On Letting Go

Miss Mollie

April 4, 2001 - July 12, 2013

Yesterday, around 4:30 pm, after 12 incredible years, it was time to let go of my sweet girl Miss Mollie after a valiant battle with squamous cell carcinoma (SCC). Even my special kitty was unable to beat the odds of this horrific disease. I know people have questioned why I pursued such aggressive treatment, but after researching all of our options and reading several studies, I knew radiation and chemo were her greatest chance at a greater quality of life for the time we had left together.

Cats don't know they have cancer, and they react to cancer treatment very differently than humans. More often than not, we would return home from treatment, and she would run out on the balcony, or to her food bowl and just go about her day. She never vomited or lost her hair. I know I made the right call.

My oncologist said there was a 75% chance we could arrest the growth for 2-6 months. Unfortunately, Mollie was in the other 25%.

"Where there's life, there's hope," he said. And that resonated with me. I know I will summarize my learnings about SCC in a future blog post - now is just not the time. It is still far too painful to think about this demonic disease, and I am enjoying a rare "comfortably numb" moment right now.

I have learned a lot about letting go.

Here is what helped me along the way.

Being in the Present

I will forever treasure the sweet moments we shared sunbathing on the balcony together, watching TV together, napping together. I have not arrived to work on time in months, but when you wake up, stretch, and a critically ill cat jumps on your chest to cuddle, well, it's just real hard to get up! A friend asked if I didn't get bored just lying around with a cat on my belly. Can't say that I ever did.

Feeling Gratitude

What helped me feel better about her final days were warm thoughts about her team of oncologists, the state-of-the-art compassionate care she was receiving, and the memorable moments we could still share. I am so grateful for having a designated time to say my goodbyes. I cannot imagine what it must be like to come home to a cat that got hit by a car, or died of a sudden, unexpected disease. This, while incredibly difficult, was kind because I knew it was coming. Of course I would have preferred six more months. But I can be grateful for the time we were given.

Reminiscing About Better Days

I've been reliving special memories, such as her kitten claws digging into my jeans, times when I found her curled up in the sink, that summer when I sneaked her into my dorm room at HPU, or just a few weeks ago when I opened the front door one morning and in she came. How she got out I'll never know, but boy was she ready to eat!

Knowing I Did All I Could 

I know, with absolutely certainty that I threw everything and the kitchen sink at this cancer. It's an invaluable gift. Two vets, x-rays, blood work, exams, two specialty hospitals, biopsy, echo cardiogram to make sure she was healthy enough to undergo radiation treatment, 5 days of radiation, 2 rounds of chemo, pain meds - yeah, you could buy a small country with the funds I spend. But that small country wouldn't love you near as much as Miss Mollie loved me. I wholeheartedly recommend you spend all the money you have on your beloved pet. You'll sleep better, knowing you took special care of a living thing that was entrusted in your care.

Knowing It Was Time

The hardest part for me, during this very first time of having to let go a loved one, was to know without a shadow of a doubt that it was time - and not wait for things to normalize when they never would. Everyone said I'd know. They were right. I will spare you the gruesome details, though they serve as a creepy comfort to me in those moments when I miss her so painfully. I shall never wish to see her again in that way.

Taking Charge

At the end, it helped me to be in control where I could. I made the call that it was time to let go. My friend Deb drove down from Virginia to be with me. No turning back now - there would be no more pain for Miss Mollie. I made the "after life decisions" - didn't want to wait until the vets office, where it would be impossible to make a decision.

I visualized how I wanted things to go in "the room." And when we were let in, I took charge. I put Deb's bag and the carrier on the floor, and sat down on the bench, taking Mollie into my arms. The vet was kind enough not to take her away from me for an exam. He administered the sedative while I was holding her. She drifted into relaxation in my arms.

I had decided to prepay, so when it was time, we could just walk out and not talk to the staff.

Leaving her there on the table was impossibly difficult. My sweet girl, gone from this world. My heart is broken and empty, and from what others tell me, it will always feel that way.

After that we went straight to the Humane Society of Greensboro to donate 20 cans of food I had hoped she would one day eat, plus her left-over meds, two e-collars, and a pill-dispenser. The lady was so gracious. They have a "Fill the Bowl" program that provides food for seniors who (they know) are feeding their meals on wheels to their pets. She guessed why I was there, and then got teary when I lost it. There's a special bond between cat lovers. And I like it.

So that's my take on letting go. And here's to never having to do it again ;-)