Moose napping with his belly shaved for the ultra-sound.
Less than a month's worth of time, but it seemed agonizingly slow as we waited for test results and consulted with the vet about treatment options and decided what we could afford to do for him as well as what would be best for our sweet Moose. And then suddenly time sped up and flew by heartbreakingly fast from the day we started treatment to the day he died.
The cancer was found only in his small intestines when he was diagnosed, it had not metastasized, so there was a good chance that treatment would help... but it must have suddenly spread like wildfire. He's at peace now, but I am so sad and angry about the cancer. I still have all of his medication, I haven't been able to throw it away. At times I want to spread all the medicine out on the ground and bash it all with a rock-- because its proof of the cancer and because it didn't help. And yet I can't destroy it or get rid of it yet because its one of the few, solid, tangible links with my sweet boy that I still have left.
It has been a week today since our sweet boy died. Today the husband and I picked up Moose's ashes at the vet and brought our boy back home. We both cried at the thought of our big, fat, fluffy, sweet, gentle boy being reduced to the contents of that small box.
Moose on his last day. We carried him outside and for a while he enjoyed
sunshine and good smells in the air with me on our patio.
And where was my spiritual path in all this? I found I couldn't pray beyond Please let him be okay and then please let us be doing the right thing for him and then please don't let him be in pain and finally reduced to please, please, please...
Magic? Healing spells? I'd done them in the past for our calico Claire, and have always been convinced they helped, but I couldn't even think where to begin and even debated whether or not it would be appropriate to do for Moose. Part of it was that my brain just kept rejecting that my sweet Moose, so healthy his entire life, never once sick, who I thought was going to live until he was an old man of 19 or 20 years, could suddenly have something as bad as cancer. Did I fail him or was it just his time? Does it even matter anymore?
I know everyone and everything has to die at some point in time. Strangely, that thought is a comfort to me. But it doesn't stop me from missing the sight of his sweet face peeking out the hallway door when I come home after work; it doesn't fill the empty space at the foot of the bed at night where he's no longer there, leaning against my feet. Right now, this is still too new and too raw. And cancer sucks.