more grief

Last night, it started. The owner of the Cat Cottage, aka the Kitty Museum, innocently asked "How are you?" and I nearly started weeping. I held back (it seemed a lot to ask of her to stand there while I cried).

This morning, before acupuncture, I told the practitioner about the cat; he's been hearing about her for a few weeks, and I thought that some of my experience was relevant (why my joints hurt -- I stood up too much on Friday; why my face feels sore, etc). A few minutes later, while relaxing on my back, needles sticking out at odd angles, I started to feel weepy and leaky. I tried to relax more, though I must admit a few tears were shed.

And this afternoon, I dropped off some human and cat goodies and some thank you notes at the vet's. Of course, there were some great hugs, and some quiet conversation, some nice reminiscing. I felt weepy on my way home. I managed to cut it off when I went into the grocery store; I was on a "business mission," after all. But now that I'm home, my heart hurts again.

It was lovely to see Matt and Randy today, and Stephanie showed up too; Kris couldn't be there. They are such good and caring people with enormous hearts.

I think I need more quiet time, just sitting by myself. I need to let some of this course through me without feeling like I'm a burden on other people. This will get better, I know. But right now, it's very hard.

Later: I just read a posting from Steve Schalchlin, in which he said:

The pain never really goes away, but you learn to live with it. Learning to live with pain is what life is about sometimes. We hold them in our hearts so that they can't really get away, but we live with the knowledge that you can't call them up or hear their voices again.

desperately seeking kitties

I find myself wanting to rush home these days, and if I'm already home, wanting to run upstairs constantly, so that I can check on the cat. I know she's not there, but I still feel compelled.

When I'm drifting off to sleep, I imagine a very soft, very warm, purring and fuzzy bundle next to me, drifting off in synchrony with me. I don't know if it helps me go to sleep, but it sure is a nice thought.

At work today, I printed out a few pictures of Ms. J and put them on my wall. It's so nice to look at them, especially since I took them when she was (more) healthy and bright-eyed.

Last night, I dreamt of Juliet for the first time since she's died. We were at the vet's (as we were on Friday) and we had her put down, and then I got ready to bring her home. There was some discussion about how she was dead, but I brought her anyways. When we got home, she sat up on the bed, attentively, not sick at all. Not snuggling, but healthy.

I know this is all part of grieving and of processing through events of past weeks. She will probably visit me more in my dreams. It is usually a huge relief when someone who has died manages to convey to me in my dreams that they're ok, and maybe someday Juliet will do that too.

This evening, on the way home from work, I went to visit one of the owners of the place where I used to board Juliet. I had left notes for both owners, and I was greeted with a big hug. We talked for a while, and then I went to check out what I call the "kitty museum." Some of the kitties were running around and nudging me, and I petted them. It felt so good to see healthy and happy cats, and to have some snuzzling time.

Finally, a few friends and I have been imagining kitty heaven. One person said that it was where kitties get wings and flutter about and play with all the winged mice. Another person talked about cats running through fields of flowers with lots of hunting opportunities. I still think kitty heaven is bowls of tuna, lots of down comforters, and much sunshine. But all those scenes sound wonderful to me.

favorite memories, part 2

Juliet was somewhat dog-like. Before she lost her hearing, she understood the sounds of my coming home or Robert arriving for a visit, and she'd be waiting at whichever door we were entering through. She'd want to be petted immediately, and then fed, before anything else could happen -- dinner preparations, quiet reflection, or newspaper reading. She'd often follow me throughout the house, changing rooms as I did.

Juliet was a fairly clever cat. I realized that she was picking up language when I rushed home one day and said "I'm really sorry, but I have to go out." Before I knew it, she was standing by the back door, waiting for me to let her Out. I then started to teach her some words -- supper, loud noise (as a warning), and upstairs were important ones. When I noticed that she didn't want a certain vet to touch her ears, I tried to teach her the word ear so that she at least wouldn't be surprised when someone touched her ears. (Robert teased me for years about that one -- he'd touch my ear and say "ear, ear, ear".) And scratch became a command that she understood and received high praise for obeying, when she was in the mood.

In fact, scratch became such a consistent source of attention for her that she started to scratch (appropriately) on her own at certain times. When someone would come in the house or was about to go out, she'd scratch and be rewarded for it. And she also figured out that if she wanted something really badly and was unsuccessful at getting it, she could try scratching to see if it changed our minds.

Juliet was mostly well behaved. In her younger jumping days, she had a weakness for lying on the kitchen island, which had a good southern exposure. She had a clear understanding that the kitchen counters and eating surfaces were strictly off-limits. I'd come downstairs and hear a tha-thump. There'd she be in the kitchen, innocently minding her own business. She'd look up at me sweetly as if to say, "how lovely to see you; I had no idea you were coming into this room." She'd also sleep on the non-business end of the dining room table, again in the sun, and again with the tell-tale tha-thump as I approached.

One day, I came downstairs, and there she was, lying on the dining room table. I cleared my throat, the first step, and usually the only step necessary for me to express my displeasure. This time, she looked at me in astonishment (imagine a teenager saying "Wa-uuuuh?"). I realized that she was not actually *on* the dining room table. No, I had placed a little quilted pillow-top on that end of the table and she was on *that*. Somehow, she'd realized that the pillow-top was not on the forbidden list. There are some battles that you just can't win.

