TW: cancer, impending death

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Ned went to church today.

It’s not often that you see a cat in church. In fact, I don’t recall ever seeing one. Certainly none of my cats ever set a paw inside a church before today. The closest any of them came was last year, when Ned attended the Blessing of the Animals, held to celebrate the feast of St. Francis of Assisi, and that was held outside, on the church’s front lawn.

For weeks, I’d been thinking about bringing him to the Blessing for what will be his last time. You see, Ned has cancer. In the spring, he was diagnosed with lymphoma in his stomach. He started chemotherapy at the beginning of June, and he responded beautifully. By the end of August, he’d gone from 7.5 lbs. to 9.1. His appetite was strong, and everything seemed to be headed in the right direction. It was a very good summer.

Except that several years ago, I noticed what looked like a growth in Ned’s mouth. My former vet, now retired, was going to remove it, but once he had Ned under anesthesia and saw the extent of it, he decided wisely that it was beyond his skill set and that I needed a surgeon. Instead, I consulted the foremost veterinary oral care specialist in lower New England who, fortunately, has an office half an hour from my house. This vet said the growth was benign and that we definitely should not remove it because of how hard the surgery would be on Ned. So we put Ned on appropriate meds, and everything was fine.

Until the growth turned malignant.

I suppose I knew this was possible, but it had been benign for so long—and I was so concerned about the lymphoma—that it never occurred to me that Ned might get blindsided with a second, entirely separate cancer. But that’s exactly what happened.

No, I haven’t had it biopsied. His oncologist had scheduled a biopsy for this week, but I canceled it. There’s no need. I’ve seen this kind of tumor before. The left side of his face is now bulging slightly; the tumor is pressing against his eye. It’s not huge, or even particularly obvious. If you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t see it. But I see it. His weight has dropped dramatically since the end of August. His mouth bothers him so that I’m hand-feeding him.

If I knew only these symptoms, I’d probably say to let him go. But he’s not ready, not yet. Ned is still Ned. His eyes are still bright. He still meows to let me know when he’s hungry. He still jumps up on the bed, the sofa, the recliner to help me edit. He’s still a talker, making funny little non-meow noises to express his thoughts. He still hops up on the vanity (by way of the toilet) to drink from the fountain. He’s slowed down since the summer, but after all, he’s fifteen years old, so slowing down is natural.

I’m not kidding myself. I know the end is near, that we’re in his final days. Every day, I watch him for a sign that he’s ready to go. We’re at that point. After all these years together, I know him well enough read his signs. I’ve told him again and again that it’s up to him, that I’m in as long as he wants.

So when my church scheduled their Blessing for 4:30 last Sunday, I was crushed. On Sunday evenings, I take Mom dinner and help her get ready for bed. There was no way I could take Ned to be blessed, get him home and fed, and then get to Mom’s. I googled pet blessing events, but the only ones around were at times I couldn’t make.

I emailed the priests at my church and asked if they knew of any other events, explaining why I couldn’t make it to ours. Within minutes, one of the priests, Margie, emailed me back and offered to bless him. Since she was out of town last week, we decided to do it after church today.

And so, Ned went to church today. I made a point of being slightly late, because the choir occupies the back pews until it’s time for them to process up the aisle to the chancel, and I wanted to sit in the back in case Ned started meowing and we needed to slip out. Over the summer, he would stand in my office doorway, meowing for afternoon snacks, until the client I was on the phone with would say, “Shut up, Ned!” His meow has gotten much quieter in the past week, but I didn’t want to take any chances.

My timing was excellent. In fact, it turns out a number of people were late today, so Ned and I were just a few of tardy ones. Ned behaved beautifully during the service. When he meowed very softly, I opened the carrier door and petted him, and that was all he wanted. Afterward, the woman behind me said, “Your cat was very good.” Is, I thought. Ned is good.

The clergy were standing in the foyer, greeting worshippers. I let Margie know we’d be in the sanctuary when she was ready. In the meantime, Ned accumulated a small cluster of admirers. One of the other latecomers was a young woman with a teenage cousin and an infant girl who was only a month old. As she held her beautiful baby and I held Ned, we decided that he was bigger even though the baby weighed a bit more.

Then, Margie came. I told her that we’re close to the end. I didn’t tell her that on Thursday, I’d worried that he might not make it to Sunday. She placed one hand on Ned and one on me. I don’t remember much of what she said—something about him being a blessing to me. What I remember is that as we stood there, she in her vestments, resting one hand on him and the other on me, her voice broke. By the time she finished, we were both crying, and she hugged us.

Two women from the choir joined us at some point. I don’t recall whether they were present while Ned was being blessed, but they both fussed over him. We shared experiences with losing beloved pets, and all of us hugged together. Then, I put Ned back in his carrier, and we went home.

The Episcopal Church defines “blessing” as a priestly pronouncement of God’s love and favor. If Ned must leave—and we don’t seem to be getting a choice about this—I can think of no better way for him to go than cloaked God’s love and favor.

Yes, Ned is a cat. But God loves cats, too. I know this for a fact, because curled up in a basket just a few feet away is a skinny, sickly, old orange cat—a wonderful, goofy, kindhearted, once-playful, still-loving boy—who, on the eve of his final journey, was blessed by a priest who wept over him as she pronounced God’s love and favor upon him.