Echoes

Cleaning out my voicemails this evening, I re-listened to the condolence calls I got after Riley died on July 10, including Dr. Ryan's. I saved hers again. Riley's cardiac specialist, while sympathetic, referred to her as a "he" and didn't acknowledge that the night she died, I'd called him and he'd reassured me that Riley's adjustment to the meds would take a few days. I hung up and thought, "Screw that. I'm going to the emergency room." And she died. I deleted his message.

Glenwood's breathing is raspy more often, and it's scary. She's a normal, crazy kitten in every way, and exceptionally loving, but now this. Dr. Ryan said a radiography might be in order and that we'd see Saturday when we go to the vet (well, Glenwood goes; I'm the chauffeur, anxiety-bearer, and bill-payer). It's horrible, but not only do I get frightened about the possibilities, but about the money. Hope Vet is holistic and conservative in advice to do this or that, so if Dr. Ryan recommends it, it will be impossible to do otherwise.

With a friend today, I wondered whether I would do different with Riley had I known that, three or four thousand (who's counting?) dollars later, she lived just a month after the diagnosis. It's easy: I'd do as I did because until the end it wasn't clear. When it was clear, the ER vet wept as I said good-bye; I was sobbing but trying not to so Riley wouldn't remember me that way. I said, "You shouldn't be crying. You're the doctor." She said, "I gave you hope." I said, "You can't do that to yourself." And so Riley went. I was given a room to be with her afterward, and I stayed for a long time, much longer than it felt. Hours. I miss her every day, still cry most days, and now my fear for Glenwood is stirring.