Blissen

Date: Wed, 2 Feb 2005 18:47:29 -0500

From: David

Subject: No More For Me Thanks, I've Had Plenty!

The x-rays and ultrasound of Blitzen we'd had done in early January had shown a tumor that was taking up so much space inside her, squishing and displacing her heart, her trachea and lungs, *and* her esophagus and stomach, that we knew she didn't have much time for us to spoil her in. She hadn't slowed down too much to be able eat, one thing she'd always loved to do that didn't result in broken lamps or bleeding ankles.

So when she expressed a preference for baked chicken (and then only white meat) over the kibble she'd been eating for years we hoped that was just a gustatory matter, and anyway a tiny ferret with a tumor in her chest the size of a golf ball should eat whatever food she likes.

We'd offer her other things too, in case she got bored with chicken: my ideas had to do with opening cans, tuna, sardines, vienna sausages, or whatever, while Michelle's ideas were more "natural", like freeze dried liver treats or raw chicken. Blitzen had liked the raw chicken Michelle fed her when she was still an _enfant_ terrible, but I'd been bugged her to cut it out on health-&-hygiene grounds; then recently I'd agreed, as if it would have made any difference if I hadn't, that the risk of Blitzen getting salmonella was plainly trumped by the fact of her terminal cancer.

It's a good thing Michelle remembered that because about a week ago Blitzen began refusing all food except raw chicken and liver treats; I took to offering her various oils because she was getting worryingly thin and that white meat is so lean. Of course I got frantic with ideas for high fat foods like tuna in oil, something, anything, but all she wanted was her bite-sized snips of uncooked fowl.

Then Monday afternoon she was even more listless than usual, then she stopped eating -- she wouldn't take anything I'd offered her all afternoon, and after a few hours I realized she had stopped drinking too, and we just don't see the point in syringe feeding a terminally ill friend so she can suffer longer.

We'd been worried about her getting ulcers from prednisone, Michelle had been giving her Pepcid an hour or so beforehand as a buffer for her tummy, but something had given me the idea that ulcers wouldn't stop her from drinking water. (I don't know how Michelle got any work done given all my frantic email.) But we thought, or rather we hoped, that she'd get over it, and maybe drink some of the lactose-free "kitty milk" Michelle bought on her way home; "maybe it's just a cold, or maybe it is just the predisone upsetting her stomach, maybe... I hope... " So we sat here and tried what we could, and watched her lie on the floor breathing, till it seemed like things were picking up a bit, so I threw my ass in the shower and ran down to a free jazz concert that I'd been planning on going to for weeks and that now I felt I really needed.

A couple hours later, while I was walking home, I kept seeing ferret- sized white blurs skitter across my peripheral vision. So I hurried. When I got home Michelle told me she'd had "a manic-depressive" night with the sickly weasel: Blitzen had laid there having so much trouble breathing at times that Michelle was thinking she might not be able to wait for me to get home before taking Blitzen down to the 24-hour vet clinic to have her euthanized before she suffocated painfully on my bedroom floor, her till at last she'd gathered the energy for one of her blitzes, even running down the stairs and back up again, so when she curled up to nap again we crossed our fingers and went out to mail the rent -- and the money order for that clover-&-herbs-&-honey tonic that for weeks Blitzen had been gulping like grade-school kids do soda pop.

But when we got home we checked on Blitzen again, still wearing our shoes and with our coats not hung up, and she did not look good: all she had the strength to do was try to breathe, try to get some air through her trachea that the x-rays we had done a few ago had shown was squinched-up by the tumor into her lungs that it had shoved out of place and compressed half-useless. After an hour or so of trying to decide what we should do Michelle asked if we should take her to the vet so I spluttered that we should put her in the carrier and see if she got pissed off and revived. While Michelle was getting her coat and calling the vet to tell them we were coming I tried again to get her to (please please) drink some water or some tonic at least, but she just wanted to lie down and try to breathe so we closed the cage and got in the car.

That was when she got spunky again -- Blitzen never did like being locked in a small box and carried off anyplace. Just like always she threw a fear-and-rage tantrum, in the carrier on my lap, while we were driving down to have her "put to sleep". It had been bad enough to have had to drive Otto and Oscar and Lizzie out to have them euthanized, but none of them had had enough strength to resist. I had to sit there and try to calm my little friend while on the way to kill her. But there was no sense turning around: she'd only have gotten even more exhausted and had even more trouble breathing -- she'd been gasping for air for the last half of her fury, and I did not want to watch her die slowly and painfully on my floor. Adrenaline does not cure cancer.

She'd quieted down by the time we got her in the examining room and had That Talk with the vet, but I still felt awful (and it had been obvious that Michelle wasn't too happy about any of it either). So I tried to stay somewhat composed; they took Blitzen to weigh her to figure the pentothal dosage, then they brought her back to be pitiful and Michelle got them to agree to let her hold Blitzen when she got the shot and cuddle her as she died. The vet had warned us that might take a while, but we'd already been through that with Otto and Oscar and Lizzie so we knew what to expect, and I don't think anybody who's not heavily armed could make Michelle not do what she thinks is right.

But the vet must have overestimated or intentionally increased the dose: after laying heavily sedated in Michelle's arms for a few short quiet minutes Blitzen suddenly went limp and very quickly died. That has to be what they mean when they talk about "mercy killing", and all Klingonism aside that's what I mean by "a good death"; I hope I die that way, and I hope it happens soon.

Now Blitzen's wrapped up in one of my towels in a taped-up box in the freezer; we plan to drive down to Lexington this weekend to bury her beside the others in Michelle's dad's back yard. Till then I'll have to handle my sentimental superstitious "thing" about keeping a dead friend under the ice cube trays, and if this is going to be anything like that last three bereavements for the next few weeks I'll be busy trying to keep from losing my mind. Indeed it might be worse: Blitzen was the deaf, half-crazed, cranky-and-hard-to-get-along-with one so I identified with her more.

So now I must resume trying not to let it get to me. One problem with that is that my memory's getting defective: I'm prone to remembering only the painful things. For example, last summer, when Blitzen was the sole survivor for a while, I got into the selfish habit of leaving her locked in her cage all alone while I spent the first two or three hours of my day drinking coffee and playing on the internet, too busy trying to distract and fortify myself to pay any attention to her -- and sometimes I'd then go walking or bike riding just to get out and get some exercise so she might stay locked up till Michelle got home. And when she was out I still was often too busy trying to distract myself to play with her like she wanted; even Michelle has trouble getting my attention half the time, I get so focused on avoidance. So not only will I have to keep reminding myself that now there's no need for me to see if Blitzen would like a bite of whatever I'm eating, I'll also have to cope with the cringing guilt of not being any good.

So hey, if I've been wrong and there is some Higher Power out there somewhere, are you stone deaf or something? Didn't you hear me the last three times I said "No more of this please, I just can't take it"?

Again: NO MORE OF THIS PLEASE, I JUST CAN'T TAKE IT. Ya got that yet?

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