A tribute to Isabel

An empty basket.

An unused scratching post.

A memorial basket from Dr. J and his staff.

It's been six days since I said my final goodbye to Isabel, and as the days pass, the tears become less frequent and the reality of her being gone forever starts to settle in. I think I was in shock those first few days only because I thought that she was doing so much better. I thought she was going to really pull through. Now I realize that I saw only what I wanted to see; my vision clouded by hope. In reality, she was going down hill much faster than I could truly comprehend at the time. For all of you who said a silent prayer for her and for those who left such kind comments, I thank you. I feel as though you have all shared in her life these past couple of months, and I feel ready to tell you the final chapter of her story.

It all started last Thursday morning when I woke up and noticed that Isabel wasn't sleeping right next to me as had been her customary sleeping spot since she came home from her surgery. After washing up, I went to go find her and make sure she was okay. I found her curled up next to the bed and noticed that she wasn't breathing quite right. I immediately called the vet office and they scheduled me to see Dr. Edwards since Dr. J was not in that day. I went about my normal routine periodically checking on her and giving her the usual chin scratch.

By the time her appointment rolled around, I knew she wasn't doing well. She didn't fight me to get into her basket (I always took her to the vet office in her basket) like she used to. She was very calm on our drive over to the office. Since we had become regulars at the vet’s, the entire staff came over to greet Izzy. She had become famous for hiding in her basket and being such a sweet kitty. I was happy that my little one was so loved, but I was also a little anxious. Nothing, however, could have prepared me for this exam.

Dr. Edwards came in and introduced himself and examined Izzy. As he was examining her, he informed me that the biopsy results had come in, and it wasn't good news. She had undifferentiated cancer cells in her belly, meaning that the specialists could not determine the origin of her cancer. I started crying, of course, but I was still hopeful. I was thinking, "OK, so she has cancer. Not the optimal situation, but she can fight it. She's strong. Look at her - she's fine." Dr. Edwards was concerned about her breathing situation, so he ordered some chest x-rays. The vet tech took her out of the room, and I just sat there and cried. Cancer. Again. In another one of my little ones. Why? Why oh why can’t we find a cure for cancer?

When Dr. Edwards came back into the room, I could tell something was wrong. Horribly wrong. He pulled the x-ray up on the computer screen, and to my horror, I saw the issue. I'm certainly no x-ray expert, but having seen so many x-rays done of my little ones, I knew this one wasn't right. Her chest area was completely foggy. Only a tiny portion showed up as black on the film, and on an x-ray, black means air. A chest x-ray should be all black except for the heart. Her chest was filling with fluid which was compressing her lungs and causing them to collapse. That's why she was having problems breathing.

But still, even at this point, even through the tears, my irrational mind was thinking, "She's going to be fine. He'll drain the fluid, her lungs will expand again, and she'll be fine. Right?" No, not right. Dr. Edwards told me that he could potentially drain the fluid from her chest, but knowing that she has such widespread cancer that had obviously already metastasized into her liver, he was certain that the fluid would be back in her chest in a few days, and we'd be right back to square one. I looked at him, confused. My mind was a jumbled mess of unanswered questions. And then he suggested what I didn't think I would have to do for a long time to come. He said I must say goodbye.

I just looked at him, stunned. My face was red and swollen; my eyes barely discernible through the puffiness. I began to hyperventilate. The room was getting smaller and smaller and things were moving all around me. I honestly thought I was going to faint right there and then. The only thing I could mutter was, "I don't understand. I don't understand." I kept repeating that over and over again until I finally grasped his words. I looked up at him, and not really knowing what else to do, I begged him to make her better. "How could this be? Look at her? She's fine. She's not gasping for air. She's just breathing funny. She's purring. She's meowing. How can you ask me to let her go? I don't understand."

