Insulin and Cloudy Eyes

2/4/10 Detail Free Write

He got up slowly and creeped down the exotic-print comforter to the foot of the bed. I watched him, having put my Fruits Basket graphic novel aside. He looked over the cold black railing to the wooden dresser only a foot's drop down, usually an easy jump that allowed him access to the window ledge and hence the lower dresser on the adjacent wall. He looked over that railing and sunk back into an awkward laying position. It would be too strenuous, too painful to make that jump and the following trip to his final destination.

I wrestled my way from under the covers and to the floor from the top bunk, knowing exacly what Zena, my eight-year-old tortoise shell cat wanted. I'd had him since he was a kitten, after all. I carefully picked him up and took him to the back bathroom where the dusty blue and light grey litterbox was and set him in it. I sat on the lid of the toilet with its light blue terrycloth cover. He took his time and left just a quarter-sized dark mark on the sand, painstakingly buried it and slowly made his way toward the door, just three feet away.

He gave up before he made it and all but collapsed against the wall. He looked up at me, his once curious yellow-green eyes cloudy and dispondant, and I realized without realizing that his time was at an end.

It had started with a sluggishness, a lack of urination, a lack of interest in food. We had taken him to the vet and they told us he had diabetes and would need two shots of insulin a day. We said okay, got set up and educated for it, bought some Karo syrup for emergencies and headed home. And it seemed to do the trick for a few months. Until his eyes started to cloud over. The vet took one look at him and called it cataracts. There were a few other visits for various abnormal behavior.

It was early June, five months later, when the vets finally let us know about their mistake. X-rays revealed his pancreas was completely encased in cancer, casting the illusion of diabetes. All those months, he didn't really need the insulin. All those months, the cells were multipling unchecked. Assumptions prevented a correct diagnosis.

When he looked at me with those cloudy eyes, I realized without realizing and it made me desperate. I ran to the kitchen for a teaspoon and the Karo syrup and returned to him. I forced his mouth open and made him to swallow a glob of the clearish stuff, making a mess of his fur. I picked him up and held him and called my mother, who was at work.

And I told her that we needed to take him in.

And we didn't bother with the cat carrier. I held him the whole way.

And he shrunk into himself, terrified on the cold metal table when they let us say goodbye.

And the last time I saw him was limp in the arms of the nurse as she took him into the back of the clinic to wherever it is they pile the bodies of euthanized pets that mean nothing to them.

June 14, 2004 was the first time a death affected me. My grandmother died when I was four or five; I don't remember it. My grandfather had passed on a few years later and I didn't shed a tear. Recalling just these few moments of his last day still makes me cry. I can't reread what I've just written without tears rolling down my cheeks.

Cheers,
~Katie