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Jul. 20th, 2002 03:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
enteleinShe's gone.
Gromit T.C. Wells
Born July 3rd, 1998
Brought to rest July 20th, 2002
The first stage was a tranquilizer, a barbituate that coursed and ebbed along her limbs and seemed to relax her spine, make her neck as heavy as if it had been sandbagged with slender lead weights. As she trembled slightly, trying to stand out of the carrier (we'd lifted the top off of it so that the vet could get in to administer the shot directly into a muscle), her oh-so-heavy neck lolled over the edge of the carrier opening. We lifted out the towel that she'd pushed aside during the car ride, and spread it on the stainless table. I lifted her, my baby kitty, and I helped arrange her body for her on the softer surface, as she wasn't able to do it herself. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated by the drug. This was it. I had closed my eyes and put my hands over my face as I sobbed, because there was no going back once she'd been sedated.
She looked very pretty, actually, completely relaxed there, the cancerous side of her face turned away from me, her eye shining and dilated, and yet there was that occasional trembling, the curiosity in her that hurt me: she was scared. She didn't know what was happening to her. Her other eye, the one swollen shut by the cancer, it teared up, there was a smear of blood on the towel. I pet her and told her I loved her, a million times, a thousand times, one time, clearly.
They came back in for the second shot. My mom came along for support today, because she'd helped to give life to this Gromit cat when she was first born, taking feeding duty during the day when I had to go work at the cafe, handing her off to me so I could drive home and stay up the whole night with her, bottle feeding her, cleaning her. My mom, who knows a bit more about this kind of grief, ushered us right on out of the room for the death shot, saying that we didn't need to be there for that.
The last thing I saw of my Gromie was her clear eye, so beautiful, so dilated, afraid, drugged, her fur shining and smoothed by the extra-long brushing I'd given her last night. At first I didn't care whether I saw the final moment or not, and then I figured it didn't matter, but now I am glad that for now, a part of her lives on in my head, her breath rising and falling in her emaciated body, her paws twitching, the cancer that never got to really beat her at her game.
I'm grieving, big time. Coming home felt weird, and still does feel weird. We threw away the carrier when we got home - the inside of it had bloody smudge marks from her face, and I just didn't want to deal with that any more, the smell, the grief, the sense of creeping death.
I'm relieved. I hurt. I wish it had been different, but sometimes, it is what it is, and as unfair as it may seem, it is what it is. You know?
The doctor remembered us from when we brought her in for the biopsy in December of 2001. As he leaned up from checking her over, I managed to croak out, "You've always been really good with her." He's no older than me, I hardly doubt, maybe a year or two. The compassion in his face was astounding, and he said, "Thank you."
The T.C. in her name was unofficial, it was Scott's way of calling her Gromit The Cat Wells.
Bye, Grom. You were so cool.
Gromit T.C. Wells
Born July 3rd, 1998
Brought to rest July 20th, 2002
The first stage was a tranquilizer, a barbituate that coursed and ebbed along her limbs and seemed to relax her spine, make her neck as heavy as if it had been sandbagged with slender lead weights. As she trembled slightly, trying to stand out of the carrier (we'd lifted the top off of it so that the vet could get in to administer the shot directly into a muscle), her oh-so-heavy neck lolled over the edge of the carrier opening. We lifted out the towel that she'd pushed aside during the car ride, and spread it on the stainless table. I lifted her, my baby kitty, and I helped arrange her body for her on the softer surface, as she wasn't able to do it herself. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated by the drug. This was it. I had closed my eyes and put my hands over my face as I sobbed, because there was no going back once she'd been sedated.
She looked very pretty, actually, completely relaxed there, the cancerous side of her face turned away from me, her eye shining and dilated, and yet there was that occasional trembling, the curiosity in her that hurt me: she was scared. She didn't know what was happening to her. Her other eye, the one swollen shut by the cancer, it teared up, there was a smear of blood on the towel. I pet her and told her I loved her, a million times, a thousand times, one time, clearly.
They came back in for the second shot. My mom came along for support today, because she'd helped to give life to this Gromit cat when she was first born, taking feeding duty during the day when I had to go work at the cafe, handing her off to me so I could drive home and stay up the whole night with her, bottle feeding her, cleaning her. My mom, who knows a bit more about this kind of grief, ushered us right on out of the room for the death shot, saying that we didn't need to be there for that.
The last thing I saw of my Gromie was her clear eye, so beautiful, so dilated, afraid, drugged, her fur shining and smoothed by the extra-long brushing I'd given her last night. At first I didn't care whether I saw the final moment or not, and then I figured it didn't matter, but now I am glad that for now, a part of her lives on in my head, her breath rising and falling in her emaciated body, her paws twitching, the cancer that never got to really beat her at her game.
I'm grieving, big time. Coming home felt weird, and still does feel weird. We threw away the carrier when we got home - the inside of it had bloody smudge marks from her face, and I just didn't want to deal with that any more, the smell, the grief, the sense of creeping death.
I'm relieved. I hurt. I wish it had been different, but sometimes, it is what it is, and as unfair as it may seem, it is what it is. You know?
The doctor remembered us from when we brought her in for the biopsy in December of 2001. As he leaned up from checking her over, I managed to croak out, "You've always been really good with her." He's no older than me, I hardly doubt, maybe a year or two. The compassion in his face was astounding, and he said, "Thank you."
The T.C. in her name was unofficial, it was Scott's way of calling her Gromit The Cat Wells.
Bye, Grom. You were so cool.
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no subject
Date: 2002-07-20 08:53 pm (UTC)You're so right. It is what it is. But it doesn't hurt any less.