She was compassionate and had a special understanding for certain situations. She did not like children much, but she tolerated their supervised behavior well and allowed tiny kids to pet her spastically. Once, I had an out of town visitor who brought his baby. While here, the baby got sick and we rushed off to the local e-room in the middle of the night. To my great surprise, when we came back exhausted and all got onto my bed to rest, Juliet joined us. She kept a respectful distance from the baby, but seemed actively concerned about him, too.

She was wonderful when I was sick and would patiently lie quietly by my side all day. I'm sure that in my sickest moments, I still managed to take care of her, but she never demanded that I do so while I was sleeping off an illness. She was also a great nap kitty. She could be doing anything -- playing, napping, eating -- but if I wanted to take a nap, I needed to just find her and carry her to bed with me. She'd look pleased, as if to say, "oh goodie! I know what's coming," and get comfortable next to me, snoozing and waiting until I was ready to wake up.

And finally, at different holidays, I'd put curled ribbons on her collar, appropriately colored for the event (red and green for christmas, for example). The color didn't really matter, because her black fur made all the ribbons look great. One gay pride, I put lavender and pink ribbons on her just before running out the door to attend the parade. I noticed my neighbor, and he came over to talk to me. He looked down, saw the ribbons, and said "what's the matter with your cat? she looks like a Poof cat to me!" How little did he know!

favorite memories, part 1

In the last few days, I've been smiling at some of my favorite memories of Miss Juliet. I may end up creating several entries, because there are a lot of good stories.

I've already talked about bringing Juliet home and some of my earlier experiences with her.

After we moved out of my husband's house, we lived in an apartment for a year and a half. Juliet never got to go outside while we lived there -- there were too many cars close to the house and it just seemed too dangerous for her. She did enjoy sitting on the window-sills, which were at about ground level, and watching the world go by.

One night, I'd gone to bed early for once and heard some commotion outside but ignored it. All of a sudden, there was a knock on the door and a deep voice saying "Maam? Could you please come outside?" I asked if there was time to get dressed, and there was. But there was a fire in the building (long story, but there was an alcoholic, overwhelmed, and too-young mother living on the third floor; she'd apparently set her sofa on fire when she'd nodded off).

I'd never been in this situation before -- you get dressed and select your most precious possessions to cart outside with you. I'm pleased to report that I grabbed Juliet's carrier, placed her inside, and took her with me. I left behind jewelry, photographs, and other items of monetary value. I imagine I took my house keys too. We waited outside with all the other tenants, except for the perpetrator, whom we glared at for a while. We then went back inside to catch some sleep on that now-shortened night.

In 1990, we moved to a real house on a quiet street with woods out back, the perfect place for a kitty to roam and play. Drawing on my previous training as a cat companion, I kept Juliet inside for a few weeks to give her a chance to become accustomed to her new home. I finally decided to let her out one day, and supervised her for a while. Then I went about my business in the house, and when I returned, she had vanished.

Just then, my brother (who was about to graduate from a local college) and his girlfriend came for a visit. Our plan was to go out for dinner, but I didn't want to leave until Juliet was back inside. So we went trooping through neighbors' back yards and through the woods behind, circled the little pond nearby, and called and called for Juliet to come. Of course, she didn't appear. I'm sure she was watching us the whole time and laughing, or doing the kitty equivalent.

I realized we were going to have to leave, and I had images of needing to go out and get a new cat. I felt horribly guilty and stupid. I worried all through dinner. We finally came home and there she was sitting by the back door, as if she'd been out for just five minutes. I opened the door, and she sauntered in, without a care in the world.

The back yard became one of her favorite places in the summer, and she'd stay outside from early in the morning until dark, when I insisted that she come in. She'd walk through the grass, looking so self-assured that I imagined her as a miniature panther walking through the grasslands.

In the winter, she hated going out and was very prissy about getting her paws cold. Occasionally, she'd get cabin fever and either ask to go out or be a little too energetic in the house. I'd open the back door and place her in the snow or even gently toss her if the snow was deep enough. She'd calm down immediately and keep things under control for a few more weeks, at least.

She loved to hunt, though I don't know how successful she was. I did see her nearly catch a rabbit once. She at least gave it a good run. I once noticed her sneaking up on a ground hog. Vegetarian or not, this beast was about three times her size and might have been dangerous if threatened. I yelled, startling both of them, and allowing the ground hog a chance to slip back into the woods.

Juliet hated other cats passionately. At first, she reserved the entire back yard for herself, vigorously defending our little lawn. As she grew older, she defended smaller patches, allowing other cats to traverse the further reaches of the yard.

But if those cats got too close, she'd react fiercely. Well into her elderly years, one vet said, with a twinkle in his eyes, that it was fine for her to remain outside and defend her territory. As long as the other cats took her posturing seriously, which they probably would, they'd never discover how tiny or weak she actually was.

One day, we were both inside but in separate rooms. I heard a horrible noise from her that she could only have made if she had suddenly been slit from stem to stern, her insides were now outside, and she was dragging them through ground glass. I rushed into the kitchen to rescue her and discovered her staring at a visiting cat on the other side of the sliding glass door. I shooed the cat away and praised her highly once she'd calmed down a bit.

to be continued

sick and tired

Juliet's decline was so gradual and her individual setbacks generally so small that I didn't quite put together the bigger picture while she was alive, at least not in a way that I could articulate properly. Sure, I noticed her back legs wobble or that she napped a lot, even for a cat.

But with the distance of a day, it occurred to me this evening how very weak and how very tired she was at the end. She slept a lot. She could even fall asleep while I was petting her. Robert mentioned that when she'd come up the little bed-side stairs, she'd be out of breath. (I had noticed that her breath sounded funny, like "chuff chuff chuff", and it looked funny, like she was purring even when she wasn't.)

