Salamander
Fire Walking

The day is always coming. It’s something I always know about friends, family, the innocents and soldiers alike in war zones declared and undeclared. I know it about the politicians I vilify, the writers I adore, and the nameless drivers I pass while driving to and from work every day. I know it about the red tailed hawk circling in an ascending spiral as I watch out my northern window. I know it about the potted ponytail palm that I purchased on a whim when I was a junior in college back in 1976 that now sits on a table on my deck. I knew it fifteen years ago, when I made my first post introducing Selkie.

Two weeks ago I learned that Selkie probably has lymphoma of the small intestine. We’ve ruled out every other reasonable diagnosis and the symptoms and test results we have are textbook lymphoma. I have elected not to get a definitive diagnosis; this would require abdominal surgery that would take weeks to recover from and I am unwilling to obtain a definitive diagnosis when it would not change the treatment I’d opt to follow. I am further unwilling to opt for surgery that would cause Selkie pain during what might be some of her last good weeks. At fifteen years of age, Selkie has earned every last good day I can figure out how to give her.

This is not to say I’ve given up on her. We’ve added weekly shots of cyanocobalamin (Vitamin B-12) to her list of medications as well as a medication called chlorambucil (Leukeran), which is a chemotherapeutic drug related to mustard gas. None of this is a cure, but some studies suggest that doing this as well as giving prednisolone (which Selkie has already been on for years for her Feline Triad Syndrome) can give up to two or more good years of life. If she responds to this, then it’s worth trying, If she doesn’t, I’ll take her off the chorambucil and continue palliative treatment for as long as it seems to help.

As I was writing this, she came through the room mewing pitifully. I thought something was wrong until I saw she was holding a sparkly fuzzy blue cat toy in her mouth. She has not done that for years. I find myself reluctantly entering the bittersweet realm of “Is This the Last Time I’ll Ever See This?”. As the weeks go on, if she continues to respond, I can return to my safe little world of cognitive dissonance. The day is always coming, but I do not want that black fact to fade the color that I have now.