All I Could Do

I lost one of my cats of 13 years in January. His name was Colonel Sanders. One day he was fine, the next he was vomiting all the time but not eating. It turned out he had inoperable liver cancer. They couldn’t remove it. All I could do was give him medicine to help ease the pain and give him the best remaining days I could. Exactly a week after noticing him not at his best, I had to put him down. The vet said it was the right time and I did everything I could for him, but it tears my heart open even still.

I was a wreck that whole week. The news from the vets and then specialists kept getting progressively worse, up until the day I had to say goodbye. I couldn’t eat, I didn’t go to work, my friends came over to make sure I could get at least something down, I cuddled him and never stopped telling him how much I loved him. I don’t think I’ve ever cried that much. At the end, I’m not sure I even had any tears left.

I have had pets in the past that have been put down, but I was never there for it; I had to hear second-hand through my parents. I always regretted not being there for my pets, so I made a point to go in with Colonel. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make and one of the worst days of my life so far. I held him after he was given the medicine that puts him out, petting him and feeling the weight of his head getting heavier in my arms. I just kept repeating “You are so loved.” I couldn’t breathe. I kissed him goodbye before they took him into the back room and I don’t think I’ve been the same since.

I feel like a wound, only lightly scabbed over. Anything that brushes up against me in a certain way can open the flood gates. Sometimes I pass by the beautiful box his ashes are in and I just fall apart. My friends have been super supportive and Sarge (Colonel’s brother) is holding me together. I feel like I have to be strong for him. I have to take care of him. We depend on each other now, and give him all the love I can.

A part of me wonders if I could’ve caught Colonel’s cancer sooner. He had always thrown up a lot, more so than just hairballs. I wonder if, had I brought him in earlier to check for that, it could’ve been treated. Thinking this sends me into a spiral of regrets and depression, so I try not to go down that path. My mom says it’s part of being a parent. My friend says that it’s no use to play the “what if” game, because maybe they would’ve caught it, but maybe he would’ve had to endure chemo for years. He wouldn’t have lived the (I hope) happy, comfortable life that I gave him for as long as he did.

Hope is all I can do at this point. I hope he was happy. I hope he knew just how much I loved him. He had 13 years to make such a deep impression on my heart and that can never go away.