Dr. Edwards was so patient with me. I could tell that he genuinely cared and wanted to help, but there was nothing more that could be done. He told me that respiratory distress could come on suddenly and could get very bad very quickly. I knew I didn't want to put Isabel through that. Not after ten years of love and devotion and companionship. I knew what had to be done. I just wasn't at a point of acceptance. I called Travis who immediately jumped in the car to come home, but he was far away and wouldn't make it before the office closed. Luckily, Dr. Edwards owns the emergency vet clinic in town and told me that I could bring her in whenever we were ready that night. I looked at Isabel who was purring in her basket and took her home.

To this day, I’m not quite sure how I made it back home safely. I don’t remember the drive. I don’t remember even walking through the door. I do remember putting Isabel on the bed with me and petting her as I sobbed. She only stayed with me for a little while, and then she retreated to the window sill. I remember grabbing my camera and taking as many pictures of her as I could. I remember petting her and holding her and burning her purr, her fur…burning everything into my memory. It was only a matter of hours before I had to say goodbye. It still wasn’t true to me. It just couldn’t be true.

The rest of my time with her that evening is a blur. Travis came home, and together we drove the ten miles to the emergency clinic. She was in her basket on my lap, and I was trying my best to be brave for her. I tried not to cry. Every so often, she would look up at me with those big, beautiful eyes. She had stopped purring. She had stopped meowing.

We arrived at the emergency clinic and we were greeted by the rudest, most callous woman I have ever met at an emergency hospital. The way she treated us was disgusting to the point that is still makes my stomach turn just to talk about it. I won’t go into details about how incredibly uncompassionate she was because it makes me so mad, but suffice it to say that during my most difficult time, I felt it necessary to inform Dr. Edwards that he should likely replace her with someone who was more sympathetic to the needs of pet parents. I absolutely refused for her to be in the room with us or to touch or handle Isabel afterwards.

After dealing with a situation that we one hundred percent should have never encountered in the first place, we said our final goodbyes to Isabel. I held her head in my hands, scratching her gums and her chin just like she loved. Travis had her hand on her head as well. I just starred into those big, beautiful yellow-green eyes and hoped she understood how much we loved her. I hope she understood that rather than be selfish and keep her around and risk her suffering, we chose to let her go peacefully. I hope she understood.

The next several days were so difficult. I cried and cried and then cried some more. I cried myself right into the worst migraine I’ve had in a really long time. I didn’t get out of bed until 6 pm on Saturday, and that was just to eat dinner real quick and take a shower. By the time Sunday rolled around, I was feeling a little better, but I still had a very bad lingering headache. Grief sucks.

I get a little better as the days go on. All of my other critters have been a great support system for me. Sedona has been checking on me more than normal, and when I cry, she lays her head on my lap as if to console me. Attila has been a pillar of support as well. He hasn’t left my side for a second, sleeping next to me all day and all night. I have to remember he’s lost someone, too, so we have to support each other. As I was laying in bed the other day, I snapped this picture. He was snuggled under my left arm, and he had his leg on my chest. This has been my norm lately.

I still have a long road ahead of me. It’s hard to say goodbye to a ten year companion. She was with me in college. She saw me graduate. She was there when I came home from my first day of work. She was there when I got married. She was with us through numerous moves. She would always nudge my fingers as I typed out my blog entries. She would sit on my lap as I watched T.V. We would hold endless conversations, both of us meowing in our own special language. It’s hard to let that all go, but I know that one day soon, I will be able to look at her picture and smile and not shed one single tear because I did the right thing. I did right by her.

I came across this article last year in Healthy Pet Magazine. I saved it because I thought it had some great information in it not only for myself, but for those who don’t quite understand the pain I’m experiencing and the anguish I go through every time I lose a little one. Just click each picture to enlarge.

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Again, I want to thank you all for letting me share Isabel with you. Thank you to my family and friends who have sent me e-mails and texts and have invited me out (although I'm not quite ready yet). Thank you to my mom who made me chicken noodle soup even though it was 100F outside. Thank you to my husband who although shares in my grief has the strength to console me and be my rock. Isabel was one terrific cat, but more than that, she was such a great companion for so many years. Izzy-busy-belly-jelly-bean, we will miss you.