Hard to believe, but we were going to put this little lady down a week ago. What a roller coaster it’s been, going from a likely brain tumor to a really likely brain tumor to somewhat good news: it’s actually pretty rad to be Gida, brain tumor aside, on drugs. She’ll let us know when she’s ready, and the time we initially picked just wasn’t the time.
Yeah, so Gida has a brain tumor, in all likelihood, given how well she’s responded to a steroid: Prednisone. We opted against the $2,200 MRI that would tell us for sure.
There is a marked, upsetting (for her and for us) reversion to her sick self–getting stuck in corners, being completely inconsolable–if she misses a daily dose by even an hour. But she’s still with us, comfortably, for now. She sleeps a lot. Her hunger pangs (she now has a voracious FEED ME! quality about her) seem to be the only thing that bothers her, and that’s always easily fixed with food. Her appetite might have something to do with us feeding her anything, always, constantly, and her getting used to those frequent handouts.
But the steroid will eventually stop working (the tumor will take over), and it’ll be time, then.
We should all be so lucky to live our last days this way, and it’s really unfortunate a lot of us don’t. Gida will only live a fraction as long as her humans do, and she’s had a hell of a time communicating where and how it’s been hurting. But she’s absolved of the suffering, fear, and overall mortality tension that weighs on many of us humans, especially at the end of the road. Assuming that responsibility is a painful privilege, but a comforting one in that respect.
Imagine, knowing you had a terminal disease, someone drugged you with happy pills, stuffed you with cheese, let you snooze to your heart’s content, and responded to your requests for more cheese with that much more cheese. Then, when the time came, that person or people made sure you ended this life painlessly with them by your side.