroom and tried to help Romeo stand in the litter, but he couldn't. Then I realized he probably hadn't had any water either, so I tried to get him to drink but he couldn't. I don't know why I bothered with either of those things; I wasn't thinking too clearly, I suppose. Finally I sat on the floor, my cat in my arms, and told Jesse we had to go to vet. Right now. Romeo's eyes were wide and full of fear and confusion. His head lolled around before settling against me. He didn't (or couldn't) purr. He just whispered the tiniest of meows.
The 24-hour emergency hospital is just around the corner. They have records on Romeo, though it was a different vet he went to on the 30th. I wrapped my coat around Romeo and held him close while Jesse drove. I knew I wouldn't be bringing him home and kept petting him and telling him it would all be over soon. At one point, he lost control of his bladder and urinated all over my lap. He tried to look up at me and mewed again. I told him it was okay, it didn't matter, I wasn't angry. That I loved him. Over and over, that I loved him and that it would be over soon.
As soon as the receptionist looked up and saw us he paged overhead for an technician to "come to the front for an emergency". I didn't have to say a word, it must have been written all over my tear-streaked face. One came out, gathered Romeo up, and headed for an "Authorized Personnel Only" door, saying she was going to take some vitals and someone would come out and get a history. I begged her to let me come back, told her I was afraid he was dying, but she wouldn't let me. If I was the praying type, I would have prayed them, to at least let him live until they got him back to me so that he could die in my arms, not on a cold table surrounded by strangers. Instead, I took a deep breath and told the next tech what I could. She said she'd be back, leaving me to stand hopelessly, tearfully, by the counter. I wandered around, lost for a bit before sitting on the waiting room bench, clutching a box of tissues, with Jesse beside me.
A few minutes later they took us into a small room and the vet came in, told us Romeo was stable. She said she thought he had a seizure (I still don't think that's right) and he was post-ictal. Said in cats his age, brain tumors were not uncommon and that was likely what was causing everything. (I still think it was a stroke brought on my high blood pressure, but it doesn't matter, really.) Then came the options. Blood work, urinalysis, scans, medications. I shook my head and told her no, no, absolutely not, I wasn't going to put him through that. I told her I knew when we left the house we wouldn't be bringing him home. She said she understood, that she just wanted to make sure we had all our options, then said, "okay, so to be sure, you want us to euthanize him".
It's the easiest decision to make, really. You know it's the right thing to do. And it was decision I had already made, in an instant, when I realized how bad things were. I knew there would be no recovery, that all the meds and tests in the world wouldn't fix him. I knew the last true act of love I could perform was to help him go. The two most important decisions I ever made involving that cat were to bring him home on that first day, and to say goodbye on the last.
She told me how it would go, that the first medication was a sedating one that they also think has amnesia-inducing properties. (I assume Versed, we use it in people too.) She said that would make him relax and slow his breathing down, but he probably wouldn't close his eyes like he would if he were sleeping. The next injection would stop his heart and would work in less than a minute. She would listen to his heart and tell me when he was gone.
A young man came in as there was paperwork to do. (There always is.) The decision had to be made about what to do with his body. We had three choices: take him home with us, to a mass cremation (no cremains returned to us) or a private cremation which would result in his cremains in a small box. We chose the mass cremation -- he didn't like being outside and didn't like the cold, so burying him was not an option and I had no idea what I'd do with his ashes for similar reasons. They also offered to make an imprint of his paw in clay. We took them up on that; I'm waiting to hear when it will be ready.
They inserted the IV while he was still in the other room then a tech brought him to me, wrapped in a blanket. She explained the vet would be back in a few minutes with the medications, that she had been called into the operating room temporarily. We sat there, the three of us, in a tiny room. I tried to pull Romeo close but he wasn't comfortable that way; it was pushing on his affected side too much, I think. So I arranged him on my lap and we pet him and told him we loved him until the vet came back.
