This marks the conclusion to Bubba's story, which began with "A Good, Good Cat."  The last post, "A Good, Good Cat Takes Sick," mentions how his health complications began.  I found a journal entry describing some of my grief after he left us, and prayer, and will share that as a last personal reflection ...

Cheryl’s parents not only offered to loan us the money for Bubba’s urgently needed surgery, to our immense relief and gratefulness, but only days later even wrote it off as a gift.  As soon as we had arranged payment, the vet and techs immediately prepared Bubba for the catheterization procedure that same evening.  I left a few minutes later, emotionally and physically exhausted, and not completely at ease because of the vet’s warning that urinary blockages often if not usually returned in male cats, sometimes a few years later, and sometimes even within a matter of days.  But I was relieved we were able to give Bubba a chance at this desperate juncture, and just hoped we’d be able to again down the road by our own means should a blockage reoccur.

I couldn’t have been happier to pick him up over the weekend, and hear that he was eating and peeing regularly and clearly.  The staff said he was true to his name the entire time, and hardly complained through all of the poking and prodding.  I thanked them for showing him such obvious care and affection, and for the generous discount which had magically appeared on our bill statement, and brought a tear to my eye.  I brought Bubba home, with two shaved spots on his forearms where the IV’s had been inserted, and some temporary meds (to be administered by needle this time) and an entirely new (and expensive) prescription diet of wet and dry food, both in an attempt to keep his urinary tract unblocked going forward.  He bounced out of his crate as soon as I opened it up, received a few sniffs from his curious sisters, a big hug from his mom, and all was well in our world.

The next few days I kept a close eye on Bubba, but he was eating and peeing in more moderate amounts, but clear and with a healthy smell.  He was due for a follow-up appointment that Thursday, and I was glad to bring him in with a healthy report for once.  But even the short trip across the street in the carrier freaked him out again, and by the time we arrived he had peed and pooped, and gotten both all over himself.  The kind tech asked for my help this time in holding him while he shampooed and hosed him off gently prior to receiving the clean bill of health I expected, and I didn’t think much more of it. 

Nor was I all that concerned the following Monday when Bubba developed a rash on his neck around where I was injecting his medicine, though I was frustrated by yet another minor complication.  They encouraged me to bring him in, pro bono, and regretted not having told me to insert the needles in rotating spots to avoid pooling of the medicine.  I was given some ointment to place on the rash, shown some other places to inject the meds, and brought him home hoping we might finally be done with vet visits for a good long while.

It wasn’t to be.  Bubba became increasingly lethargic over the next couple of days.  I wondered, even guessed, if it might just be the effect of three different meds making him sluggish.  I reluctantly brought him in Wednesday after school one more time, because of the tech’s concern over the phone, and my own which was growing with every indication Bubba showed of being unable to motivate himself.  The fact that he didn't fuss at all on the way over made both of us even more nervous.  The vet didn't seem all that worried though, and hoped it might just be an unsettled stomach.  She gave him a dose of another medicine, and said to bring him back tomorrow if he hadn’t improved.  But she expected he would.  That night Bubba continued not to eat or drink, even when placed right next to his food, and he hardly moved except to find another spot to curl up.  Each time I picked him up he slunk against my shoulder in a way I’d never felt before.

Before I shut down early for the night to try to catch up on some sleep, I carried him to the bed with me and placed my head next to his, with my arm around his body like I'd snuggled with him so many times before. But this time he seemed to be more comfortable at the foot of the bed, instead of his ussual spot cuddled next to my lower back, or in between our pillows where he often wedged himself.  I lay next to him for a few minutes, telling him how much I loved him and praying desperately as I could, with what little emotional energy or faith there was left, that somehow he would get better. 

The next morning I picked him up and put him by his food and water one more time, hoping against hope he might finally have improved a bit.  Not only did he hardly blink at the food in front of him, but just before I had to get out the door to school I discovered he'd peed the pad underneath himself, and hadn't budged an inch.  I stroked and hugged him, and told him I loved him again, knowing this might be our goodbye.  I couldn’t believe what was happening, and all while I was making myself sick trying to keep up with a part-time, often debilitating job.  I woke Cheryl up in a huff and told her she had no choice but to bring him in as soon as the clinic opened, and I stormed out of the apartment.

I fought a snowstorm of panic, rage and heartache on the way to school, gripping the steering wheel like a vice wrench and alternating between cursing the reality of the situation and praying frantically as I could.  I tried to will myself to shut everything down before I walked into the building and the kids arrived only moments later, something I’ve never been particularly adept at doing.  But I knew I stood no chance of surviving the day otherwise, or even the morning.  A knot the size of a continent was settling in my stomach and reaching its tendrils to ever extremity of me, and it came a millimeter from imploding when the typical offenders in my first two gym classes brought an extra dose of misdemeanor with them.  I've never been one to look for the devil behind every bush, but if I ever doubted his presence when needed least, I didn't that day.

I talked to Cheryl over my free period, this time fighting tears more than anger, and desperately fighting to keep them from tumbling out of me when I stepped back inside the school.  She put me in touch with the vet, who told me they had Bubba hooked up to IV’s to boost his strength, but his condition continued to slowly deteriorate despite, and the blood tests showed his liver was failing.  She offered the possibility of another surgery if he could first pull together enough stamina to survive it.  But even though we could afford it because of some additional generosity which we had received from Cheryl's childhood church, it held no guarantees.  I thanked her for her openness, and the thoroughness of her readily apparent concern for Bubba, and she promised to keep me posted. 

I was planning to check in on him just after school, regardless.  On my way over, the vet called and I heard the inevitability I feared most, but mostly anticipated by now.  Bubba had only weakened further; his temperature had fallen and his breathing was even more labored, which meant he was fighting to stay alive.  She would try one last booster of adrenaline, just in case of a miracle, but now would be the time to come and likely say goodbye.  

I called Cheryl, my voice breaking more with every word, who joined me a few minutes later in the tiny holding room at the clinic.  Neither of us could stop caressing Bubba in his crate, or crying openly  despite the vet and techs who came in regularly to check on him and their other charges.   It wasn't long before we knew the adrenaline wasn't helping, and he was fading faster.  We had no choice but to let him go.  I wasn't sure if I was imagining it, but Bubba's head seemed to be straining towards us from his crate, and I wondered if he just wanted to be held.  When the vet said it was ok, I gathered him up carefully with the towel they had around him, and snuggled him in my arms like the cherished son he was.  I couldn’t stop leaning over and whispering to him how sorry I was, how much I loved him, with tears and mucus streaming down my face.  Cheryl was in a similar state, though I could hardly bear to look at her, let alone give or receive any kind of comfort.  But I can still hear the words she repeated with such grief and tenderness in her voice, “Oh, sweet boy ...”

(I can't thank you enough if you've read Bubba's story to this point; as alluded to, one last post on my personal grieving will follow.  I hope if you view the slideshow you'll also play the accompanying video of Chris Botti's achingly beautiful "Time to Say Goodbye" (from the live CD/DVD Chris Botti in Boston, which I'm very grateful to my parents for exposing me to at such a meaningful time in our lives, in so many respects).