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Nov. 13th, 2010 02:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
janegodzilla"I'm so sorry," the vet says. "I wish I had better news for you. I'm so sorry."
Ivan, much calmer now that no one is trying to prod him or put things in his eyes, howls his general displeasure at the room. His voice is loud and strong, and he eats enough for two cats. In the last three days he's continued to lose weight, and he's now officially underweight for a cat his length and height. His eye is getting visibly worse, and the mass that pushes behind it won't stop growing.
"How much longer?" Unlike my cat, my voice isn't loud or strong. I can barely keep from breaking.
"Probably not long." The vet's eyes are so kind, so full of sadness. "Continue with the meds like you've been doing, and be aggressive with pain control. That should keep him comfortable until it's time."
"How will I know?" I say, and then I do break, because this isn't a conversation I want to be having, it's not one I'm ready for, this is a conversation that scares the shit out of me because what if he's in pain, what if he's suffering, what if I'm making it worse, I can't...
"You'll know," she says. Very quietly, very kindly. "When it's time, they always let you know."
On the car ride home, Ivan's quieter than usual, like he knows how upset I am and doesn't want to make things worse. He goes straight to his food bowl when we get in and trills until I feed him, wolfs it down like it's been days as opposed to hours since he last ate. In the living room he settles into his customary spot behind my head, nose tucked into his tail, one paw on my shoulder, and every time I shift he flexes it like he's trying to hold me still, like he doesn't want me to get up just yet. I tell him he was a good boy today, and he starts purring at the sound of my voice.
He keeps his eye hidden from the light. Every once in a while, he presses his paw to that side of his head, like the pressure makes him feel a little better.
It's not time yet. But I don't think we have much longer.
I wish this wasn't happening.
Ivan, much calmer now that no one is trying to prod him or put things in his eyes, howls his general displeasure at the room. His voice is loud and strong, and he eats enough for two cats. In the last three days he's continued to lose weight, and he's now officially underweight for a cat his length and height. His eye is getting visibly worse, and the mass that pushes behind it won't stop growing.
"How much longer?" Unlike my cat, my voice isn't loud or strong. I can barely keep from breaking.
"Probably not long." The vet's eyes are so kind, so full of sadness. "Continue with the meds like you've been doing, and be aggressive with pain control. That should keep him comfortable until it's time."
"How will I know?" I say, and then I do break, because this isn't a conversation I want to be having, it's not one I'm ready for, this is a conversation that scares the shit out of me because what if he's in pain, what if he's suffering, what if I'm making it worse, I can't...
"You'll know," she says. Very quietly, very kindly. "When it's time, they always let you know."
On the car ride home, Ivan's quieter than usual, like he knows how upset I am and doesn't want to make things worse. He goes straight to his food bowl when we get in and trills until I feed him, wolfs it down like it's been days as opposed to hours since he last ate. In the living room he settles into his customary spot behind my head, nose tucked into his tail, one paw on my shoulder, and every time I shift he flexes it like he's trying to hold me still, like he doesn't want me to get up just yet. I tell him he was a good boy today, and he starts purring at the sound of my voice.
He keeps his eye hidden from the light. Every once in a while, he presses his paw to that side of his head, like the pressure makes him feel a little better.
It's not time yet. But I don't think we have much longer.
I wish this wasn't happening.