I meant to follow the previous up with a post on my new exciting Stone Age hobbies but I need to post this first.
My darling Spockie has gone. Born around 10/07/06, died 13/07/24, aged 18. He had his 18th birthday a few days previous but after a year long battle against sarcoma, suspected fibrosarcoma, he got too tired and I had to help him pass at 00:30 on 13/07/2024.
And I’m not ok. I’m safe, but I’m not ok.
I noticed a lump on his sternum (breast bone) in summer 2023. Initially I tried to dismiss it as normal older cat boniness as it was very firm so I did my best to believe e it was just a bit of arthritis but after a few weeks I realised it wasn’t innocent and I sampled it. On microscopy I suspected fibrosarcoma, so I referred him to my local referral centre. He had a CT which showed a probable related mass in his lung and possible involvement of his left elbow which had been thickened for a couple of years but had come back on previous samples I’d done as either lipoma and or synovial cyst. They repeated my samples but the mass was not generous and all they could say is that it was some kind of sarcoma on the sternum, with probably spread to the lung and maybe elbow involvement as well. (I suspect now that the elbow was the primary but it defied diagnosis as it caused a synovial cyst which masked the primary tumour). Spock had no signs – the affected elbow was less lame than his other elbow (which was osteoarthritic) and he had no breathing issues.
He had surgery to remove the sternal mass. They couldn’t get margins as it was too close to the rib cage and removing everything would have been too disruptive. He started chemotherapy at the referral. This was metronomic treatment which meant a pattern of thalidomide (I didn’t even know this was anti-cancer) and cyclophosphamide on alternate days. He did well on this until Jan ’24 when I went away for a week and stopped treatment for 10 days. The sternal tumour grew back. Although he restarted treatment it failed to respond over the next weeks so he had one dose of doxyrubicin as stage two chemotherapy. This shrunk the tumour to tiny levels but it grew back aggressively before the next dose was planned, so was classed as a fail. Around his time I also re-x-rayed his chest and the lung mass had grown. I can’t remember the exact timings for all of this but spring ’24 is a good estimate.
He then switched to Palladia which is a new treatment form. Initially he did ok on it for the first 2 weeks then in the second 2 weeks started to decline.
This is where my remembering gets woolly. A period of trying to get him to eat well, appetite stimulates, anti-emetics, NSAIDs, chemo… But it culminated when I took him for a check up on 9th July. He had been off, a little inappetent, a gradual decrease in body weight since Jan. A cat that was 6.5kg at his overweight peak, 5kg at his ideal weight, 3.4kg at diagnosis was 2.8kg and falling. I was struggling to get him to eat well. He ate half a packet of dreamies while waiting for his last apt. Normally he’d eat the contents of a sandwich (ham, the bacon from a BLT, the chicken from a chicken mayo) but they had none that day. His bloods, as ever, looked fine. He did so well with all the interventions.
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Spockie didn’t like going to any vets. At first he was happy going to work with me, but for some reason, can’t think why, when I castrated him at 5 months old he decided he wasn’t so keen on going to work with me. 🤔 The same referral service saw him for diarrhoea when he was 10 or so and it’s the only time I’ve seen someone actually go pale – he’d let them blood sample him, ultrasound him and even get a poop sample from his bum but when she went to go put him in his carrier to go home he’d lost the plot and thrown all the toys out of the pram. She came back palid. I helpfully said in the manner of all bad owners since the start of time ‘oh yeah, sorry. He does that. 😬’ 99% altruistic, 1% psychopathic, that was Spock.
When he was first ill we tried using gabapentin to chill him out a bit but very quickly it became apparent all this did was turn him into a belligerent drunk. He was still cross but his aim was off. Eventually we gave up on gaba and the lovely referral peeps just worked with what they got. And it worked.
It helped that he really liked their sandwiches. £2.50-£3.00 got us a sandwich with meat in and by the time we got seen (can wait a good hour) he’d eaten all the B from a BLT. Fact – an LT sandwich is a useless sandwich, fyi.
He punched a nurse once (not slapped, not scratched – punched. Cats don’t punch.) She still liked him. Initially they had to get all blood samples via cephalic stick, by the end he’d allow jugular stick, which was probably a warning he was waning.
