Despite the fact that Radar has shown few signs of discomfort, the reality of his condition set in two nights ago, when I noticed a vile black fluid trickling fron his mouth. It smelt of death. The tumor that has been growing beneath his jaw has taken over his cheek and the inside of his mouth, and has ruptured. He must be in so much pain. I feel as though he has continued to be strong for me. Last night, though, as I was petting him, he crawled up onto me and looked at me. He seemed to be saying, "Don't let me die. Help me across the veil."
I have been corresponding with a veterinarian in the area who does house calls and in-home euthanasia. She seems to truly be a good soul, and someone who "gets it." Today, I called her to schedule Radar's final appointment. This coming Tuesday, Doctor Molly will come to our home, ease Radar's passing, and leave with his remains. We will get his ashes back, and I'm planning to make some pendants containing some of his ashes to keep and give to Matt and my mother. My mother took care of him while I was unable to have pets where I lived, and regardless of the issues between her and I, she deserves to have the ashes. She kindly agreed to pay for the euthanasia and cremation. She's distraught. Radar and her cat, Buster, bonded when Radar stayed there, and Buster hasn't been the same since Radar left. My mother says that Buster has been acting out especially badly the last few days, as if he knows Radar is about to die. Buster acted in a similar way just before my grandfather's death several years ago.
I've explained this before, but I'll tell the story again, because it bears repeating. Last year, around this time, doctors found suspicious masses in Matt's parotid gland. Radar's first tumor appeared at around the same time. I prayed, "If there must be cancer in this household, let it be the cat and not my husband." My prayers were answered, and so, I cannot be bitter. Matt has a scar and a clean bill of health, but Radar will be leaving us. I scheduled the appointment so that Matt can be with me when Radar passes. He loves my kitty, too. I always said I knew the relationship would last when Matt let me move my cat into the house.
Radar has been with me for six years, lived in at least four different places with me and in three different states. He flew all the way across the country with me when I left Portland to go back to Ohio. I've told all of these stories before, but repeating them helps me to comfort myself, and to remind myself that Radar's life, though short, has been full and happy. Ever since I took him home from Forgotten Felines, a shelter in Seattle (donations suggested), he's been a source of joy for me and for all who've met him. I've never had a cat quite like Radar. His antics in our household will be sorely missed. I will no longer wake up in the morning to find cat toys, socks, blankets, and anything else Radar could carry lined up in front of my bedroom door. I will not hear his soft, mournful, muffled meows as he carries his toys around the house in his mouth, looking for his human parents. (He did this especially often when Matt was out-of-town for work.) We will not be greeted with his rumbling purr and squeaky meow when I come home. His physical presence will be sorely missed, but I know that he will always be with us.
(This is the first photo I ever took of Radar, in the apartment where I lived in Seattle. He was scared and hid in the tub.)
I'm grateful for the fact that I've found Doctor Molly from City Paws Home Health to make his transition as dignified, peaceful and comfortable as possible. Radar hates leaving our home, let alone going to the vet. I'm grateful for a healthy, cancer-free Matt, because he loves Radar and he loves me, and he understands how hard this is. He has been nothing but supportive every step of the way. I'm grateful that we did not end up moving out when we were meant to. If that apartment we were looking at hadn't fallen through, we would have been moving this weekend. I'm grateful for the timing, because I don't think I would be able to handle moving and watching Radar decline on the cusp of the holiday season. I'm grateful that my mother is making this possible now instead of having to wait and save up. I'm grateful that I have had good years with my kitty, and that he has only recently begun to show signs of decline. I'm grateful for my friends who empathise with me, and understand that, to me, this is like losing a child.
I will deal with Radar's death as I do any death. I will allow myself to mourn my own loss, the absence of his physical presence in my life, but I will not mourn for Radar, because I know he will be fine. I know I will see him again someday if I want to.
I know that I am doing the right thing, but I still feel as if I need reassurance. He's still not acting sick. What if I'm doing it too soon? What if I'm cheating him out of a few more weeks because I can't deal with him getting sicker? I answer this question by asking another one: if it were me, and I had the choice, would I want to be spared undue suffering from a terminal illness? Would I want to put my loved ones through seeing me decline? I would not. Radar may not be human, but my feeling on the matter is no different.
As terrible as this sounds, part of me still hopes he will pass quietly in his sleep, and we will find him curled up in eternal slumber before the euthanasia can take place. I guess part of me still does not want the responsibility of taking his life. But then I remember something taught to me by my spirit guides before I even knew thier names. In cases like this, life is like a flower in bloom that falls from the tree. It has not died, it has been given back to life. And that is what I will be doing on Tuesday. I will be giving Radar back, with deep thanks, and memories to keep forever.
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