When being a cat mom f**** sucks.
Hi. Remember me? It’s been awhile. When I started this blog way back in 2012, I wasn’t a grumpy old lady yet. I had baby kitties.
You know what happens to baby kitties? THEY GROW UP. At a stupidly faster rate than we do.
And that’s why now, I’m having a shitshow of a meltdown because my eldest, my good son, my love, my Mooshbear…has cancer. Not fixable cancer. Big mass cancer, the kind that might have been there 6 months ago on an x-ray but wasn’t really all that clear so we were just going to see what happens because I didn’t want to front the money for an ultrasound at the time (which I am now feeling extraordinary guilt for). Then through a series of me attributing signs to other things, like he hates the taste of the anti-nausea pill that I put in his food, and subsequently not trusting food, and having already been a picky eater, I didn’t see this coming.
I thought he would always be fixable. He’s too young. Yes, he’s a “senior” cat but he’s not that goddamn senior.
He’s on steroids to see if we can squeeze out some quality of life. My heart breaks everytime I have to force a pill down his throat. And I’m exhausted with constant analyzing of “Am I torturing him by keeping him alive?”
I can’t give up on him but I owe him a good ending. Even if an ending is the worst possible thing for me.
I hate it. I love him. He’s been nothing but light and goodness in my life. I can look through the years of this blog and see just how much he has and always will mean to me. He’s our Momo. My work supervisor. Fuck death, really. Fuck it straight to hell.
There are no words that can make this better or any easier. Just keep following your heart and trusting your gut. And love your baby with all you’ve got. Sending you strength and love, sister.