And I remembered picking her up the last few days and how limp she'd be in my arms. She'd lay her little head on my chest and let me put my chin on her forehead. At the time, I noticed that she was soft and very warm and full of trust. But now, of course, I realize that she was so very weak that she couldn't even do her part when being carried.

I also reflected this evening on a Tony Kushner line that I first heard in 1995 -- "Deep down, I see someone entirely free of sickness." I mean, yes, of course, I knew she was desperately ill, and I had a lot of little jobs to do. But when I was just being with her, I wanted so very much to see with my heart, not just with my eyes. In her last moments and beyond, I saw a beautifully stunning cat, googly eye and all, a cat who, for me, has set new impossibly high standards of beauty.

It has actually been helpful to remember all this because it helps me understand why she's not here right now, why she needed not to be here anymore.

I have also been thinking of some happier memories of Juliet, and I hope to start posting them in the next few days.

relaxing my vigilance

We got into bed last night. Uncharacteristically, Robert fell asleep immediately. As tired as I was, I couldn't sleep. I finally realized that out of habit, I was being vigilant, perhaps waiting to make sure Juliet could get into bed without incident, and also waiting for her to lean against my chest so that we could fall asleep together. I realized that I had to let go of that watchfulness, and I finally went to sleep.

I did wake up a few times; I'll have to relearn sleeping for longer periods of time.

This morning, on the occasion of my 48th birthday, I woke up remembering all the mornings I've woken up with my little cat. When she could see, she'd often wake up before me and either sit on the floor or sit next to me, waiting, patiently, until I woke up. Lately, though, I'd been waking her up. We'd then have our special time together, where I'd pet her and she'd purr and rub her nose on me and often groom my face. I felt grateful for the amount of time we had. And selfishly, I felt grateful that her timing worked out so that I can have a special day of mourning for her and have a reasonable birthday in upcoming years.

I have of course been receiving some lovely phone calls and emails in response to the news. I feel blessed that people in my life are reaching out to me, offering support and love and warmth.

I do have to share one of the most compassionately expressed notes I've received. This one is from my little niece, Paloma, who is all of four and a half. Just yesterday, she had written to ask how the kitty was, and I at first wrote back to say she was very sick, but we were making her happy and comfortable. Then I wrote back to let her know that the kitty had died. This was her response, as dictated to her parents:

Dear Auntie Liz
Maybe you can go to the vet and get another cat or you could go to the cat store. I'm sorry about your kitty but maybe you could get another one if you find another one or maybe another person could give their cat away and give it to you or my grandmother could find you another cat. That happened to Spike. Spike is a cat looking just like my cat that's here. but I know that somebody can give you a cat, but i know it's not the same as having your own cat. I'm sorry you're so sad. I'm sad too because I love kitties very much.
Love Paloma

she's gone

I cried all the way to the vet's. Robert and I arrived just seconds apart. I realized there was no way to hold back the tears today, so I just went with them, hoping I wouldn't frighten the other clients. Kris and Matt (receptionist and vet-tech) took us immediately into a room, where the bed they'd prepared was even softer and fluffier than Juliet has usually been treated to. Kris and Matt spent a long time talking to us.

Then Dr. Randy came in and we discussed the situation. Juliet's eye was out of control. She was clearly becoming more and more miserable, and there really wasn't anything left to do. Despite the purring and eating today, it was time.

Randy gave her a sedative, and Robert and I stroked her ears and kept her covered up so she'd stay warm. She got very quiet. Then Randy and Matt found a vein and injected her and it was all over very quickly.

We had hugs all around, and Stephanie, another person who works there, came to visit. Stephanie is quite an artist and drew a charming picture of a black cat sitting in a field, free to enjoy the sunshine, watch birds and butterflies go by, and smell the meadow flowers.

Kris came back and talked to us and stroked Juliet's little body. We kept stroking her too (her ears were so soft), and Robert brushed her one last time with her favorite brush. We were there nearly three hours, but finally, it was time to go.

When we came home, I gathered up piles of cat towels from all over the house and put them by the washing machine. We threw out the cat litter and medicines and cleaned up the one-stop shopping cat station in my bathroom. I moved the little stair case out of the way so that I can get in and out of bed more easily.

And then I composed the following note, which I sent to a cat-notify distribution list:


RIP Little kitty
Just a note to let you know that my beloved little kitty, Juliet, died today. She was 21; I had the privilege of living with her for her last 18 years. She had many health issues which we managed to keep under control. Up until recently, she led a happy and care-free life.

Last December, she was diagnosed with a nasty and aggressive form of mouth cancer. She fought hard. She also allowed us to treat her and keep her comfortable, enduring what many cats would not. Even last night, knowing the end was near, I questioned whether we were all ready. But this morning, I realized that we needed to be, and I feel that our final gift to her was right and good.

Most of you know that she had a tremendously big personality and managed to charm all but the most reticent of the people she met. We will miss her deeply.

Thank you to each one of you who has touched our lives in some way, either by caring for her, or saying a kind word, or giving her a scratch on the head, or asking after her, especially recently. She and I appreciated all your good thoughts, both those expressed and those sent more quietly.

I cannot close without expressing the highest praise for her doctor, Randy Caviness, and his staff, especially Matt the wonder vet-tech, and Kris the amazingly compassionate receptionist. Their care kept us both going longer than I would have thought possible.