It went just like she said it would. The Versed made him slowly relax and he became soft and heavy on my lap. As his head started to slump, I cradled it in the palm of my hand. His breathing slowed. She pushed the other medication, I whispered my goodbye, and I watched him closely while she moved her stethoscope to his chest. I was expecting one last breath, a big sigh, as his life left him, but when she looked up and told me he was gone, I realize he'd slipped away without me knowing. Maybe that was his way of thanking me, by keeping me from being aware, of saving me the "no, no, no, wait, come back" I'm sure I would have gone through if I'd known the exact moment he died.
The vet slipped out, telling us to take as long as we needed, then either leave him on the table or call for someone to come get him. I don't know how long I sat there, looking at his face, stroking his fur (still so thick and soft), and cradling his head in my hand. I pulled the blanket over him more so I must have realized he was starting to get cool. Jesse gently placed a hand on me and said, "don't let him get cold". I knew what he meant and nodded. He went to tell them we were ready. A tech and the vet returned and, though the tech reached for him, the vet said she would do it. She lifted him gently, let me kiss him once goodbye, then carried him away.
So now we live the hardest part. All the "firsts". First day waking without him, first time coming home from work to him not here, first time filling the cat bowl without him trotting in to eat (no matter how much food there was in there before it was refilled). And all the little things -- the note I left Jesse about the first vet visit still sitting near the coffee pot finding one of his toys while shaking out Flannery's bed, his "old man treats" still on the counter, spotting one creamy whisker on the arm of the chair. Ripple spends hours sitting on the arm of the couch, waiting for us to bring Romeo back. Dante alternates his time on my lap (where he is now) and lying on the heating pad, though he (uncharacteristically) has not spread out across the whole thing -- it's like he's leaving room just in case his brother returns. Flannery (and all of us) look to the opening of his "den", like he's just there, out of sight, and will come strolling out any minute.
17 years and he was strong and healthy almost up to the end. He never was the ancient, old-looking cat who couldn't properly care for himself. He left this world as handsome as ever. We had a hell of a run together. I got him as a kitten when I was a lost, lonely 23-year-old living in Las Vegas and he moved with me to Arizona, New Mexico, and Virginia. He helped me through most of my 20s, all of my 30s, numerous heartbreaks, several jobs, nursing school. He learned to live with foster kittens, human roommates, birds, fish, even a dog. He learned to love another human almost as much as he loved me. He bravely hunted stuffed mice, turtles, and frogs. He ate almost anything and especially liked curry when he was younger (he lost the taste for that in his older years). Though he didn't like to be held or sit on laps, he wanted to be close by. He was "Proximity Cat". He was also my pillow cat, curled up next to my head, where I could fall asleep with my head against his warm, thick fur, listening to him purr. He hated doors being closed and would paw relentlessly at the bathroom door until I let him in. Though always the bigger cat, he deferred to Dante in all things except food. He was my "I'm a lover, not a fighter". He was a gorgeous cat and damn if he didn't know it. Not always the friendliest or most outgoing of fellows, he could be shy and skittish, but he was a fantastic judge of character. Above all, he loved me. And I loved him.
He was my Romeo.
"When he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun." -Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet
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Date: 2016-01-09 01:36 pm (UTC)It's mindboggling to think that a death like this, as horrible as it is for people, is best-case scenario from a cat's point of view. 17 healthy years, an entire lifetime of love and care, a sudden turn for the worst, but with his people beside him at the end.
He was an excellent cat and you were excellent to him.
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Date: 2016-01-10 12:56 am (UTC)Thank you for your kind words.
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Date: 2016-01-09 03:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-10 01:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-09 09:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-10 01:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-11 07:34 am (UTC)That last vet visit fucking sucks. But it is our duty to take care of them when their quality of life is no longer good.
As they say, time heals all wounds. Take care of yourself and let yourself be sad when you need to. The sadness will eventually fade and the happy memories will be what you think of most.
Hugs.