(no subject)
Mar. 18th, 2010 03:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thejunipertreeThings have been completely in the shitter this week.
After my declaration in my previous entry that I would get a vet appointment for Tinker, I did. And everything went downhill from there.
Once we went into the room to see the vet, I saw that Tinker had urinated all over himself in his carrier, something he never ever does as he is fastidious in his habits. Further, the urine was a startlingly bright orange color that stained his white paws and the scale the doctor put him in. This is indicative of high levels of bilirubin. The first sign of NOT GOOD.
During the examination, I pointed out to the vet that even though Tinker had lost quite a bit of weight and had a spine you could feel, he seemed to be suddenly sporting his old goat belly. She felt it, declared that it seemed to be retained fluid, and took him into the back to get a sample for testing.
When she returned and showed me the fluid-filled needle, I almost fell over. It was also bright orange. And the worst sentence ever constructed in the history of sentences was uttered from her lips: "This doesn't look good."
Long story short: his liver is enlarged, he has high levels of bilirubin. X-rays showed nothing out of the ordinary, other than the big liver. Cytology reports say he has lymphocytes in the retained fluid. We're waiting on sono reports to say if the x-rays missed anything. But, the signs are currently pointing towards lymphosarcoma.
He's been in the hospital all week, since I took him in. Hooked up to IV fluids, getting antibiotics (in case this is just a liver infection), being fed the stinky A/D prescription food he loves so much. He's alert, uses the litter box, and is generally the same cat he has been for the past couple of weeks. Which is to say: not him. Not a bad cat at all, but not him. And he had a small seizure last night after the Engineer and I had left, but they think it could have been just over-excited from our visit or from the sudden influx of protein from eating better giving him a headache.
If this is cancer, I really don't know what I'm going to do. On one side of it, they don't recommend doing any extensive surgeries on him because of his age and would recommend medical treatments with a specialist, which I absolutely can not afford. My resources are already stretched beyond hope, particularly after this past weekend's spectacle at the emergency vet with Baby. And a specialist, much like the goddamn emergency clinic, will want payment up front and is (of fucking course) quite expensive.
I would go to hell and back for my pets, Tinker in particular. But when I say my resources are shot, I am not casually throwing words around. I have no savings (never have), my meager credit cards are all close to their limits (which I have been steadily working on paying them down, but it's a slow process) and even if they weren't, I have no large limit cards. I don't even want to think about what the last few days are costing me, but I decided I didn't care because it's all going to be post-dated checks regardless. As long as I can keep the treatment to the regular vet, things will be golden.
If it's not cancer, he'll get antibiotics to beat whatever nasty infection is doing this to him and retest all his levels at a later date. And maybe steriods? I can't remember what the vet told me on the phone earlier this afternoon. My brain is fried sunny-side most assuredly down at the moment.
Tuesday night, I was desolate and inconsolable. I don't even know how I got home from the vet, as I was by myself and had to drive on my own. I don't remember the trip home. The Engineer saw me pull up to the apartment and waited for me at the front door, where I promptly burst into wracking sobs that didn't stop for an hour.
Wednesday, I ghosted around work like the living dead. Couldn't concentrate, kept fading out, didn't eat anything all day and kept forgetting to drink water. We went to the vet in the evening to visit and Tinker was a bit brighter. He headbutted me, something he hasn't done in a long time and sprawled in my arms and across my shoulder like some deranged monkey baby. I felt a little better after the visit and after talking to the other vet there (who is normally our reptile vet, but he does see other animals) about what little test results we had back, but coming home to a Tinker-less apartment crashed me again.
Today, I waffle back and forth between calm acceptance of the situation and despair. I spoke to Dr. Joe again, who gave me the news about the lymphocytes. He's a good one, our Dr. Joe. He talks me out of my tree without giving me false hope, but he also doesn't prepare me for sackcloth and ashes, like the vet on Tuesday did (I'd never dealt with her before and I'm hesitant to do so again).
At this point, we just have to wait for the sono results to come back. Maybe tomorrow? I don't know. What I do know is that I want to scream. Baby's end drawing nigh doesn't weigh on me as much as Tinker's because he's so old. He's had such a great life and I made peace a long time ago about how he probably wouldn't see 2011 (most likely, he won't even see this June or July). I'm ok with it.
But, Tinker? It's not his time yet, goddamnit. It's not his fucking time.