With gratitude for many things, including a life well and fully lived,
-- liz

juliet's day

The prednisone that has been reducing the swelling has been working for decreasing lengths of time. Wednesday's shot didn't completely reduce the swelling, and 24 hours after the shot, her eye was looking bad again. This morning, it looks perhaps worse than it did on Wednesday morning.

Last night, one of Juliet's human friends came for a visit and had a nice talk with Robert in my absence. My very thoughtful four-and-a-half year old niece sent email (assisted by her parents) to ask after Juliet.

Last night, we got up twice in the middle of the night, about average for the last few nights. The second time, Juliet didn't come back to bed. When I finally woke up this morning, she was on the heated bathroom floor, in a somewhat comfortable position, snoozing away. I gave her the most important drugs (the ones that I think make her more comfortable), hydrated her, and brought her back to the bathroom, where she actually ate a little.

Then I went through my morning rituals, and when the sun was finally shining on the bed, brought her over to lie in full sunlight on the down comforter, one of her favorite places. I brushed her and kissed her and wept until she went to sleep.

We'll leave in a few minutes for the vet's.

brief Thursday update

Last night, we made a kitty sandwich in bed. Juliet purred and purred; she loves snuggling up to two people at once. She's been eating well, too. Of course, she fell out of bed at 5:30 this morning (terrible thud, waking me up immediately). And she and I had several visits to the bathroom in the middle of the night before that.

However, Dr. Randy's magic brew has had the desired temporary effect. Yesterday, I commented that he had already worked a lot of magic on the kitty, and he said that she, herself, is a magical cat.

Her eye looked much better this morning, and despite greasings, is failing again, though in a new, perhaps more disgusting way.

All good things, even beloved kitties, must come to an end. We have an appointment tomorrow, and we're starting to think that will be the time. Do not hold me to it, though; I've been wrong on this count before.

entering the canal

I always think about the processes of being born and dying as that of entering a canal. It might take a while to get to the other side. But once you start down the path, there's no going back. It seems like Juliet has started the journey down her own canal.

For the last few days, she's been fairly cheerful, eating well, mostly able to purr. Her eye has been ugly and growing uglier, and that's been of concern. It means that the tumor is overpowering the prednisone and pushing on the back of her eye.

This morning, I went into my usual routine. We snuggled for a while and I got her purring. Then I got up, checked email, and went downstairs to prepare for hydration and to get kitty breakfast and meds ready. Just as I came back into the room, I realized that Juliet was out of bed. She was in the middle of the bedroom, squatting, and had just finished peeing an enormous puddle onto the rug.

Now, this is a cat who occasionally shows disdain by pooping in the corner of a room, but she's never peed outside of the box except when surprised or frightened. No, she knew this spot was on my walking path to come get her for her meds. I'm fairly certain she was saying "I'm done. Stop medicating me."

Maybe I'm projecting, but it felt exactly like the day that Mark turned to his nurse (just an hour or so before dying) and said "I've had enough, thank you." And that went for everything, but especially meds.

I locked Juliet in the bathroom, which has all the amenities, including a heated floor and a comfy sheepskin rug to lie on top of. And then I went to work for a while.

I had a long phone conversation with Dr. Randy during which he suggested that she might be too weak to make it to the box (not with the muscular squat she was doing) or that she might have a urinary tract infection (unlikely -- no crying, no blood, but I could be wrong). We tossed around the idea of stopping her meds, but I think that would make her even more miserable.

We eventually came up with a plan. I brought her in this afternoon. He gave her an acupuncture treatment two days early, then gave her aquapuncture which included a steroid. We agreed that if she's not better tomorrow, or at the latest, Friday, that's it -- it's time. If she is better, well, I guess we go from there.

I brought her home, she ate a great deal, and she is now resting comfortably on the heated bed. Her eye still looks bad, but it might be a while before it looks any different. I'll call in tomorrow morning and let them know how things look either way.

I'm sad, but I think after the crying I did (was it last week?) I've shifted into some deeper kind of acceptance and understanding. And I certainly don't want to prolong things if to do so causes pain or suffering.

The saga of the vile yellow powder

A while back, I wrote about the immune-boosting powder that I was trying to give to Juliet. My first few attempts resulted in big wet yellow blobs and more white foam than seemed possible. Dr. Randy and I had agreed that I'd give her as much as she could take, even if it was in tiny quantities. So for a long time (or what felt like it at least), I'd mix some into her liquid meds -- about as much as would fit on the side of a flat toothpick.

Occasionally, I'd get a little too enthusiastic, and she'd show her displeasure, but mostly, she was good about taking her meds. Then she started hanging out under the bed around med time. Or I'd flip her onto her back and she'd start panicking or trying to climb to my shoulder. She actually started peeing on me in her panic -- I think she wasn't even aware of it. But I'd look down and find a giant wet spot.

It seemed important to give her this stuff, and I actually think it was helping to some extent, even in its tiny quantity. What did they say about Powdermilk Biscuits? Gives you the strength to stand up and do what needs to be done.

But I finally realized that enough's enough, long after Robert figured it out, which he did right away. I removed the yellow powder from the regimen and lo and behold. No more panic at drug time, no more climbing, and no more peeing.

It's all about balance, I guess. But when I think of how highly evolved cats are, and how stupid humans are, I think we have a lot of catching up to do.

