Pet Doula in Action: When Your Own Animal Is the One in Trouble
GENTLE NOTICE: This story involves a sudden medical crisis with my cat and reflections on death.
When I saw Monkee, my one year old kitten, having a seizure on my back deck … or more accurately, when I realised he wasn’t playing, but that something was very wrong, a terror washed over me. To witness him in such distress - growling, hissing and arcing up … and then later fighting and ripping into my arm as I tried to put him in his carrier, was heartbreaking and alarming.
Despite the internal terror, I slipped into “doing” - place him in the carrier and secure him … close the back door and all my windows while calling ahead to the vet to alert them to our arrival … pick up the carrier and place him in the front seat … secure the house … drive to the vet. I was very meticulous and methodical, placing one foot in front of the other, moving onto the next logical step, even though I was screaming inside. On the way to the vet Monkee was the human version of hysterical … hissing, growling, pacing and very heavy panting. I could feel my fear and anxiety rise, but I had no choice but to keep everything together.
Standing at the reception counter at the vet, it was all systems go. Despite my protestations at not being permitted into ICU to be with Monkee, he was taken from me and I was left sitting in a room filled with strangers, with only my thoughts for company. My mind dialled back to my beautiful Razzie, my first soul-creature cat. She took a bad turn and from the time I heard her cries to the time I had to make the call to have her euthanised, was less than two hours. That was 12 years ago and I was transported back there in an instant and wondered if I’d be taking Monkee’s lifeless body home with me. Then my thoughts switched to my Cheeks - her death experience very different and very difficult, and something that left me in a deep and dark pit for nearly a year, just a short two and a half years ago. Surely it would be too cruel to lose Monkee, my beautiful foster fail.
Eventually an emergency vet brought me into an empty examination room to run through what had happened. He took the details, disappeared behind a closed door to brief the team and said another vet would come shortly. After a wait, a different vet arrived carrying Monkee in his carrier. She delivered a rapid stream of information. It was a lot to absorb. It was agreed that my boy would spend 24 hours in ICU, under observation, as well as agreement to a battery of blood tests. The vet left me alone with Monkee to prepare a quote. Looking into his eyes, I wondered if I’d see him alive again. She came back with numbers, and of course, yes - there was no way that I was taking him home after what just happened. The vet then broached a subject that I wasn’t expecting, but had thought about in detail at other points in time. DNR. DO. NOT. RESUSITATE. The question was necessary and jarring and felt like a violation. But of course, I had to make a call … one of those difficult and necessary conversations that are spoken about so often at my Death Cafes. I gave her my answer and left my boy in their care.
I drove home feeling empty and lost, with all the past death trauma unearthed and in the spotlight.
And then it started. The hoping. The bargaining. The pleading.
“Please don’t let Monkee die.”
“Please make him better.”
“Please let him be okay.”
And who was I even asking?
The grappling. The grasping. The drowning.
Then a calm washed over me and a message dropped in. It’s happened many times before - the message is a melange of feelings, words and a knowing. And the message went something like this:
“You can’t stop what’s coming for Monkee - if he’s meant to die, he will die. You can’t pray a way out of this with your deities. If hope and prayer worked, Razzie and Cheeks would’ve survived. The desperation of hope keeps you grasping and clawing. It takes you outside of yourself and away from your connection with Monkee. Instead of hoping that he won’t die, just love him. Love him hard. So if it is his time to die, he will die drunk on your love. And if he lives, he will be cloaked in your love. Just love him.”
That was the end of the transmission and I felt all the fear and panic drop away. I understood with every cell of my being that I couldn’t alter the outcome, but I sure could love Monkee hard.
Monkee spent his 24 hours in ICU, seizure-free and all blood test coming back clear. A mystery seizure. I bought him home and he fell asleep on the cool tiles of the verandah on a 37 degree, Sydney afternoon. I joined him there and watched him sleeping. Such a beautiful and sweet boy. He’s the kindest, most gentle and hilarious kitten who brings joy and laughter into my everyday.
By default, my mind jumped on the conveyor belt of hoping and wishing that he will be okay, and that the seizure was an anomaly, one-off event. I could feel my anxiety rising and the grappling commence. Of course, I wish all these things, but then a calmness washed over me and I started streaming love.
“Just love him, Angela.”
And as I come to the end of this writing, my fragile little Monkee is snoozing.
