“After a death, there is no moving on despite the people waving us through the broken lights. There is only a stone key that fits into one stone lock. But the dead are holding the key. And the stone is a boulder in a stream.” -from “Sadness” by Victoria Chang

There’s this alternate reality in my head where Stella and I have more time together—where she lives into her senior years of 14, 16, 18. Where, as I pull into the driveway after a long day of work, I still see her nestled atop the cat tower, looking out the window, waiting to welcome me home.

These thoughts have offered comfort as I’ve struggled to hold onto memories of her regular movements, mannerisms, and better days. Diagnosed with hepatic lipidosis (fatty liver syndrome) only six weeks ago, a sudden onset after a period of not eating, we’ve been in the throes of intensive caregiving.

It is a condition that could be fatal without treatment. With treatment, there is a chance for a return to full health and a normal, long life, although the process is slow and demanding. With treatment, some cats do very well in as little as two weeks; other cats take two months or more to recover. We didn’t know what was in store for Stella, but we knew we had to give her body a chance to respond to treatment, one way or another.

Finding Out & Diving In

We found out about Stella not eating after returning from a trip to Austin, Texas, part of my 35th birthday month celebration. She was lethargic and her skin had turned yellow, which frightened me. We rushed her to the emergency veterinary hospital. After her 24-hour hospitalization, the ER gave us only two options: expensive one-week hospitalization priced at $10K+ or euthanasia. We decided on a third path—taking her home against medical advice.

During the first week home, we syringe fed her blended up wet food and water and gave her an extensive list of prescribed medications and supplements to support her liver and possibly beat back a brewing infection. This sentence offers a neat summary of an incredibly painful, stressful, and heartbreaking first week. To get the minimum amount of food in her that she needed to survive, we had to feed her every few hours, which meant one of us holding her while the other gently pried her mouth open to feed and medicate her.

David and I quickly fell into roles that suited us best—David became the feeder and water giver, focused on the mission; I became the organizer, pill crusher, and holder, focused on providing stability and comfort. Each feeding felt charged. We never knew if she’d refuse to open her mouth and stop accepting food. I had to breathe deeply with every hold, counting my breaths, five-in, five-out, an attempt to calm my nerves. Each feeding took around 20 minutes, and each feeding was a mess, staining towels with the scent of salmon, tuna, and white fish. Every few minutes we’d need to set her down for a break, doing a delicate dance to ensure she got the food she needed while not forcing her so much to induce a food aversion. The overall goal being, that after enough treatment, she’d eat again on her own. In these early days, we felt pride in our ability to maneuver such sudden stress and difficulty, and to do it together as a unified team. We thought we could conquer this condition and continue this syringe-feeding circus for the rest of the month.

Thankfully, our local vet saved us further weeks of excessive hardship, offering to install an esophagostomy tube (e-tube) in her throat. While this afforded us an easier way to feed, water, and medicate her (and allowed us to do these tasks individually, giving us each needed breaks), caregiving was taking its toll. Stella’s treatment required feeding every two hours and there was no guarantee that she’d keep it down. She vomited about one to three times a day, setting feeding progress back and forcing us to constantly adjust feeding times, which worried us since we had to get through a set amount of food per day to support her liver and her life.

The Journey & the Toll

As caregiving continued, our strength began to falter, and our patience dwindled, not only with the treatment process but also with each other. At times, we found fault in the ways we chose to feed her or vented our frustrations about who would clean up the inevitable daily vomit. David turned inward and grew snippy, and I was quick to anger and burst into tears. One day, I stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind me, crying and wanting to scream and pound my fists on the pavement.

Even with these difficult days, we found strength still in a deep well within us. Caregiving caused thin fissures in our relationship, but it also brought us closer together. We found solace with Stella, Daisy (our dog), and Luna (our other cat) in the evenings after work as we rewatched episodes of The Office. It was the comic relief and company we needed to get us through. About three weeks into her e-tube treatment, Stella appeared poised for recovery. Her blood test results showed improvement on key liver values. There were still a couple that were worrying—her white blood cell count was extremely high (which was unexplainable as no infection was detected) and her albumin (a protein only the liver can produce) was getting low. But we thought, with more time on treatment, she’d continue positive progress. We agreed to a blood test re-check in a couple weeks, set to keep going with the treatment rhythm we were finally falling into.

