Pancreatic Cancer Part 8: Never a Happy Day: Preparing to Bury Our Beloved

Our world turned upside down on May 19, when a physician’s assistant silently walked into an examining room, handed Peggy the results of an MRI which contained the words “probable metastatic process,” and walked out. That day marked the end of either of us being happy for more than minutes at a time. Ours is such a hard way to live that I've often had the thought that there probably aren’t many ways that are harder. 

Then, two weeks ago, things got harder when our fifteen-year-old tabby, Brewsky (the big cat in the photos), was diagnosed with stage two kidney failure. Before adopting him, Peggy so hated cats that she had nightmares of being pursued by unstoppable cat demons. Then our little black schnauzer died, and Peggy surprised me by suggesting that we visit the pound the very next day to look for a new dog. When the pound had nothing that suited us, Peggy surprised me a second time by saying. “Let’s visit the cattery.” Six-month-old Brewsky was the first cat we saw, and Peggy had no interest in seeing see another. Her nightmares of cats never returned.

August 6, marked fourteen years and six months that Brewsky has spent every day of his life under this roof. Peggy was working evenings when he moved-in, and while she was at the hospital, he would often scare the wits out of me, dog person that I was, by yowling and running circuits through the house, a practice that he continued until recently. He was also so troublesome as an adolescent that he would stare me in the eye while doing things I had just told for the fortieth time not to do. This always resulted in him running through the house in apparent terror while I chased him while cursing and slapping furniture with a yard stick.  

Despite doing everything that I could do short of violence, his disobedience continued. Then came the night that he suddenly stopped running, rolled onto his back, and looked me in the eye as if to ask, “What are you going to do now, Mr. Bad Man, beat me to death with your yardstick?” “You bastard, I never scared you for a moment did I?” I said as I dropped the stick and lay on the floor to pet him. Thus began a nightly ritual that continued for many months until he lost interest. 

Brewsky soon matured into a mellow and confident 15-pounder who has since foster parented four other kittens, one of whom he has literally “nursed” since 2015. He has also, at times, served as a parent to the humans of the household, which might be why, after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, Peggy said to him and him alone, “Brewsky, you’ve got to help me beat this thing.” Two weeks ago, we took him to the vet with what we thought was a simple respiratory infection and were told that he also had stage two kidney failure. After telling the vet of her own illness, bald-headed Peggy, said, “You’ve got to save my cat; I need my cat to survive.” Since then, Brewsky has stopped bathing, vomited blood, become incontinent, and stopped eating or drinking. 

Tomorrow, we’ll take him to the vet for what might be his last visit. I started digging his grave yesterday but had to stop because every shovelful was harder than a day’s work. The only good thing I can say about losing Brewsky is that neither Peggy nor I will have to grieve alone, as will happen when she and our other cats die, assuming, of course, that I don’t die first. As much as she would hate to lose me, Peggy wouldn’t choose to die in my place, as I would for her. That’s how nature intended for husbands and wives to behave, and I’m very sorry that I can’t let nature have its way. 

When Peggy is gone, I will have no one to share my days with; no bald head to kiss; no one to call beautiful; no one to share meals and music with; no one to watch old movies and TV shows with; no one to hold me in bed when I cry; and no one with whom to share decades of memories. People might bring food, tell me how sorry they are for my loss, and ask what they can do, but I can hardly ask for the thing I need most, which is for someone to stay with me indefinitely, to listen to my memories of 54 years of marriage, and to hold me in bed when my heart is breaking. I can’t think of a single person who would do that. This makes the other things that people do seem scripted, as though they are playing a role that says, “You can go close but not too close.”

When Brewsky dies, mine and Peggy’s spiritual father and the adopted father of our other cats’ will be gone for all time, and the nightmare that we are already facing will be many times more painful. And to think that we got cats in the belief that we wouldn’t suffer much when they died, the way we had with dogs.