The tale of Maya

I am hijacking our adoption blog to tell you a family story.

In January 1996, I entered the Humane Society in Fredericksburg, VA with my bestest friend, Serenity. I had the intention of adopting a baby kitten, but could not connect with any of the rambunctious little kitties in the chaotic kitten room. We then entered adult cat room. I looked at two cats, a white long hair and a Maine coon cat. The white long hair (named Sassy) carried a note that it had an upper respiratory infection and would require additional care. Being the highly unmotivated 18 year old, I turned my attention to the Maine coon cat. As we approached the cage, the Maine coon cat became agitated and attempted to attack Serenity through the cage. I returned my attention to Sassy and she quickly became a part of our family. I took her home. Our first night together, she was curious about me and kept me awake by crawling across my chest and exploring my room. She quickly became comfortable with our home and was given the more elegant name of Maya.

Many cats are perceived to be aloof and apathetic. Maya was affectionate and needy. She followed me around the house. As I pulled into the driveway from work, she waited for me in the front window and then jumped down to greet me at the door. When I got up in the morning, she stood up on her hind legs and begged for a treat. When I cried, Maya licked the tears from my cheeks. After I left for college, according to my mom, Maya spent several days, walking from room to room searching for me.

Maya's loving nature has made the past few weeks very difficult. Several weeks ago, Maya began hiding from us, hissing and batting at us when we approached. Her right eye became unresponsive to light. Her gait became awkward. She flopped her front paws on the floor and crossed her legs as she walked. We took her to the vet, who believed that Maya had a neurological disorder. She suspected a stroke or a tumor. We wouldn't know without a CAT scan (yes, I was also oddly amused by CAT scans for cats). The CAT scan was about $1500. It would tell us the cause of her problems, but there was likely little we could do to cure her. Maya remained at the vet overnight for fluids and force feeding. She returned to our home and appeared to be improving. She seemed to have more energy, greeted us when we approached, and purred when we pet her head. However, she refused to eat. I asked the vet for suggestions. The vet told us to feed her anything Maya would eat (including Arby's roast beef- yes, she was that specific). I went to the grocery store and entered my cat mindset. If I were a cat on a shopping spree, what would I buy? For about a week, Maya ate a decadent diet of tuna, roast beef, chicken breast, organic strawberry yogurt, and gravy (just gravy- they sell it in a plastic bag). After a few days of forced watering, she began to drink (calorie and nutrient fortified water from the vet, mixed with Pedialyte and chicken broth). Since that first week, Maya became more distant and lethargic. She stopped eating and stopped using the litter box (but that didn't stop her from peeing on our carpet and rugs). We knew that we were nearing the end of our time with her. Watching her slowly waste away helplessly and the uncertainty of "when" was trying. I believe that I entered a self-diagnosed depressive episode. Her impending death and other family illness stirred up strong emotions about our previous losses (my mom and two dogs). I also found myself feeling hopeless about our adoption, believing that we were doomed to a lifetime of loss and disappointment. I couldn't sleep (which is odd for me). I felt sick most of the time, but my appetite increased. I couldn't concentrate and I lost all motivation. The icing on the cake was a full meltdown and crying fit at the end of the movie, Air Force One (Don't ask me to explain. I couldn't.)

In the past week, I could feel the depression starting to lift. I had gone about six days without crying and my motivation was improving. Yesterday, I returned to my playful ways, joking with my conspiracy theorist husband, telling him my tale of who was really responsible for the JFK assassination (aliens paranoid about JFK's support of the space program hired Oswald to assassinate the president and then sent Ruby to clean up the mess). I'm a psychologist and I'm not sure why that dark cloud lifted. Maybe I resolved that Maya was going to die. Maybe I finally shunned my guilt and convinced myself that we were doing all we could for her.

This morning, I called the vet (the wonderful other Dr. Cindy) and left a message with some new concerns. Maya was still not eating, but had also developed a white film over her eye. The vet called me back as I was picking up clearance antibacterial gels at Bath and Body Works. As of now, I still have no idea how many or what scents I purchased. The vet suspected that the prescribed steroids were causing the change in Maya's behavior and felt that her third eyelid was a sign of progressing neurological problems (did you know dogs and cats had a third eyelid? I didn't). She explained the therapeutic options and for the first time, approached the idea of "when is it enough and when do you let go?" She asked if I wanted to pick up some medicine or bring her in. I rushed home, picked up Maya, and brought her in. Fred was in the carrier we typically use to transport Maya to the vet. However, on top of our wall oven was a large lined wicker basket. I placed Maya inside with a towel and she seemed quite comfortable. We met with the vet. She suspected that Maya's neurological problems were progressing and observed that her kidneys were hardening. She detailed our treatment plan and our alternatives. I had not gone to the vet even considering the alternatives. I just wanted to save our beloved cat. The vet then told us that Maya seemed to be "letting go" and explained that she would get worse. She would become less active and nauseous. She would have seizures. Most important of all, she would be miserable. I cried and sobbed and somehow managed to squeak out, "If she's ready to go, I don't want to keep her here just for me, but it's hard." She left me alone to call Craig and we agreed that it was time. Craig left work and rushed to the vet's office. I remained with Maya, unsure of what to do. I cuddled with her, stroked her head, cried, and sent texts to family and friends. The vet tech occasionally entered the room to develop X-rays (housed in the exam room of our tiny vet's office). Whenever the vet tech entered, she seemed to realize that she needed to say something, but couldn't think of anything, so she asked awkward questions, like "Will you be taking her home?" and "You can wait to pay later, or if you want, you can pay today." Dr. Cindy then came in and explained what she would do and what would happen. Craig finally came and seemed oddly unphased. I wondered when it would finally hit him. Dr. Cindy let Craig say his good bye and then gave her a muscle relaxer to help her sleep before the final injection. She then left us in the room to be alone. Craig then broke down and we both took turns kissing her and petting her. After several minutes, Dr. Cindy returned and checked on Maya, quietly sleeping away. She gave us two options. She could return Maya to us, wrapped in the towel and placed in the basket. Or she could place Maya in a plastic bag.....We stopped her. For a well-loved pet, when given the choice between towel and plastic bag, who chooses bag? Dr. Cindy then swaddled Maya in the towel and whisked her away. Craig and I remained, holding hands and crying. After several minutes, the vet tech returned with the basket, Maya was wrapped inside. She appeared to be rolled inside her towel, like a pink, terry cloth burrito. I gently placed her in the front seat, holding onto the basket for the seemingly long ride home. When we arrived home, Craig dug a grave, adjacent to Monkey's final resting place. I've done the pet funeral too many times and I always find myself drawn to the mundane at these times. The neighbor's cat watched us suspiciously. The neighbors were having a birthday party and had four pastel balloons tied to their car port. I worried their curious kids would approach us and ask what we were doing. The cold wind burned my saline stained face. I glared at each passing car, bitter that they were interrupting our final moments with Maya. Craig said some tearful final words to her, but I kept my eulogy to myself. Maya and I always seemed to have a connection. She always seemed to know when I was upset. Wherever she was now, I believe she knows what my final words were to her. Craig then laid her to rest and as schmaltzy as it sounds, I couldn't help but to wonder who would lick the tears from my cheeks.