The mystery of the coated wires

During house destruction, and reconstruction, Juliet managed fairly well. In fact, I was impressed with her ability to weather the change so gracefully. About the time that we were dotting Is and crossing Ts, Robert was moving in, and she lost it. The cat who had never before missed the litter box started frequenting a few favored corners in the house and just pooping, not peeing, and walking away. It was puzzling ("what *is* she trying to say?") but easy enough to clean up.

There was one spot we laughed about. Robert has an "upstairs living room" with a stereo and TV cabinet, couch, and books. Near the cabinet, there's a pile of electric cords for lights and his audio visual collection. She loved to poop on top of the cords.

She did it for a while, and then I remembered that she hates Saran wrap with a passion. So I laid some plastic on top of the wires. She got the message and went back to her litter box. That was over a year ago.

Since Christmas, Juliet has pretty much confined herself to my bedroom and bathroom, venturing out just once to get a better spot in the sun. A few mornings ago, when I was sick and Robert was awake, he noticed Juliet venturing out of the room. He followed her down the hall, first into his study. She went right for a pile of extension cords sitting on her favorite, a piece of cardboard. She wiggled her butt, setttled in, and then got up and went into the next room, the upstairs living room. She walked around the stereo cabinet, directly over to the pile of cords, wiggled her butt, settled in, and pooped. She then walked all the way back down the hall, jumped into bed with me, and purred herself to sleep.

So far, the Saran wrap has had its desired effect. But I have to wonder sometimes -- are there really aliens out there, and do they speak directly to my cat in a language I cannot understand?

like a timex

The cat continues to amaze me. Last week, I was convinced she wouldn't make it to her appointment on Friday, but she did. (Sick as I was, I would have done what was necessary, but I preferred to be more present for her end.) This weekend, we had another mini-crisis, to which I applied what could have been a temporary fix.

The switch from infrequently-injected prednisone to a more-frequently administered liquid form has been bumpy. Mid last week, the first switchover (to liquid given twice a day) caused a real lurch. Things were looking grim as the injections wore off, but the new prednisone finally kicked in, and the cat was back on track.

This weekend, we were supposed to reduce the dose to once a day. At Friday's appointment, I expressed some real concerns about reducing the dose; it felt to me that Juliet was hanging on by just a thread. I was firmly told to give the dosing regimen a try, and to call if anything went wrong so we could discuss it. This was fine. Some things are important, and I figured this was one of them.

Of course, things went wrong on Saturday when the vet clinic was closed. Juliet hadn't eaten all day. She certainly wasn't purring; she was barely reacting to us when we petted her. She was limp and passive. I couldn't stand it any more. Out of desperation, in the evening, I gave her a second dose of prednisone just in case that was the problem. And... she responded. She started eating and purring. She regained some strength.

I gave her another second dose Sunday night and then wrote a long note to Dr. Randy and faxed it over this morning. I think I was agitated because the message had been so clear, and I want very much not to be in conflict about Juliet's treatment. In my note, I proposed a few compromises, said that I want everyone to be happy, but that my first priority is to do the right thing for Juliet.

This morning, Randy called and said that the solution is very simple -- to just give Juliet two doses a day (phew). He said that his main concern is that prednisone has long-term effects, either weeks or months down the road. My belief, and I think his, too, is that we probably don't even have weeks to be worried about.

So another crisis averted. Juliet is eating heartily. Between snacks, she rests comfortably on my heated bed. If I'm around, I cover her up with a little green towel. She looks very cute with her little head poking out.

haze-filled activities

Last week was fairly slow. I was sick. The first few days, I mostly hung out with the cat in bed, taking three-hour naps, not thinking very clearly when I was awake.

I finally broke into the "Complete Cartoons of the New Yorker," a massive volume containing several thousand cartoons representing eighty years of publishing, up until 2004. The book of course doesn't include all the cartoons, but they did place the full set on two CDs attached to the inside of the book. I'm only part-way through despite devoting hours to the effort. I'm enjoying reliving many happy hours of my childhood sprawled on the floor reading my grandmother's collections of New Yorker cartoons, now in my mother's possession.

One of my favorites, which is included: Industrial Crises: The day a bar of Ivory soap sank. The illustration shows a huge pool, a bubble showing the site of the sinking, alarmed bureaucrats, a diver preparing for a rescue.

Two of my favorites, not included:
Man being carried out of elegant house on a stretcher. His last words: I'm so sorry, Mrs. Witherspoon; it must have been the kohlrabi. Except that my aunt had crossed out the name of the offending food and written in "meatloaf."

Another: a man and woman eating breakfast at an impossibly long dining table, surrounded by elegant silver and chandeliers. The man, reading the paper, says "Dear! It says here that the east wing burned down last night!"


Towards the end of last week, a box I've been waiting for arrived in the mail. My sister's been helping my mother "clean house" in preparation for an upcoming move. Somewhere, in the recesses of some closet, they found a box of my papers. I'm not sure how the box survived the purge of the last move in 1988, but it is now with me. I spent a pleasurable afternoon going through it. Of course, much of it, including old journals, went into the recycling bin.

But I saved a few treasures, including:

• The hand-made certificates announcing my promotion to second and then third grade
• The class pictures from most of my elementary school years
• A few papers I wrote in high school
• A program from my eighth-grade graduation
• The invitations and program from my high school graduation

Tiny treasures; it's nice to be reunited with them.

Trying to hear through the rumbling chi

When Dr. Randy said that Juliet has a lot of chi, I instantly recognized what he was talking about. She has a strong will to live, a lot of life energy.

