This article was originally published on my LinkedIn and Substack pages on August 9, 2024. I thought it would be a fitting piece to add to the collection.
For a person who encounters endings daily and does their best to make these as dignified and well-planned as possible, I am so not ready for the end.
But I ám prepared.
A few months ago, my cat Lewis needed to undergo surgery for what was expected to be a nasopharynx polyp. It turned out to be much more severe and quite the rollercoaster ride.
When I first adopted Lewis, he had a horrible virus that gave him chronic rhinitis. Having had multiple rounds of antibiotics with his previous human, living in a multi-cat home didn’t help him get better.
It was only when he moved in with me, had clean surroundings, healthy food and a good routine that he started feeling better. Add to that, I worked at an animal hospital, and the internist prescribed a heavy round of medication to fight the bacterial infection so that Lewis’s immune system could fight the virus. Eventually, Lewis became a healthy, strong young man and I forgot all about him being a sickly teenager.
Eventually, some 15 years later, the snotty nose popped up again we tried a variety of meds to help Lewis clear the bacterial infections. But I quickly noticed that The Snot came back immediately after finishing a course of antibiotics. This wasn’t just a bacterial infection; something inside his nose or throat was causing the runny nose. After some back and forth with his vet, we agreed that an investigation was needed. I expected a simple polyp but knew that any surgery would be dangerous for a cat that is in the autumn of his life, bordering winter.
We booked Lewis in with Dr Elise Robertson, who was visiting the Neighbourhood Vet. Lewis’s primary vet, Dr Simon Knowles, knew how nervous I was, mostly for general anaesthesia's impact on the old boy.
He promised to follow the same anaesthesia protocol a specialist referral centre would use and to be present during surgery to keep an eye on the anaesthesia despite it being his day off. Simon realised how important it was to give me options (e.g., go to a specialist referral centre instead) and to keep me involved in the whole process before and during surgery.
He also accepted that I wouldn’t listen and go home and wait for the phone call, but instead, I sat on my hands in the waiting room, just in case Lewis’s heart would stop. I wanted to make sure I was nearby if his body gave up. I waited until Lewis was ready to come home with me, dead or alive. Simon made sure I saw Lewis as soon as it was safe and he was awake, albeit vèry high and completely free of pain (even though the bloody nose would suggest otherwise), and I was able to nurse him myself.
Despite lacking control in the overall situation, our vet knew how important it was to give me as much control and choice as possible and to have someone take care of Lewis whom I trusted 100% (i.e. him).
Elise was wonderful in talking me through her findings and very Dutch (direct) about what the likely prognosis was. For a week we waited on the results to come back from the lab, expecting to hear the devastating news and slowly starting to accept that I would be hospice-nursing my dear cat earlier than expected.
Within a week though, the results were sent to us and they showed no cancerous cells, just a lot of tissue - by sneezing profusely, Lewis’s cartilage and blood vessels had started weeding out. I was finally able to let go of the fear that was living in me, cry of relief and breathe again.
The old boy still has some life in him left!
The support received by my community of friends, family, clients (!!) and colleagues has been amazing. People kept checking in on Lewis and my well-being, and they still do. It is a very clear example that a cat is not just a cat, and doesn’t just have an impact on one person or family. They gently tread on the hearts of many people. It is also a recognition that grief, and anticipatory grief, for a pet, is real and worth the compassion.
This journey with Lewis through his final season(s) has been an emotional rollercoaster, and despite the fact that he is a geriatric cat and I know “it” will happen in a few months or years, I am not quite sure what my reaction will be when that time comes. No matter how many times I have guided people through this, I never really know what it will feel like until it actually happens.
What I do know is that I can, and must, prepare for his death, practically and emotionally.
Making sure I have time off from work to organise his funeral and grieve. Knowing who in my community I can count on for emotional and practical support. And who to give the heads-up in case they want to come and say their goodbyes. Just like with birthing, one needs a plan for dying too.
I have prepared his funeral in my head, and know exactly in what (a piece of my wedding dress fabric) and where (on the family farm in Cornwall) he will be buried. I even know which veterinarian will have the honour of helping him transition (the amazing Dr Tamara Whiteside who has been one of my Autumn Animals companions).
I only hope that when that time comes, it will be painless for him and I will have as much control and choice in the matter as I had for his surgery. Because to me, thát is the epitome of a ‘Good Death’.
As Katherine May writes beautifully in Wintering:
“Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. […] Once we stop wishing it were summer, winter can be a glorious season when the world takes on a sparse beauty.”
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