For those of you who might be wondering where I was and what I was during January, the answer is: I was going to the vet. Frequently. When Ross, Aretha, and I were not going to see the vet at his office, we were speaking with the vet on the phone. When we were not speaking with the vet on the phone, we stopped by the vet's office to pick up this medicine or that type of special food. And when we were doing none of those things, we worried.Aretha had long had what we call "allergies." When the weather would change, or any other time Ross and I were sniffling and sneezing, Aretha would get something that looked like a few days' of eye drainage. We called it her "goopy eye." For Aretha's entire life, this goopy eye would always clear up on its own.
This time, it didn't. The drainage kept going. It looked like the affected eye was getting... bigger. Our vet, Dr. Johnson, confirmed this was true. Aretha had glaucoma, and there was also pressure coming from behind her eye. He was able to bring down the painful pressure inside her eye. This made Aretha more comfortable, but it was soon clear that something was making our dear girl blind in one eye and nearly so in the other.
After a month of treatment with steroids, antibiotics, eye drops, x-rays, tests, and a procedure to alleviate the pressure behind her eye, we were finally able to do a biopsy. We waited for the results. We hoped, hoped, hoped that it was just a raging infection. Perhaps we simply had not selected the right antibiotic yet. A small, still voice inside us insisted it was something else.
The biopsy results came back. It was definitely something else. It was cancer, a very aggressive type, for which the treatment was harsh and the likelihood of survival tiny. For the most beautiful of all striped orange tabbies, for the sweetest of souls, we knew this sort of treatment was not the answer.
We asked our vet to come to our home in two days' time to help us say goodbye. We explained to Aretha, and all of our other pets, exactly what would happen. We did the best we could. We knew when those two days were over, the doorbell would ring - and we would have to say goodbye.
Aretha did as much as she could to make things easy for us during those two days, those two terrible and wonderful days when we lived with the doomsday clock. She allowed us to spoil her rotten. She was patient when I used an inkpad to take her paw print one last time. She purred when I carried her around and cried so much that her little head was wet with tears. She was gorgeous in all of the pictures we took. She did her best to eat the fresh baked salmon that I made and that Ross cut into the tinest of bites for her. She didn't mind too much when we followed her every step so that we didn't miss a minute of her last hours.
She even stood nearby, winking, when I folded blankets on top of our dining room table to make one last cozy bed for her and put my baby blanket on top. I knew the purpose of that cozy bed, the one in the room with the bright light the vet had requested. Did she? I don't know.
She sat in the warmest places in the house and swished her tail. She listened while we told her the joyful story of how we adopted her fifteen years earlier, a story she had listened to hundreds of times before that evening. I read the goodbye cards and emails she had received from friends and family. She let me sing to her all of the comforting lullabies and songs in my repertoire. All of these things she did with grace and dignity.
When the doorbell rang and the door opened to reveal the kindest vet I know, I wrapped her up in my baby blanket. It was time to bring Aretha to the cozy bed of blankets on top of the dining room table. She acted as though this was the most natural and normal thing in the world. She didn't try to run away. I was the fearful one. I wanted to cover her and run away, to protect her from my own weakness.
Our kind vet knew this would be hard for us. He made sure that Ross and I both would able to hold, pet, and kiss Aretha when the moment came. We thought this would make Aretha less afraid, but in the end, it made us less afraid. I'm sure Aretha already knew this. We said a few carefully chosen Jewish blessings for her. We told her how loved she was, and how there was nothing to fear. Aretha took one deep breath and exhaled, as though she had just finished the best meal - and she knew a nap in the coziest of beds was next.
And then she was gone.