I was reminded of Mark who kept saying "if I get to such-and-so a point, just put me out of my misery." He said it so often that I, the former suicide hotline volunteer, offered to help if things ever got really bad. But then he'd achieve an end point, and he'd say the same thing with a new goal. A few days before the end, the hospice nurse came to tell him that he needed to say goodbye because his body was shutting down. He said "But I want more time." He pleaded with her, and he lasted long enough so that I could get to his side and spend some more time with him.

That was the first time I was witness to the chi we all have. It is bigger than we are and more powerful. It carries on even when we don't necessarily feel like we can keep going. Clearly, it kept Ed H going this fall, long after his family thought he'd be gone.

So far, the decision about when to help Juliet over that edge rests solely with me. I'm getting lots of advice, all of it helpful. Several people have said "listen to your cat. She will help you know." I've made it my job to listen.

I've spent hours snoozing and lying wakefully next to the cat. There are times when I think she's given up on eating. Her googly eye, while not swollen, is half-shut and weepy. Occasionally, she snaps at whatever's in her mouth. There's been a little evidence of bleeding, though the Chinese herb seems to be helping with that symptom. She sleeps a lot.

And yet, the messages are confusing. She purrs readily when someone pets her. She sits up and acts alert. And earlier, just as I was readying myself to pick up the phone and make The Call, she climbed down from the bed, used the litter box, ate a little, came back into the bedroom, washed herself, and went back to bed. Eating is one thing, but washing? Where does she get the energy?

I'm listening, and I hear a quiet but persistent "not yet, not yet."

winding down

We had a vet visit yesterday at which we were supposed to assess progress and figure out next steps. Juliet looked great. Her fur was soft, she'd gained weight, she was happy. From Saturday to Monday, I could tell that the prednisone shot was just starting to wear off, so I asked for another one, which we got.

I also asked if I could start administering prednisone at home, perhaps in a liquid format. I got a prescription, but Randy mentioned that he'd designed the shots to last more than a couple of days -- that he'd combined a fast-acting drug with something that acts more slowly. We agreed that I'd start the home pred tomorrow, Wednesday.

Yesterday, I could tell that the shot had kicked in. There was much eating and general cat happiness. Fortunately or not, I've managed to come down with a bad cold, so have been home much of the day today.

This afternoon, just a day and a half after the last shot, I noticed that Juliet hadn't eaten much. Then I noticed her breathing sounded a little odd, kind of a very quiet chuff-chuff-chuff. And I noticed that her googly eye (third eye-lid) is reappearing.

So, I called into the clinic to get permission to start home pred today instead of tomorrow. With dose administered, not much has changed, except that Robert just visited for a little love fest and she purred loud and long. I'm hoping that we get a little more mileage out of the prednisone, but it's possible that we won't. Robert and I started to talk about the ever-so-euphemistic "final arrangements."

It amazes me to have a cat with a googly eye and stuff in her mouth and all sorts of uncomfortable symptoms who wants to let us know how happy she is to be in our company. I keep thinking that she should be off in the farthest reaches of some dark closet, but no, she wants more than anything to be on my bed, preferably with me there too.

We will see how we get through the night and go from there tomorrow morning.

the start of a relationship

It occurred to me that I haven't yet written about how Juliet and I met.

In 1987, our cat, Moonlight, a delightful, energetic kitten, was accidentally killed late one night. The humans mourned her for a long time; her feline companion, Harpo, mourned even longer.

At some point, I was ready for a new cat in my life, and I thought that even Harpo was ready. So I started hanging out at Buddy Dog, a local no-kill shelter. It's easy to go there, (or actually, I should say it's easy to leave) because I know that even if I come home empty-handed, no animals will be harmed in my absence.

One day in January of 1988, a couple of cats were brought in while I was there. I noticed a small black cat who was so frightened that she huddled in a far corner of her cage. The next week, I came back, and checked out all the kitties, still not finding the right one to take home. My then-husband said "what about this one?," pointing to the little black kitty of the previous week. "No," I replied, "she doesn't have enough spunk." "Well, just check her out anyways." And so I did.

These days, Buddy Dog has a visiting cage that goes from floor to ceiling, has toys, climbing structures, a window, and a chair, so you can get to know a particular cat in a pleasant habitat. But in those days, all you could do was take a cat out of a cage and hold it. I held the little black cat for a long time -- an hour, I think -- and she didn't wiggle once. And of course, at the end of that hour, she felt so right in my arms, and I knew that she was coming home with me.

She was three years old. Her name was Juliet. She had arrived with two other kitties, Romeo and Cameo. I would happily have brought them home too, but apparently she didn't much like either of them. So they stayed behind and waited to find another home.

Juliet was initially frightened; the slightest upset could send her scurrying down the basement steps and into hiding under the stair case. Patiently, we'd go downstairs after her, bring her out, and hold her until she was willing to stay upstairs with the rest of the family.

When my husband and I were planning to divorce, we felt fairly confident that we could divide the stuff peacably. We weren't so sure about the cats, but we didn't know what to do about them, so we decided to put off any discussion for a while.

The first night that I moved downstairs and my husband stayed up, Harpo spent the night with him, and Juliet spent the night with me. Harpo spent the next few nights upstairs until he felt that even animals as stupid as humans would get it. He then spent the remainder of our nights together visiting both of us, traveling up and downstairs all night long. Juliet, on the other hand, never slept upstairs again. We were fortunate that the cats made the decision for us and that we were capable of listening to them.

So Juliet moved to my apartment with me, and then moved again when I bought my house. She and I have been together eighteen years this month, a long and happy relationship.

please, sir, may I have some more?

