I've made a small promise to myself (and shared it here) that I would not be complaining as Oswald's process continues to a destination. And I won't. Every second has been such a blessing, such happiness, actually...
As an intellectual concept, I resist the idea of approaching a disease like cancer as a "battle". That's because, at least in part, I'm a pessimist/realist. My limited personal knowledge of cancer is that it has a mind of it's own. It goes where it's decided to go, and the damage is just what cancer calls life.
Oswald's vet visits have trended toward good news for weeks. So when he suddenly changed, over the last couple of days, and stopped eating this morning, there was and remains a sense of dread. And defeat. As in a feeling of losing the battle.
We tried to crack his mouth for a look. This animal lived with us for eighteen years and he's shared a remarkable docile nature. He would not bite or scratch under any circumstances. And when we gave him his medicine he did not like it, but he accepted it. This morning he fought our attentions, and when his muzzle opened I saw a horrible purple-blackness at the front of his already-altered tongue...
Lynda is Vernon-bound tomorrow. We talked. The pain is as real as these sub-zero temperatures. The grief too. She will take him to the vet this morning before she goes to work. And we will wait for the vet's news. I understand better now the notion of fighting back against time and illness, because I've fought on a few fronts this last week. We've done everything we can, exhausted every effort, and all the while kept our eyes fixed closely on this beloved companion, straining to know what is right for him. It's draining and somehow satisfying and like everything else in life, reduced to this moment. And then this one. And this one...
No comments:
Post a Comment