I write this tonight from my blue couch, with a small beige kitty resting as comfortably as he can next to me. This is an exciting and precious moment, as Koko has not been willing to sit on the couch for some time – not since the couch became the Place Where All Manner of Junk is Stuffed in His Mouth. He’s had innumerable pills and syringes popped into his little face on the couch, including four-times daily feedings. Naturally one begins to develop an aversion to the location, no matter how comfy, where crap is constantly forced into your esophagus.
But those days are mostly over and my little guy is up here, dozing a little and, I think, enjoying being near me again. As his condition has worsened, some of the palliative care I’ve been providing has become ineffective or unnecessary, so we’ve been able to forgo a lot of the most unpleasant of our daily routines, such as the Bitter Pill of Emeticus, the Oh-God-Is-That-An-Air-Bubble? Thrice Daily Injections, and most of the More On Me Than In Him Syringe Feedings. The great news is that removing some of things things from our routine, and removing the stress involved in administering and receiving them, has allowed us all to relax a little more and even given Biscuit back his appetite.
He’s eating on his own several times a day, and the sight of him bent over his food dish, hungrily and happily making an huge mess out of meat by-products and pseudo-gravy is one of the most joyful things I have experienced in my life. It is a pleasure I quite honestly did not expect to see again.
But despite these small joys, my days are long and sad. I fight depression and despair at almost every turn, and struggle to find distractions.