During these weeks, Stella grew slower and tired out more frequently. Yet she would carry on with some of her normal behaviors, from scratching the cat tower’s sisal rope trunk to jumping up onto the furry, white window hammock. This past weekend, however, only a few days after her improving blood work, she took a turn. Never in her life had she urinated outside the litter box, but she did that weekend. We thought it was a fluke, but it continued later that evening and in the subsequent days. Now we were managing a new dimension to her illness. We quickly adapted, covering the living room furniture with waterproof blankets and ordering cat diapers on Amazon. I never imagined that we’d be here, cleaning up peed on blankets multiple times a day and carrying our beloved cat to the litter box. But we did it, and now that we’ve reached the end, I know we’d do it again because that’s what you do when you love someone. You help them when they struggle, and you offer them comfort when they can no longer find it for themselves.

Thoughts & Reflections

Throughout Stella’s sick days, a judgmental thought kept invading my brain—that people would think me silly for doing all we were doing for Stella. Because she’s a cat. And you can get another cat. I knew this thought was meant to hurt me and that it wasn’t true, but I’d find myself believing it sometimes. In her final days, however, the doubt about all the care and love we poured into her was gone. I remembered what we had set out to do—to give her a fighting chance. We could tell she wasn’t ready to give in that day at the ER and we certainly weren’t ready either. There was fight in all of us still. And so, we fought through it together, until her body no longer could.

Remembering Our Stella Bella

Over these last 8 years with Stella, she has been many wonderful things to us. Our sweet weirdo. Our cuddle bug. Our silly billy. Our Stella bella. She has been the balm to life’s rough tides, and ever eager for belly rubs, neck scratches, and treats of all kinds. She has offered us boundless love, affection, and companionship. And she was and always will be a beloved member of our family. Her life has been well lived and well loved.

Oh, how she adored basking in the sun—stretching out her little body to capture as many sun rays as she could. How she’d scamper—her paws going bound, bound, bound—toward her automatic feeder pre-sick days. How, even when she was all the way in the bedroom, she’d know we were on the couch in the living room and come running, jumping up onto our outstretched legs and settling in with a thump then a purr.

Stella was a star who offered her light to any guest in our home, wedging herself between their backs and the dining room chairs, jumping into their laps even if they weren’t cat people (lol), and allowing them to find comfort in her ease, her openness, and her gentleness. She was our special girl. Her absence is already felt. It breaks me.

I take comfort though in knowing that her memory will live on within us and that our lives are better because she shared them with us. Stella, we love you. Thank you for loving us, too. Your presence will always be a sweet remembrance. Your life, forever cherished.

To honor Stella, I offer up this poem I wrote about her during 2020’s COVID quarantine:

Little Dreamer

My cat dreams of eating, or so I think.

She twitches but stays curled, head just brushing her paws,

full nap & nestled in the fraying swivel chair next to me.

I’m watching her now, but heard her first—the tongued slather of her mouth

chewing, opening & closing around some invisible dinner—

fish, mouse, bird, her Purina One Metabolism Control kibble, maybe.

Does she know the taste of a fish-mouse-bird without ever catching one in real life?

Does she see herself in her dream, butt-wiggle-launching into a sprint to snatch up her prey?

Does she feel the dream-prey caught in her mouth, tiny bones crunching under her tiny teeth?

Does she dream-hunt free in a meadow, near a rustling creek, a place that’s green & airy & pure?

And does she know that she’ll awaken soon in the same chair she snoozes on day-in & day-out?

I’ll make a slight noise like a small animal’s scurry—by accident, of course, forgetful of her slumber.

Her eyes will jolt open, full & searching for the cause of her dream’s dissolve.

But I hope for both our sakes that there will be more. More prey to grasp

between her white paws. More delicious morsels to swallow, satisfied.

More play in a meadow—paws touched with dirt, tickled by long grass,

fur wisped by the wind and buttercup flowers. More little dreams of endless more—

Acknowledgements

These last many weeks have been some of the most difficult in our lives. We give deep gratitude to our vet, Dr. Peck and his entire staff who were so patient with our multiple visits, questions, and med refills; our vet friend, Daniel, who offered us much needed counsel, context, and comfort; the online community at Feline Assisted Feeding Group (yes, it’s a thing and the group is filled with very helpful resources, stories, and words of support, which were critical to showing us that we weren’t alone in this mess); and to our family and all of our friends, who have been constant sources of support during this arduous journey. Thank you all. Thank you so much.

In Memoriam