Yesterday, Kizzy took the last of his Prednizone. It's been almost a month since he almost died again, and it seems like we got another reprieve.
He's on a new kind of even more ridiculously expensive prescription cat food. This one is supposed to also help with stress, as stress apparently increases the chance he'll get blocked. Beloved and I avoid talking about a relapse even as we watch his litter box like parents of a newborn watch diapers.
We made a barely spoken agreement that if the little black cat makes it a year without a blockage, he gets a medical expenses reset button even though he is working on being our most expensive cat to date, and that is saying something after adopting a Manx with megacolon.
The hair is growing back on his front legs where they shaved him to put in IVs. He begs to be taken outside on his harness every morning the minute the birds start singing. He spends his afternoons, when it is nice, lying in the sun in his playpen outside.
It is so hard not to worry constantly about him, since getting blocked is a) something that comes on suddenly with absolutely no warning and b) not something I can control, other than giving him the prescription food and nothing but the prescription food. Oddly, it gives me comfort to remind myself I could die tomorrow, too, and all we can do is enjoy the purring, velvety bundle of fur in my lap every night.
Since I last wrote, my formerly obstructed and now poor UTI-inflamed cat turned my basement into Shark Week. He came home on Friday night having peed on his own at the vet's after they removed the catheter. Yay.
Friday night: happy
Saturday morning: happy
Saturday mid-morning: straining and crying. And LICKING LICKING LICKING. The vet closed at noon, so we got there as fast as we could -- surrounded by at least eleven dogs of various sizes lunging at one another while their owners feigned ignorance. The vet said he was okay, because at the time, he was prancing around, hopping on things, acting fine.
fine, for like five minutes
Until we got him home and the vet closed.
Before I put him in the basement, he peed blood in five different rooms. Then when he was in the basement, he just let loose like Jackson Pollack. I couldn't even be upset about that, though, because watching him cry broke my heart into itty bitty little pieces.
Sunday: more of the same
On Sunday afternoon, the little angel went out with a friend and I dragged my PARKER CLEAVES manuscript downstairs to the plastic-covered couch from 1998 and sat down with a blanket. Kizzy was in my lap before I could even arrange myself. He was like a baby who didn't feel well and just wanted to be held. He slept on my legs for three hours until I could barely move, my legs were so stiff. I just kept thinking what if this is the last time? Most people's heads probably wouldn't go there, but most people haven't had our backstory with cats. I remember realizing it was the last time with Petunia and Buttonsworth and Bella as their eyes got hazier and hazier.
Last night drug on forever. This morning, we got the girl on the bus and stuffed Kizzy in the cat carrier and went straight to the vet. We'd both promised each other we weren't going to pour money all over this if it wasn't going to improve, but when we got there and Kizzy had already peed blood all over the carrier and the blanket and then, inside the room, the table and the sink -- all while looking at us with eyes perfectly clear and intelligent and not dead-looking -- we just agreed when the vet said he wanted to keep him overnight. I begged for stronger antibiotics and painkillers, which he is getting.
So there he is, again, spending another night in the cat hospital. This time there is no catheter, but there is pain medication and steroid antibiotic and more of the prescription C/D food he has started eating at home. The vet warned us he wouldn't go from totally inflamed to normal in twenty-four hours, and the fact that he's peeing at all is good.
I drove back home and walked inside and hoped Sunday afternoon wasn't my last cuddle. I've been trying to practice denial all day -- some people are so good at that, and I am just not -- but it's not really working. I'm glad he's still alive, but I'm worried about what happens if he doesn't respond to the new antibiotics. It's all I can think about in the back of my mind while my brain processes emails and story ideas and headlines in the front.
I hope that wasn't the last time. I do really appreciate everyone who shared their stories here or on BlogHer -- hearing that this has happened to other cats around this age who then went on to live years longer is really encouraging. I hope Kizzy gets to join that club soon.