This morning, I woke up to the sound of Juliet chewing quietly on something in her mouth, not food. Her googly eye was starting to come back. And she was completely not interested in the over-the-top delicious non-kidney-diet food that she loves. So we went back to the vet for another bit of prednisone, which she again got in aquapuncture form. She is also on a Chinese herb that's supposed to help inhibit bleeding, especially in tumors. And I'll start hydrating her twice a day, rather than just once. I at least feel like we can get through the rest of the weekend. On Monday, we have another visit scheduled and we'll reassess.

While waiting at the veterinary clinic, I brushed Juliet while she purred and purred. I also weighed her and she's gained two ounces since Thursday. Right now, Mz Cat is once again eating, though slowly, chewing on food, chewing on her mouth, and back to the food again. When she's done, she and I will take a much-needed nap and perhaps receive a visit from a friend later. We measure the good times in these small moments.

small reprieve

The vet visit last night was lovely, though sad. Dr. Randy pretty much echoed my assessment -- that the tumor has grown and Juliet's time appears to be near. We talked about next steps. He surprised me by asking what I wanted to do, and almost by rote, I said "Keep her comfortable and minimize suffering."

We agreed not to take her blood pressure, though he noticed on his own that some vision has returned. We agreed that she doesn't need to be on kidney diet right now. He gave me some tips about what to look for, and we decided I'd come back in half a week, on Monday, to reassess. (I'm as always just hoping we get through Sunday, his day of rest.)

Then he gave her an acupuncture treatment and very lovingly did moxa (heating of the needles, which is a slow process). She kept settling in and getting comfier. I watched and tried to just breathe and not to cry -- there's plenty of other time for that. He also gave her aquapuncture, and the magic brew he used included Vitamin B12 and prednisone, a steroid, to reduce swelling.

And it did work magic. This morning, after several days of disinterest in food, her bowl is nearly licked clean. Her eye is far less googly, and she seems perhaps more alert. She was a little active for my tastes last night, leaving me still feeling tired, but it's really hard to complain about that.

For a while, I was saying that we were going two days by two days, that I was fairly certain she'd be alive two days out. Now we're living day-by-day. But we have a tiny bit of relief, and a little more comfort.

And in a spectacular gesture of caring for the caregiver, Robert got takeout last night from a new middle Eastern restaurant near where he works. It was over the top delicious and totally fed my soul -- just what my inner doctor would have ordered.

more tears

Later in the morning, a bit more sleep under my belt. And more tears. I feel so helpless against this disease. For a while, it didn't necessarily seem like we were winning, but perhaps we were holding it off for a while longer. Now it's clear that even those efforts are failing, if indeed we had any effect at all.

One of my saddest thoughts: I wonder if Juliet knows that I have and would do anything in my power to keep her healthy. And, to twist it around, I wonder if she feels that I've somehow let her down. At the same time, she seems so forgiving, so happy just to be near me. I am grateful but somehow feel unworthy at the same time. It's the old conflict of emotion and intellect, apparently a big day for that particular battle.

return of the googly eye

I'm becoming intimately familiar with the 4am -- 5:30 am cycle on my digital bedside clock. There will be sleep, eventually.

Juliet's tumor seems to have grown even more. She has a restless mouth. She seems to chew a lot, though perhaps she's just trying to find a comfortable place to rest her tongue. And her eye isn't looking good, either. Last night, it was half closed, a little weepy, and the third lid had started to reappear, as it did right after her surgery. She's eating very little, though sometimes I think she's hungry.

And after all this, the discomfort, the medications, the daily hydration, and on and on, she still purrs when I climb into bed.

There's a lot of talk about the blood-brain barrier, and I at times think the barrier between my intellect and emotions is as strong. Tonight, really this morning, I had a breakthrough. I laid in bed with the kitty and gently stroked her. She purred. I cried.

Perhaps there's more sleep in me now before another day of work. I'll try, at least.

tumor update

Juliet's tumor was originally a discrete little bump near her jaw. It has now spread all the way up to the corner of her lip. She's still eating, though not as enthusiastically as a few days ago. Still taking her meds, and still purring up a storm. Oh, and she's still feisty as all get out.

I have no idea what this means to the general time line, but obviously, it's not positive news. I'm sure that Dr. Randy and I will be discussing it when I see him tomorrow night.

gee, you look tired

When I achieved some level of consciousness, I'm not sure if I first noticed that it was 4am or that a terrible noise was coming from the bathroom. I leapt up and realized the cat had just thrown up on the tile floor (good kitty).

Just before Round 2 hit the sheepskin rug, I quickly re-aimed her at the litter box and held on while she delivered. Went to clean off my foot so I didn't track any more around, then cleaned her feet and tail. When I realized she was about to try a Blue Man Group trick (oooh. warm. tasty), re-aimed her at her real food, which was just fine. Cleaned up the mess on the tile floor. Went downstairs to get the litter-cleaning equipment, cleaned litter box, and delivered cleanings back downstairs to the back door.

Back in bed again, Miss Puss, now feeling immensely better, climbed over to my other side and purred me back to sleep.

cultural adventures of two suburbanites

We had a three-fer or perhaps a four-fer last week, as far as cultural events go. Not bad for two boring people from the suburbs.

On Thursday, we actually got to stay in the suburbs and attend a dance performance by a NYC troupe. We and a friend saw NutCracked by David Parker and the Bang Group. We saw the same performance last year in Provincetown with five dancers; this time there were ten, so the choreography felt different. We also saw DP&TBG last summer in the same venue, performing different pieces.

