A Pain in the Neck

Aside from my recent goofy photo blog, I haven’t written much about the two kittens that we adopted in January. Ziggy and Charlotte have been bright spots the last four months among so much bad news: our 17-year-old cat Maceo’s death, my pancreatic tumor/cancer diagnosis, and the Whipple surgery and recovery. I thought I would have years to write about them, but I found out Friday that this assumption was wrong. Our little kitten Charlotte is very sick most likely has only a few weeks to live, if that.

I can’t believe I’m writing another farewell post to yet another cat. I had partially held off writing about them out of respect for Maceo and Akasha, who died in September at the age of 16. Shortly after we adopted Ziggy and Charlotte as four-month-old kittens, Maceo died. Even though he was 17, it was still a shock. Saying goodbye to Charlotte is painful in another way—she’s just a baby. If years with our old cats didn’t seem like nearly enough time, only four months with this sweet kitten is supremely unfair.

About a week and a half ago, I noticed she wasn’t putting much weight on her front legs and couldn’t walk very well. Then she slid across the floor with her front paws out, propelling herself with her back legs. We took her to the vet the next day, and X-rays showed no fracture; they thought maybe she strained herself and gave her an anti-inflammatory shot. For a few days, she seemed like she was recovering, but when she started to look weak again, she went in for blood tests, which didn’t show toxoplasmosis, so the vet tried another anti-inflammatory shot. By this past Thursday, she didn’t improve, so the vet recommended that we take her to a neurologist.

My boyfriend called me from the neurologist’s office on Friday and as soon as I heard his voice, I knew something was really wrong. After doing some tests, the vet thinks it’s FIP (Feline Infectious Peritonitis). From what I understand, it’s caused by feline coronavirus, something that many kittens are exposed to, and a mutation causes only a small percentage to develop FIP. Unfortunately, this includes Charlotte, and FIP is always fatal. The disease is affecting her brain and her coordination, and the vet estimates she can live about three more weeks. Once she no longer purrs or appears to enjoy life, then that’s the end.

In the meantime, they prescribed steroids to help make her more comfortable, though we haven’t seen any improvement. She’s been very weak, and it seems like she’s declining quickly. Seeing Charlotte propel herself across the floor using her back legs breaks my heart. Seeing her so weak hurts. Seeing a little tremor in her tiny body wrenches my guts—the ones I have left after the Whipple. Still, she seems to want to be by us and cuddle, and she still purrs in our arms.

Last night, I slept on an air mattress because she can’t get up and down from the bed. As the motor to inflate the air mattress whirred, I held Charlotte, who looked alarmed and upset by the noise. I told her it would be OK. I felt like a liar. I hate that I can protect her from the non-danger of the whirring air mattress pump, but I can’t do anything to protect her from the disease that’s killing her. She doesn’t even know to be afraid of it.

The phrase, “You have cancer,” is among the most dreaded phrases in existence. But even worse is hearing that a loved one is sick or dying—especially if you’re in some way responsible for protecting them from harm. She counts on us to protect her and there is nothing we can do. (One of my long-time hesitancies about having children lies in the vulnerability. To me, having a child would be the equivalent of having all your nerve endings packed into another being and then sending it out in the world. How do parents live knowing that they can’t protect their children from the pain that comes with just existing? I have two creatures I keep in my apartment and never let out and I still manage to be a wreck sometimes.)

I’m a worrier. And I’ve been worried about Charlotte not growing and her not seeming as energetic. This time, I was right to worry. As frustrated as I am that there’s nothing I can do for her, it’s somewhat comforting to know there’s nothing I could have done sooner. I couldn’t have prevented this or done anything differently: the outcome would have been the same.

I have tried to make those desperate internal bargains we all make. When I’ve told some people about Charlotte, they’re surprised so much bad luck can happen at once and say I deserve a break. I bought a lottery ticket today in case that’s true. Immediately after I bought it, I found myself promising I would rather have Charlotte live than to win. I was trying to bargain somehow, with my imaginary winnings.

Aside from my fruitless bargains, I tell Charlotte that I love her and try to make her happy and comfortable. It doesn’t seem like enough. No matter how much time you have—whether it’s with a kitten or a person—it never feels like there was enough time to show them how much you loved them. As hard as the Whipple recovery was, I am glad I got to spend so much time cuddling with her and with Ziggy.

Ziggy is laying across my neck as I type. He seems to grasp something’s wrong with Charlotte and he tried licking her. It is his preferred method of comfort. He also licked my face, which was sweet. Seeing Ziggy play by himself, without his sister Charlotte, also breaks my heart. As the size difference between the two cats grew—or more specifically, as Ziggy grew and Charlotte really didn’t—we’ve been trying to discourage Ziggy from roughhousing with her since she is about five pounds to his nine. I don’t know what any of us are going to do without her. Ziggy has known her his entire life, and in just four months, Charlotte has become an irreplaceable part of our lives. We love her so much. But with love, there’s just never enough time.