skatoolaki's photostream Pro User

Yesterday, we said goodbye. I love you.

I adopted Gia from a local, no-kill foster group in August 2001. She was 3 years-old, by their best estimation, making her around 13 or 14 years-old now. Yesterday, I had to tell her goodbye - cancer took her from us and we had to make the always-wrenching decision to help ease her suffering. I held her in my arms and Baret and I petted her and gave her all our love as she quickly slipped away from us. Today, my heart hurts unimaginably but I know she is no longer suffering.

Writing this will be a bit cathartic, and while it's still fresh - though painful - I want to get it down...

I snapped this photo Monday evening, when B got back from the vet with Gia. All she wanted to do was sit in that corner of the patio. She was ill, all we knew then was it was most likely cancer. She wasn't eating, and had lost close to - if not over - 10 lbs in the previous 1-2 months.

Thursday we brought her to the LSU Vet School. By that evening we knew she had mast cell tumors in her liver and spleen, along with two as-yet unidentified spots on her small intestine. Still, the doctors seemed hopeful there'd be some form of treatment we could pursue. They told me the oncologist would give me a ring the next day, after 9am. I hated leaving her overnight - I wanted her home.

Just after 9am the oncologist called and said Gia had been fine all night, purring and sweet and such a good girl, and then around 4-5 am she suddenly took a turn for the worse. Something was now neurologically wrong with her. She wasn't "all here", something wasn't right. They couldn't explain what happened, her liver enzymes hadn't been showing her to be in *that* much distress that her mind would start going. They said last night they'd been hopeful, but now they were calling to ask us to come in and say goodbye. I broke down so badly on the phone, I couldn't speak for a few seconds.

When we got there, they immediately took us back to a room with dimmed lights, cushioned chairs and a couch and tissue boxes. I guess I kept hoping I'd heard wrong, and that she'd just meant we'd "maybe" have to say goodbye. Seeing that room, I knew they were putting us in a place that was comforting so that we could spend our last moments with the cat who had been my baby, my roommate, and my friend for 11 and a half beautiful, precious years.

When they brought her to us, we could see her distress. She wasn't all there, her eyes were fully dilated and she couldn't focus on anything. She would be restless and uncomfortable, then finally sink into my arms and sort of relax/lightly doze with her eyes open. They said there was no more we could do, save doing an MRI to find out what was going on with her brain but they didn't feel she was really even stable enough for that. We made the decision that every pet owner dreads.

I held her in my arms, both of us loving her, and the second her spirit left, I felt it - I cried out in a pained, choked sob and began crying uncontrollably. The doctor quickly listened with her stethoscope but I already know. "I'm so sorry. She's gone" I heard her say, but I was crying so hard and petting my girl. "Oh my Gia," I kept repeating, "My beautiful girl." She left us just after 11am, on that Friday, 5 April.

The pain is...well, all of you pet owners know. I'm mostly okay if I keep my mind occupied - I've watched non-stop TV since I got home yesterday. Any second my mind isn't focused on something else, I kind of lose it. In some ways, it's still not real. In others, I think my heart will break if I let myself dwell too long on the loss. Everything here reminds me of her.

If you made it this far, thank you for reading. And go give your cat - or dog or any furry family member - a kiss and a hug and tell them you love them.

[Gia at 10 years of age in 2008.]

I keep a copy of this book on my nightstand and the "original" hardcover - that my Mom read while pregnant for me & chose my name from - on my bookshelf.