The performance is a takeoff on the Nutcracker. In the first half, they dance to modern interpretations of the original music and in the second half, they dance to straight interpretations of the original music. There are lots of body percussion noises. Some of the more memorable scenes include toe shoes on all four extremities, popping bubble wrap in time to the music, and an incredibly erotic passage involving thumb-sucking.

Our friend was delighted as were we, and I'm looking forward to seeing DB&TBG next summer if not sooner.


On Saturday, my company held its "holiday" party, which for once was about as ecumenical as could be, given that everyone's so tired of the holidays that they were completely erased from the scene. We attended the Blue Man Group, which neither of us had seen. There were some good parts, and, as I suspected, some tedious "male humor" parts (think eating imitation twinkie vomit). Lots of varied music, including a long passage from Bolero, a pleasant surprise. There was a lot of trying to get the audience to behave as one unit. If I go back, I'd enjoy it more if I brought a young child, preferably male, between the ages of 8 and 12. Fun, but not outrageously so.

We had a cocktail party at the very elegant Davio's. One of the waiters, a delightful old queen (and I'm sure he wouldn't mind my calling him that), discovered quickly that I am vegetarian and started making a beeline to me every time he had non-meat on his passed hors d'oevres plate. He explained in an aside to one of my chattees that he tries to pick out the disenfranchised at every party. Very sweet, and I felt well taken care of. The food was good, the conversation was fun. I talked to a lot of wives of coworkers who were all lovely and gracious and intriguing to talk to.

There was too much standing on hard stone floors, though, and I finally ran out of stand up.


Our next stop was a contra dance, which we arrived at late. The instant I hit the dance floor, the caller announced that I had arrived and started to teach my favorite dance, the Hills of Haversham, which I've only ever heard him call. Very thoughtful. He later reported that he was pleasantly surprised at how well we danced it. It felt nice from the floor, too.

Unfortunately, the band is my current least favorite. They play an old timey style of music that all sounds the same to my ear. They're good musicians, and they keep a steady beat going. However, their music all sounds whiney and twangy and for me, there's no lyricism. They played at our last dance camp and I found their bored attitude somewhat poisonous; we can be grateful that they played for just one short evening this time.


And on Sunday, we attended a Boston Symphony Chamber Players concert. They performed the Third Brandenburg Concerto, followed by a Stravinsky that opens with passages taken from the first piece, except reassembled the way Picasso did cubism. But I was quite proud of myself for actually hearing the borrowed pieces. They also performed two Copland pieces, one mercifully short. The other was Appalachian Spring for 13 instruments instead of the usual full orchestra. I very much enjoyed the second half of AS, which seemed to be a meditation on "Tis a Gift to be Simple," fortunately done very simply and respectfully.


As a side-note, my brother is in the country for a month, directing The Marriage of Figaro: The Las Vegas Version. Unfortunately, between our schedules and the cat's illness, I'm unable to see it, though I've seen an earlier version. In this latest update, the lyrics have been rewritten by one of the members of the Capitol Steps to better fit the silly script. If you're in Washington during its run (Jan 14-Jan 28), I recommend it.

scene of the crime

I woke on Saturday morning to a crime scene in miniature -- blood-spattered sheets, drops of blood leading across the bathroom floor. The alleged victim sat quietly with a bloody mouth. It gets grosser, but basically, we seem to have entered a new phase, one that is initially disturbing, and probably doesn't get much less so despite some habituation.

Juliet's tumor is at the point where it occasionally lets go of some blood, including clots. I don't think it's painful, but apparently swallowing blood can induce nausea. I'm supposed to clean her mouth out with a squirting device filled with warm water. The first few times I tried it, we both found the experience upsetting, though we're both a little better at it now. In fact, Juliet seems to accept it at this point, especially now that I'm not getting her entirely wet in the process.

On Saturday, I almost took her into the vet, but instead, talked to the Saturday vet tech twice. At one point, I asked whether cleaning her mouth out was more for her benefit or for mine and was reassured that it's good for both of us. Today I called the clinic to get advice about feeding. I think that Juliet is eating a little less, though she's still cleaning up much of what's in her bowl. Still, she's not reacting to her food with as much enthusiasm as she was last week.

On my next visit to see the doc, I'll ask where this new phase puts us in the overall plan. Having no experience with this disease, I don't know what to expect, so I freak out easily. Obviously, there is only one ending, and it's not happy, but I suppose it's a matter of timing.

In other health news, Juliet may have gotten back some tiny amount of vision. Robert and I have both noticed that she's more aware of our presence when we're in the room with her, and she seems to react a little bit to lights being switched on.

And her blood pressure is slowly, but oh so slowly, coming down. We're checking it about once a week. So far, no horrible strokes or neurological complications, thank goodness. We go in for a half-week check tomorrow (I think it's to celebrate the acquisition today of an even tinier cuff for the vet's borrowed bp machine).

Acupuncture treatments continue with good results. Last week, Juliet was especially feisty and even with me holding her would not allow Dr. Randy near her front paws. He was a little concerned about getting bitten, so we just dropped that part of the treatment.

Over all, Juliet's coat gets ever more beautiful and she seems to become increasingly alert. She seems a little more awake these days than right after she went blind; I'm assuming that re-learning her way was exhausting.

A friend dropped by last week to say goodbye to Ms. Puss; I'm hoping said friend's visits will become like the Cher Farewell Tour -- frequently repeated.