After my declaration in my previous entry that I would get a vet appointment for Tinker, I did. And everything went downhill from there.
Once we went into the room to see the vet, I saw that Tinker had urinated all over himself in his carrier, something he never ever does as he is fastidious in his habits. Further, the urine was a startlingly bright orange color that stained his white paws and the scale the doctor put him in. This is indicative of high levels of bilirubin. The first sign of NOT GOOD.
During the examination, I pointed out to the vet that even though Tinker had lost quite a bit of weight and had a spine you could feel, he seemed to be suddenly sporting his old goat belly. She felt it, declared that it seemed to be retained fluid, and took him into the back to get a sample for testing.
When she returned and showed me the fluid-filled needle, I almost fell over. It was also bright orange. And the worst sentence ever constructed in the history of sentences was uttered from her lips: "This doesn't look good."
Long story short: his liver is enlarged, he has high levels of bilirubin. X-rays showed nothing out of the ordinary, other than the big liver. Cytology reports say he has lymphocytes in the retained fluid. We're waiting on sono reports to say if the x-rays missed anything. But, the signs are currently pointing towards lymphosarcoma.
He's been in the hospital all week, since I took him in. Hooked up to IV fluids, getting antibiotics (in case this is just a liver infection), being fed the stinky A/D prescription food he loves so much. He's alert, uses the litter box, and is generally the same cat he has been for the past couple of weeks. Which is to say: not him. Not a bad cat at all, but not him. And he had a small seizure last night after the Engineer and I had left, but they think it could have been just over-excited from our visit or from the sudden influx of protein from eating better giving him a headache.
If this is cancer, I really don't know what I'm going to do. On one side of it, they don't recommend doing any extensive surgeries on him because of his age and would recommend medical treatments with a specialist, which I absolutely can not afford. My resources are already stretched beyond hope, particularly after this past weekend's spectacle at the emergency vet with Baby. And a specialist, much like the goddamn emergency clinic, will want payment up front and is (of fucking course) quite expensive.
I would go to hell and back for my pets, Tinker in particular. But when I say my resources are shot, I am not casually throwing words around. I have no savings (never have), my meager credit cards are all close to their limits (which I have been steadily working on paying them down, but it's a slow process) and even if they weren't, I have no large limit cards. I don't even want to think about what the last few days are costing me, but I decided I didn't care because it's all going to be post-dated checks regardless. As long as I can keep the treatment to the regular vet, things will be golden.
If it's not cancer, he'll get antibiotics to beat whatever nasty infection is doing this to him and retest all his levels at a later date. And maybe steriods? I can't remember what the vet told me on the phone earlier this afternoon. My brain is fried sunny-side most assuredly down at the moment.
Tuesday night, I was desolate and inconsolable. I don't even know how I got home from the vet, as I was by myself and had to drive on my own. I don't remember the trip home. The Engineer saw me pull up to the apartment and waited for me at the front door, where I promptly burst into wracking sobs that didn't stop for an hour.
Wednesday, I ghosted around work like the living dead. Couldn't concentrate, kept fading out, didn't eat anything all day and kept forgetting to drink water. We went to the vet in the evening to visit and Tinker was a bit brighter. He headbutted me, something he hasn't done in a long time and sprawled in my arms and across my shoulder like some deranged monkey baby. I felt a little better after the visit and after talking to the other vet there (who is normally our reptile vet, but he does see other animals) about what little test results we had back, but coming home to a Tinker-less apartment crashed me again.
Today, I waffle back and forth between calm acceptance of the situation and despair. I spoke to Dr. Joe again, who gave me the news about the lymphocytes. He's a good one, our Dr. Joe. He talks me out of my tree without giving me false hope, but he also doesn't prepare me for sackcloth and ashes, like the vet on Tuesday did (I'd never dealt with her before and I'm hesitant to do so again).
At this point, we just have to wait for the sono results to come back. Maybe tomorrow? I don't know. What I do know is that I want to scream. Baby's end drawing nigh doesn't weigh on me as much as Tinker's because he's so old. He's had such a great life and I made peace a long time ago about how he probably wouldn't see 2011 (most likely, he won't even see this June or July). I'm ok with it.
But, Tinker? It's not his time yet, goddamnit. It's not his fucking time.
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(no subject)
Date: 2010-03-18 09:20 pm (UTC)my fingers are crossed.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-03-19 02:50 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-03-19 04:16 am (UTC)good thoughts to you and your kitties.