Notes of a Nervous Nurse
(Well, some of you voted for the alliteration.) Having had a near-death
experience following an all-day asthma attack in June of 1992 (I’m thinking
I’ll retell that story in next month’s blog), I can recognize respiratory
distress when I see it. Every year when the pollen comes out, my thirteen-year-old,
rescued Maine coon cat, Schroedinger, and I spend a couple weeks sniffling
and sneezing. (Heisenberg seems to be immune to pollen.) This year, though,
Schroedinger seems to have been hit by more than mere allergies. I became
afraid she was dying.
Sunday, May 11. Schroedinger has had great difficulty breathing for
two or three days and it’s getting worse. A few years ago, Dr. Ridgeway
told me to cut a Benadryl into four pieces and give her one little piece.
But she hates pills. I hold the back of her neck and with a finger push
a pill between her teeth. She struggles and squirms. Spits it out. Hides
it under her tongue and spits it out a minute later. Then foams at the
mouth and fusses and struggles some more. Even when I hold her mouth closed
and stroke her throat and say, “Swallow it. Swallow it,” pretty soon we’re
both covered in pink foam. Not good. I’m calling the animal hospital and
getting an appointment. Thank Bast, they’re open every day.
We have an appointment with one of the other doctors for 5:30. But about
2:00, she’s sitting by an open window and her breathing seems stabilized.
Cancelled the 5:30 appointment. I hope this isn’t a mistake!
Tuesday, May 13. She’s worse than ever. She can hardly breathe, bubbles
are coming out of her nose, drool’s dripping out of her mouth. Her eyes
are so full of gunk she can hardly see. She must have a bit of diarrhea,
too, because she smells awful. She won’t eat or drink. I called the animal
hospital. Appointment this afternoon with a vet I don’t know.
At the hospital. Dr. Ridgeway’s in surgery all day, but when he comes
out for a cup of coffee, I ask him to come see Schroedinger in her carrier
so she’ll at least see a face she recognizes. He does so and comments on
how much she stinks and how awful she looks.
In the exam room, I answer the usual questions, but she’s been coming
here for as long as she’s lived with me (since 2005), so she’s got a pretty
thick file. Then we sit and wait and wait. A doctor I haven’t met before
finally comes in and examines my cat. She says Schroedinger has a tumor
in her eye, she’s got digestive difficulties maybe analogous to gallstones,
and the bleeding is the sign of something serious, maybe liver or kidney
failure. They have to hospitalize her.
They carry her back and leave me in the exam room for I don’t know how
long. It seems forever. Then I am permitted to go in and say goodbye to
her. She’s in a nice cage and looks bewildered and disoriented. (I'm sure
I do, too.) I know they’ll take good care of her. I
hopethey’ll take good care of her.
Wednesday, May 14. Even with Heisenberg beside me on my bed purring
and demanding to be petted, I tossed and turned all night. Will I have
to make the hard decision again and euthanize another cat? In addition
to all the other stuff, she’s lost weight and is slightly dehydrated. That’s
what happened to my first Schroedinger, but she was twenty-one years old.
I got to hold both of my last two cats as they were euthanized…but it still
broke my heart each time. I’m so afraid!
At the hospital for my first visit. They’ve got her in a nice clean
cage with food and water and an IV for hydration and a big, plastic collar
so she won’t pull the IV out. They also cleaned her eyes—no tumor! The
stink by her tail is from an abscess the size of a nickel. She had some
little scabs at the base of her tail (a flea allergy), but I thought that
was cured. That’s why she’s been biting herself. Hence the collar. She
looks so little and pathetic in the cage, and when I pet her and talk to
her, she hardly responds. One of her arms is shaved for the IV, and the
base of her tail and half of her magnificent tail are shaved. She’s very
lethargic. Barely breathing. But they’re keeping close watch over her.
I can’t stay long. Gotta go home to my hot apartment. This heat wave is
making me sick.
Thursday, May 15. It’s 104º where the hospital is, 102º closer to where I live in
a building that’s older than I am and no doubt has no insulation at all.
No sea breeze for days. And this is what I bring my recovering cat home
to. Is this a mistake?
And the medications! Flagyl, an antibiotic. Orbax, another antibiotic.
Ursodiol, used to dissolve gallstones. Carafate, for stomach problems.
Prilosec, for heartburn (I didn’t know it worked for cats). All of these
to be given to her with little syringes. One of the nurses put tape with
a red line at the dosage level for me. Schroedinger likes liquid medicine
only marginally better than pills, which is to say not at all and she squirms
so much it’s hard to shoot the medicine into her mouth. Her throat fur
is nasty and matted. Plus Nolvasan to clean the abscess, a cream to treat
it, and eye drops. I’m terrified. How do I follow a schedule of some medicines
three times a day, some twice a day, and one two hours later than the others?
How do I keep the syringes with their bottles? What if I do it all wrong?
How can I keep anything sterile in this apartment? (They didn’t tell me
I had to do that.) What if we all melt in the heat? What if I accidentally
kill my cat?
Well, when Charles was born, his father was stationed in Florida. It was
just Fred (my first cat, an Abyssinian-tabby mix) and me. I had just finished
my M.A. When I came home (alone) from the hospital, I took a deep breath
and said to my newborn son, “Well, I’m as new at this as you are, but I’ll
do the best I can.” So that’s basically what I just said to Schroedinger,
and then I laid a big, fluffy towel on her favorite table and figured out
how to fill and lay each syringe beside its bottle so I could keep track
of which was which and “feed” her one at a time.
Saturday, May 17. I took the collar off her neck so she could get
to the bowl of water I set on her table-hospital. What I discovered this
morning is that sometime during the night, she was biting at the abscess.
It probably hurts or itches. So when I’m not around to keep an eye on her
(bleach and haircut this afternoon), I put the collar back on her. I still
have zero confidence in my ability to give her all those syringes of medicine,
but we’re struggling through it. She still won’t eat. One of my friends
suggested baby food. I bought five little jars—chicken and turkey. She
declines to eat any, and if I try to force some into her mouth, she shakes
her head and bits of baby food shoot all over. Very messy. Another friend
suggested an eye dropper to give her water. I have another syringe from
the hospital, but she resists being fed water that way.
Her eyes are clear now. And her coat looks better, even though all her
shaved places still look pathetic. I still have very little confidence
in my nursing abilities, so when I talk to her about how well she’s doing,
I’m really talking to myself.
Sunday, May 18. She ate most of her little dish of kibbles last night!
And drank some water. Then threw up the kibbles. And as I’m writing this,
she’s eating the tuna another friend suggested. Only a teaspoonful, but
it’s a start. Being a nurse is apparently partly being a waitress. She’s
got her own little deli on the table—tuna, a few kibbles, some water.
The best sign—she’s breathing more easily and waving her tail back and
forth a lot, which she’s always done. She keeps getting it in her water,
but that’s okay. My friends have been sending healing energy and Reiki,
lighting candles, and making useful suggestions. And I know some majorly
talented people—shamans, healers, Reiki masters, priestesses, even a wizard
or two. Thank you, my friends. I think we’re doing all right. Our next
visit to see Dr. Ridgeway will be on Thursday.
Wednesday, May 21. She’s stronger now, which means it’s harder than
ever to poke those syringes of medicine into her mouth. In fact, I probably
missed a couple times. But she’s eating more (love that tuna!) and is walking
around with her tail in the air. Which makes me think I’m doing OK as a
nurse. Our next appointment is tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to take two
bags of cookies as a thank-you to all the staff members at the Long Beach
Animal Hospital for taking good care of my cat and answering my multitudinous
questions.
