When Lanty was diagnosed with that darned Lymphona last summer, I felt, momentarily anyway, the solidity of life drop right out from under me. There was very little that could make it seem right again.  Lanty was the third leg of our little three-legged family.  For last, oh, ten years or so, whenever would get that pesky inquiry, “when are you going to start a family?” we’d always say, at least to each other, “we ARE a family. You, me, and Lant.” Our family, defined.  Now, our family was going to change. And the ground on which I stood turned to mud, mushy and slippery. Would I fall in it? Would my shoes get ruined?

One of the first things we did to cope with the terrible news, the exact same news we’d received in April 2006 but that time it was Biscuit’s x-rays that betrayed it, was slap a big, blank page on the wall and start writing the things we knew we’d need to remember.  One of the first things we wrote: we are not cursed. Melodramatic? Maybe.  But we felt deeply unlucky.  Deeply betrayed by misfortune. First, Biscuit. Then Wyn. Then my ovaries gave up. Then this. Family peeling away until…what?

Those terribly unhelpful thoughts were piling up, threatening to consume us with a murky depression until we had no perspective and no ability to see where the future would lead us. In short order, we had little more to look forward to than the next feeding, the next administration of compounded meds into the e-tube, the next chemo appointment, the next glut of bad news. It was a dim time. We could have succumbed. We wanted to, once in a while.  But not really.  We pledged in our wedding promises that we weren’t getting married because it is an easy path, but precisely because it’s hard.

We slapped up another huge piece of paper and started listing what we were grateful for each day. Sunshine. Lanty’s purr. FrankenBerry. Getting to work on time. Snowflakes. A morning in bed together. Feeling pretty. New shoes. Lanty. Lanty. Lanty.

Little by little, the dimness lightened. We could begin to see the sky.  A feeding with Lanty could be a pleasure, even as his appetite began to leave him. A mouthful was a miracle. A night out at the movies was pure joy. A tasty meal was a gift.

And when the time came for Lanty to go, we were so much more prepared than we expected. My heart was ripped out, yes. It still hurts in there, and I’ll miss him, oh I’ll miss him like meat misses salt. But acceptance came to us so gracefully when the wanting was so acute. Gratitude helped us embrace all that he gave us while he was here, and reminded us to draw strength from all that we did for him.  We did everything we could to keep him with us, and the last thing we can do for him now is to keep on living joyfully, even in the face of losing our family as we knew it.

We’ve decided to become more adventurous. To jump.

Exhibit one: Lula Buttercup. She’s a handful of thwarted expectations and completely satisfying silliness. She’s a lot of work to groom and keep clean and she has submissive issues and she’s scared of every man she sees. She’s too barky and wants to eat every thing in sight. She’s a lot of the things I would have disdained in a client’s dog when I was a walker. But she’s got biscuit-colored ears and a face that radiates happiness. She pulls us out of ourselves when we’re just too darn mopey. She reminds me of a mix of beloved Biscuit and darling Doodle, a client’s dog I couldn’t keep and wanted to save. She’s perfect and perfectly difficult sometimes. She’s what the doctor (Dr. Lanty) ordered.

D sent me a text recently, that I’ve saved:

There’s so much in the world we could be afraid of.  And yet we keep choosing to try not to be. Not to be action heroes, but to just LIVE!

Life keeps on.

Our story.
A eulogy.

We’re exhausted and so very sad. But. We have the peace of knowing we did everything we could. We have Lanty’s love, forever.

Bad news today. Feeling sort of horrible and exhausted and uncomprehending. The last being ridiculous because it’s not like we didn’t know this was coming. Especially after the recurrence of the cancer in January.

But, oh, that does not make it one bit easier. Not one bit.

Life is sort of like that.

We are dealing with the recurrence of Lanty’s lymphoma, just when we’d settled into a new “normal” of remission and every-other week chemo.  He’s okay for today.  We’re all okay for the moment.  But life can change in a blink, so for now, we’re just trying to keep the nachos down.

But look at how precious Lanty is:

We keep holding on to that.

Lanty came home today. Check out my post at Lanty’s Log.

So, if you haven’t already heard, our Lanty has cancer. A cute little post-script to last week’s ranting.

He had exploratory surgery today. It was complicated. He’s still with us, and we saw him post-op – he was really bright and happy which was so great.

The tumor is a mess and we opted to halt resection (removal) today because there was a 50/50 chance he wouldn’t make it. We couldn’t take that chance until we get the biopsies back and know if it is carcinoma (in which case resection is the only option) or lymphoma, which might respond to chemo. The biopsies will take 3-5 days.

