Furry Comfort

Although “cancer” is no longer automatically synonymous with “hopelessness,” it still seems to embody a similar threat. A lot of people tend to shy away from facing humanity’s predestined end station in life as much as they prefer to avoid the very idea of “cancer.”

Somehow, the same fears keeping them from coming to grips with the fact that none of us will live forever also cause them to ignore the possibility of becoming a “cancer victim.”

Victim?—That label alone implies illness, helplessness, powerlessness, and even hopelessness—all connotations we would rather not embrace.

No one anticipates getting cancer. The word itself carries such dread that most people feel even uncomfortable saying it. But as it happens in life, some things miss us and others catch us—and then it is up to us to deal with it.

Just as we are all individuals, every one of us is challenged in a unique way to find the light of the end of any dark tunnel we may have to enter against our wishes—and in spite of our well-designed planning. In my own case, a scrappy white cat turned out to be an unexpected fur ball of comfort for me.

When our family rescued “Missy” from an adoption cage at our veterinary clinic, we didn’t know much about her. However, as she grew from a scrawny, white kitten into a big, long-haired beauty, we soon learned that she marched to a different drummer.

Although she got along well with our other two felines and our dog, a Golden Retriever, she remained a bit reticent in her interactions with humans.

“Prissy Missy” quickly became “my” cat. For some reason she let me handle her in ways that no one else would even dare to attempt. One day, when she hung loosely from my arm as I carried her into another room, my son commented: “I can’t believe you can actually get away with dangling her like that.”

I grinned. “I’m the only one who can.”

How true this was became quite clear in an unfortunate incident that occurred when I had to take Missy for a checkup. As soon as she spotted the carrier case, she ran away and out of sight. Since I had already canceled previous appointments because of a “missing” Missy, I asked a male friend for assistance. He found Missy hiding in an upstairs closet and picked her up. Unfortunately, when she struggled, he held on.

I heard an ear-piercing scream, followed by loud cussing. Seconds later, I saw a big white fluff ball racing down the stairs into the basement and then my friend appeared, grimacing and holding up his hand.

“That darn cat bit me,” he groaned, showing me several puncture marks near his wrist.

 I was mortified. I canceled my vet appointment once again and took my friend to a nearby walk-in clinic, where they gave him a tetanus shot and advised him to watch out for any swelling that may occur.

When his hand began puffing up, I took him to the hospital, where he spent the next few days with an IV in his arm, as the doctors tried to get his infection under control with antibiotics.

After that, we referred to “Prissy Missy” occasionally as the “killer cat.” In addition, we cautioned all outsiders that petting her was a privilege reserved for family members only.

Things changed. The kids moved away and the pets left me one by one. Only Missy kept hanging around. As she grew older, she became more demure, but not necessarily less touchy. However, she seemed to really enjoy our two-some. In the evening, she shared my recliner and watched TV with me. At night, she placed herself right next to my pillow.

She was not only good company but also turned out to be a wonderful support system.

After being diagnosed with breast cancer, I had the related surgery, and then underwent radiation therapy. In the midst of all this, my elderly mother’s health began to fail. A trip back home to Europe was out of the question because of my ongoing medical treatment. I could only hope that Mom would at least hold on long enough for me to hug her goodbye.

Missy was my steady companion, but her age was beginning to show. At intervals, she had to be put on medication - and I frequently had to clean up after her.  

However, as an old cat she was no longer interested in a lot of activity. She simply curled up next to me when I was resting after my treatments. None of my family members lived nearby and it was not easy to be alone at this time.

I had always loved Missy, but now I saw her as a real blessing. Reaching out to her, touching her, and listening to her gentle mewing and purring gave me tremendous comfort. I no longer thought of her as a “killer cat” or “Prissy Missy.” She was now my “Missy Girl.”

Then, during one of our cozy sessions together, Missy’s breathing felt unsteady to my touch and I noticed that her spine was going up and down in fast, erratic movements.

I rushed Missy to the vet.

The diagnosis? --- Congestive heart failure.

Yes, they could treat it – temporarily – and yes, it would come back.

I was shocked, I felt numb, and then I asked the doctor to give me a few minutes alone. Given the fact that Missy was going on 18, I finally decided not to put both of us through a lot more misery—just to gain a little time.

I stroked her lush white fur and held her green gaze. And then, in a strange, surrealistic kind of way, it was all over. I sat there, stunned, and just didn’t get it.

When the vet eventually returned to check on me, I suddenly lost it.

“My sweet kitty is gone,” I cried. “My mother is about to leave me, and I’m in the midst of battling cancer.”

After the doctor handed me a tissue box, I took a couple of deep breaths, wiped my eyes, and blew my nose. I released a shaky sigh. “I’m so sorry for dumping all this on you.”

The lady offered some consoling words - and then I strolled out to my car – alone - without my beloved Missy. I had not felt this forlorn in a long, long time.

Driving home, I tried hard not to think about what may be waiting for me on my answering machine. There was no dreaded message that evening. However, my sister called a few days later to inform me that our mother was gone.  

That’s when I also received a very caring note from the vet in the mail and I really appreciated her kind thoughts.

I feel well again and try to stay positive. My grief has been replaced by bittersweet feelings along that cliché of “better to have lost and lost than never have loved.”

However, that doesn’t stop me from still reaching across my pillow once in a great while to whisper into the dark, “Missy Girl, I miss you!”