The last few days were really, really bad. Losing Finn by itself would be hard for anyone, but the circumstances in and around that loss made it far worse.
First off, not that there is such a thing as good timing to lose a pet, but it feels like we've been the stars in a shit show all around us. Simon has some serious problems at school, while work has been extra (and needlessly) stressful. The sudden and huge decline in the stock market has been freaking me out, and the continued assault on human rights is disturbing. So the baseline for life was already a fraught place.
Sunday was like any other day. I remember Finn squirming around on the patio in the sun while watching birds do bird things. Monday he barfed up clear stuff with a weird coughing fit. He and Poe have both done this from the start, and we've always speculated that it was allergies, but Diana was concerned because it wasn't like the usual thing. Tuesday morning she took him in, and after an X-ray, the doctor was surprised to see fluid in his lungs. He believed that he was looking at hypertrophic cardiomyopathy (HCM), because he could see some thickening in the walls of his heart. It's a common condition in cats, especially in a handful of breeds. He drained the fluid, but was surprised that he didn't immediately feel better, as he described it being almost like a light switch. The doctor had labs sent out and a cardiologist consult, but he didn't think the HCM was enough to cause him to struggle.
We brought Finn home, and he spent most of the day chilling in his basket, as I would expect given the ordeal with a giant needle. He walked around the house a few times, but didn't eat or drink. We brought him upstairs at bedtime, and he got cozy on the end of the bed. The next morning, Wednesday, he was laying down next to the water fountain in our bathroom. I watched him during my shower to see if he would drink, and I didn't see it. We took him back to the doctor, who found him to be breathing normally, and an X-ray showed his chest was still clear. Finn's lethargy didn't add up. They kept him there to give him fluids and oxygen, and we went back home, honestly not really thinking much of it. They would call later and I would pick him up, after Diana went to work.
The call wasn't good. The labs showed a high concentration of proteins in that fluid they took out, which tends to be a sure diagnosis that he had feline infectious peritonitis (FIP). It's a cat coronavirus that's often passed from the parent, so it's possible that he always had it. Certain mutations in it can be deadly, and sometimes it can be treated, but not this time. It was killing him quickly. The doctor said that we were out of options. I called Diana at work, and it hit me that we were going to have to say goodbye to him.
Simon just turned 15, and while we eased him into the deaths of our previous cats, frankly with a lot of time to prepare for each (Emma was nearly 18!), Diana correctly decided that we should just be honest with him, and give him a chance to say goodbye. What followed were two of the most difficult hours I've had in a very long time.
I just put it out there... I told him that Finn was very sick, and didn't have much longer to live. We had to go to the animal hospital to give him some love and our last goodbyes. His reaction was awful, and I've never seen him that upset. He was cycling through the first four stages of grief over and over, while sprinkling in concerns about a test he had to take, going to school and showing us some video game stuff. He's not really an ASD stereotypical rocker or flapper, but that day he was. It was really bad, and there was a time pressure to get to the hospital, where we would meet Diana coming back from work. I'm so tired of seeing my child unhappy or upset.
We spent some quality time with him, though it was horrible seeing him so weak and limp. He would kind of sit up in your arms for a minute, making eye contact, and then kind of melt back into the towel. We spent every dollar we could to help, but it wasn't enough.
When the doctor came in to give him the sedative, Simon lost it to another level. In the moment, since Simon wanted to get out of there, I decided that Finn would be in good hands with his mom, and I'd go to the car with Simon. I didn't want him to be alone. It could have been the reverse, but I guess my thinking at the time was that I couldn't do anything else for Finn, but I could for my kid. I gave Finn one more kiss on the head and a quick rub, and said goodbye.
We were in separate cars, so Diana was about 30 minutes behind me (she stopped to get Simon McDonald's). There were a lot of feelings, but I unlocked some stuff on Simon's phone that we were blocking because of grades, and that served as a much needed distraction. Once we got home, I retreated to our room and finally let myself have a good cry. Sometimes being a parent, you don't have time to feel.
I'm stuck in the anger stage of grief. It wasn't fair to Finn to get so little time. It wasn't fair to us. Usually you know it's coming and have time to prepare. And now he isn't all of the places that I expect to see him... on the table behind the couch, flopping at my feet after a shower, at the end of the bed, and there are only two food bowls.
It's hard to know or even understand how an animal thinks and feels, but somehow you can tell when you're with one that is a "gentle soul," for lack of a better term. And I worry about Poe, who doesn't know a life without his spooning and grooming partner. It's gonna take awhile for all of us.
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