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So we had a checkup at referral 9th July. His referral aunt Filipa was happy with is progress. I smiled and agreed but I think I knew I was not. On 10th July, his 18th birthday I bought him fish and chips and got the last photos and videos of him.
The card is from my niece who loves him dearly. I have a video of him purring obscenely while eating fish that was far too hot for him. I’m so glad I got that.
He declined further over the following days. I stopped the palladia after the apt. I asked my vet friend to come over Saturday afternoon to help me place an iv line (which I ended up aborting as not needed) so I could put him to sleep over the weekend without needing any further needles. As the days progressed I realised he was so tired. I cancelled my work shifts Saturday and Monday as I knew I wouldn’t be ok. Although it screwed them over both sites were supportive and for that alone I love the field I work in and the people I work with. He was spending all of his time either in his hammock (baby bouncer) or on the floor next to it. Eating was an effort.
Late Friday night I called my parents. I showed them how he was as I needed someone else to see how sad and tired he was as I needed to justify calling it a day. At one point while I was FaceTiming them he needed a wee and walked into to the cat litter room but while on FaceTime with my parents he just flopped into his side on the floor, giving up on getting to the litter tray two feet away. He just gave up, he was so tired. I helped him obviously but this collapse helped them to help me to know the time had come to let him go.
I let him settle back on my study chair. Spoke to mum and dad a bit. Then ended the call to spend some time with just me and Spock. I played him his song, which is Remember Me from Coco. I can’t remember what I said to him but I’m sure he knows how much I loved him. He probably thinks I’m over emotional. After playing the song twice I called M+D back and set them up so they could be there and injected him via his kidney. He did raise his head to see what I was doing but swiftly passed peacefully. Spoke to mum and dad a bit more but then ended the call.
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I kept him with me for another 24-36 hrs, in my bed, talking to him and reminiscing, until I needed to put him in the fridge as the bacteria we all live all our lives with that don’t care that life has ended make their prescence felt. Got him out to make a video of all the bits of him I loved – the grey hairs he never had as a youngster, his feet and toe beans, his pretty face I thought was so awkward when he was young – I never understood until now the desire some owners have to record images of their pets after their passing. I thought they were weird. Now I totally get it. While the cats were very much not bothered by Spock being in my bed for a day after passing (they just stepped over him carelessly) Kizzy was mildly perturbed to me removing him from the fridge for the final video. More perturbed I think that he was in the fridge than he had passed. Ironic as he got stuck in the fridge as a baby kitten once because he insisted on trying to eat my smoked salmon so I shut the door. Opened it quickly after to find him unperturbed still eating my salmon.
On 16th July we went out for lunch for Dad’s birthday. A bittersweet affair as Spock was in my car boot and afterwards me and Mum took him to SF, a private crem everyone from Peanut in 2007 onwards has been to. They suit my psyche – a little bit inappropriately juvenile. J, the husband of the family run crem, wanted to title the c&p poems they give with ashes as ‘dear mum’ and I was very much ‘nope!’. I was not Spock’s mum. He was my companion, my heart, my love. He wasn’t my child. Alfie and Trip are my (rather dysfunctional) children. Kizzy is my friend who is trying her utmost to support me after the loss of Spock even though it’s a massive learning curve for her. She’s doing so well though. But Spock wasn’t just my friend and he wasn’t my child. He was my companion, my life partner. And I don’t care how that sounds.
I picked up his ashes on 19th which I did on my own. Mum came up with an idea to put his ashes inside Mini Spock, a cuddly toy she’d got me a year or more ago.
Which I did eventually on 4th August.
It kinda works. He’s a bit … firm. Might need to move some ashes into his head or feet to spread them out. But until then I’m cuddling with him whenever I would have usually cuddled Spock.
I’m not great. I have nights when I cry. I have entire days lost to grief. Kizzy is doing her best to support and I feel like an arse saying that’s not enough. She’s trying so hard. But I just want my Spock back. I feel guilty for putting him down, could I have tried harder? A few more days? I didn’t try steroids, should I have tried steroids? Should I have given him more time off palladia?
My logical brain says that no matter what I did I’d be mourning him now. He was not long for the world and six weeks on it probably doesn’t matter. Better we decided together late one Saturday night it was time than I do it alone. Better he had his Nan and grandad on FaceTime. Better to spare him anything worse.
But I just want my friend back.
