Jennyarn

“I have always held firmly to the thought that each one of us can do a little to bring some portion of misery to an end.” -Albert Schweitzer

I’d like to think this is true. I’d also like to think that I am not adding to any misery but I don’t suppose that is always measurable, or even knowable.

I wrote previously about Oliver’s condition. Now my dear cat has been through the surgery for amputation of his left front leg. I am trying to think of it positively. There is just no end to what one can feel badly about in the world. How can I ever really feel at ease knowing others are suffering? Caring sometimes means you have to be willing to become an expert witness to desperation, to pain. Who wants to go there? Many people do not, I gather. It is a difficult balance for me to come up with: turning a blind eye is no answer and neither is becoming overwhelmed and immobilized by the woes of the world.

For me, with Oliver, this was the worse part: I knew he must be in a lot of pain and I could hardly stand it. What have I done to him? was my inevitable, plaguing question.

Maybe Saturday was all the more terrible because of the extreme contrast: Friday when I returned with Oliver after his surgery, he was doing so remarkably well! Right away he jumped to the couch and there snuggled with me and his many cat friends like Bijou and Thisbe and his sister Jordan. I was amazed at how rapidly he was recovering. It was almost as if he hadn’t been through a major change. It seemed too good to be true.

Alas, it was. I realize now that on Friday there was still morphine in his system. Now all I had to give him was something akin to aspirin. On Saturday, I could not find Oliver. He was not out amongst his cat friends. He was not seeking my company either. Oliver was hiding. He chose the most remote places possible. Locating, much less reaching, him was none too easy. And when I found him he was always wide-eyed, never asleep nor comfortably lounging. Oh, what have I done?

Getting through that Saturday was so incredibly distressing. Oliver would purr if I pet him but he was usually in some small area where I could barely reach him. I was so happy about his recovery on Friday. Now it seemed so sad and grim and the thought of him being in so much pain was horrible. I had to extract him from hiding places and I was afraid of hurting him. I wasn’t sure of the best way to carry him. I didn’t want to resort to putting him in a recovery cage - somehow that seemed cruel. He did eat the baby food I’d give him so at least that was one little pleasure for him.

I am so glad that gloomy Saturday, the 12th of July, is behind us! The last week or so has felt like one very long day. Oliver is now doing fairly well.

Lulu, Spice, Jordan & Oliver lounge on their bed, which looks suspiciously like my bed.

It is hard to find the strength to endure the cats’ afflictions. Just being there in kindness and giving attention makes a difference. Simply acknowledging a cat through eye contact makes a difference. I think Oliver felt safer in his concealed hiding places but I do not think he wished to be left alone. He almost seemed relieved when I would find him. Sometimes there is nothing you can do to substantially take away pain. I have to believe that the caring time you devote to someone who’s hurting, feline or otherwise, is beneficial, is important, is time very well spent ♥

Gloomy Sunday is the name of a hauntingly beautiful song. There are so many renditions of it, you are virtually assured of liking one!

There’s nothing like a cat to bring out the effusive, doting kitten talk in me,
especially when that cat is Oliver. One glimpse of my dashing boy and the
Olllie-coddle parades into a preponderance of pleasantries:

“C’est Lovey! There’s my lovey handsome darling boy. Are you my precious
baby Oliver? You are! You’re my lovey little leopard.” Yes, I make up songs
for him too! This beautiful rascal loves attention.

It’s not my fault he’s so wonderful. And yet, it’s not all catnip and kitty treats.
I have been full of dread. The growth on Oliver’s leg is cancerous. It is a fibrous
sarcoma. The vet thinks 90% of it was removed as he took a sample to send off
to a lab. I had to ask whether he’d have performed this removal differently if he
knew then that it was cancerous. He would not have. He could not have, without
risk to the surrounding muscles, tendons and ligaments. It’s not a sort of tumor
that comes out in one piece.

I had to take Oliver 35 miles away to a specialist in veterinary radiology. A look
at their website assured me the oncologists there are top notch, with the most
advanced equipment like a linear accelerator, with an in-house lab, with a team
able to tackle the most difficult cases. If money and distance are no object then
this is the place you’d want to go. Sigh. Chemotherapy is simply not effective in
this case. Radiation could have some benefit but not enough to warrant its use,
which would be extensive.

The oncologist’s recommendation is for Oliver’s leg to be amputated. She understands how difficult that is to face. Yet she also says that cats do amazingly well with only three legs. There is no guarantee the cancer will not spread elsewhere though the current x-rays show no signs of this. The oncologist believes Oliver, 7 years old, is in very good health otherwise. She thinks his quality of life will still be good.

I love my boy. So cats are resilient. So amputation of his left front leg could save his life. So I will take care of him no matter what. I know these things. It’s just hard. How will Oliver understand what’s happened?