Chances that the ugly tumor is lymphoma are slim. Very slim.

I’d love to sum this all up with some wise words about the circle of life or savoring the time you have or something but, here I am. He’s just such a cool cat.

Such a cool cat.

ps. you can follow our progress at Twitter: twitter.com/lantycat

It’s hard for me to express where I am in dealing with his loss, as it changes so much from moment to moment, hour to hour. I’ve had hours when I cannot leave my bed, and minutes of laughter tinged with sadness. I’ve enjoyed a good movie or two, and missed my friend every moment. It’s an exercise in duality, really.

Sunday, D & I leave for Belgium. He’s going there for his every-other-month trip, and this time I just couldn’t stay home alone. I hate to be without Lanty, who has been such a comfort, but he will be with mom, who is just about the best caretaker we could ask for, so we know he’ll be okay.

I’m not taking my computer; just some DVDs and a notebook. I’m going to try to reacquaint myself with pen and paper and what it is I want out of my life. I’m going to try to spend some time remembering Kokoro full of life and zest, and not in those last terrible, precious moments I’ll never forget. I’m going to try to learn to live with this grief, instead of letting it take over.

But, oh, I miss my pal. There really aren’t words in our language for what pets bring to our lives, and that’s part of the problem. He wasn’t my child; calling him a fur-child is cute, but still doesn’t really cover it. He was my friend, but more than that. He was part of our family, and one of my dearest loves. I miss him so.

At about 11 0′clock this morning, we helped him move from this life into the next, and away from his suffering and pain. We will miss him so very much, but never forget his funny ways and the precious lessons he taught us about life, death, and the strength in letting go.

He was an unusual, remarkable, confounding, delightful little guy. I will miss his loud voice and whiny-cute requests for meals, his voracious appetite for his mush (canned food), his adorable “fake out” game of standing on a toy and pretending not to see it, then suddenly kicking it up with his back foot and attacking it as if it came out of nowhere, the way he curled up by my shoulder in his special spot on the bed, his fur getting everywhere, his loud loud rumbling purr – popping corn, as mom calls it – and even giving him injections and sub-q fluids and cleaning him and so many other endearing, difficult, silly, wonderful things that were unique to my little character.

In Japanese, kokoro means “heart,” but not the heart in the chest. Rather it means the “heart and soul,” the heart with which we love and long. My Kokoro was my heart and will always be in my heart and soul. I am so grateful and so much more for having known him.

The two girls looked sadly at the remains of their pet…”Cats have nine lives, so tomorrow he will wake up someplace as somebody’s kitten and start a new life,” said Ramona.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Beezus, “but it sounds logical. I hope his new owners give him melon rind. Picky-picky loved melon rind.” She picked up the shovel and started to fill in the grave. “We should have some flowers for him, but there aren’t any.”

“I wonder which of his lives we got him on,” said Ramona as she gathered damp brown leaves to strew on the grave. The girls stood looking sadly at the little mound left by Picky-picky’s coffin.

“He was a good cat,” said Ramona.

From Ramona Forever by Beverly Cleary

But those days are mostly over and my little guy is up here, dozing a little and, I think, enjoying being near me again. As his condition has worsened, some of the palliative care I’ve been providing has become ineffective or unnecessary, so we’ve been able to forgo a lot of the most unpleasant of our daily routines, such as the Bitter Pill of Emeticus, the Oh-God-Is-That-An-Air-Bubble? Thrice Daily Injections, and most of the More On Me Than In Him Syringe Feedings. The great news is that removing some of things things from our routine, and removing the stress involved in administering and receiving them, has allowed us all to relax a little more and even given Biscuit back his appetite.

He’s eating on his own several times a day, and the sight of him bent over his food dish, hungrily and happily making an huge mess out of meat by-products and pseudo-gravy is one of the most joyful things I have experienced in my life. It is a pleasure I quite honestly did not expect to see again.

But despite these small joys, my days are long and sad. I fight depression and despair at almost every turn, and struggle to find distractions.

Today I had a long talk with my vet, and the possibility of a ruptured bowel was raised. If Mr. Biscuit doesn’t improve by the end of the weekend, we’ve got to consider that diagnosis and what it means – he will not get better. I’m utterly freaking out, but on the outside, I’m as calm as I’ve been through this. My pal and I have spent the day together, with belly rubs, syringe feedings, naps, and singing (lullabies to him, purring to me on occasion).

We’ll probably know what’s what Monday.