Animals bond with us. Breast cancer-and our cats, Gracie and
Glory- have personally shown me that.
Glory is a traditional Calico, possessing the white, black
and orange, tri-colored coat. Personality-wise, she is Joan Jett in demeanor.
Get the picture?
Gracie is known as a “Diluted Calico.” To use fashion terms,
if Glory is color blocking, then Gracie is pastels. Her grey/lavender fur has swirls
of peach highlights blended in. Temperament-wise, Gracie is friendlier.
Playful.
Upon my diagnosis, Glory, became increasingly more withdrawn.
Gracie, however, glommed onto me. After I had my bilateral
mastectomy, she constantly “pinned” me. She first targeted my bandaged chest,
an off-limits area. Sequestered to the couch, I’d redirect her to my legs.
Eventually, the two of us “negotiated” her place there. She’d
do a few clockwise turns, adjusting her comfy nook, purring. She’d pin me all
night.
This continued with my course of radiation. During my 30-day
treatment, I’d rest until each appointment. Gracie sat on my legs, making sure
I stayed put. When I left for my treatment, she became despondent. I often heard
her crying three flights down as I left our flat.
Her
behavior was concerning; I called our veterinarian. She only stated, “she wants
to protect you.”
I
asked my radiation nurse about Gracie; she told me I was emitting a stress
hormone.
I
didn’t know what to do. I cuddled with her and gave her extra treats. She still
constantly monitored me.
Unfortunately,
months later, Gracie started vomiting grey liquid and was lethargic. After
numerous vet visits, a regimen of antibiotics, steroids and painkillers
commenced. She was struggling. She woke me up, screaming, with wild eyes,
desperate for relief. She kept me up all
night, night after night. It was agony. She wasn’t getting better, despite
efforts, medicine, prayers.
No,
not now. But there is never a
good time to lose someone you love.
On
one painful morning, she passed away.
Losing
Gracie was worse than losing my breasts.
Grieving
her has been transition for us, especially with Glory. Again, she’s Joan Jett,
not a cuddle baby. But cuddling and pinning me is now what she’s doing.
She commandeers my lap, often sitting on me while I write,
with her head draped over my left arm. This is the same cat, who, during her
checkups, has drawn blood.
Her cuddlier moments are unhinging. Why is she doing this?
Just self-interested, feline behavior… or is it something else? Does she “love” me?
Glory
teaches me about self-care, as I’m in “cancer survivorship.” I am to be ferocious. I am to swipe
claws if I need to. I’m to take care of myself with no apologies.
Indeed, our connection with animals has its benefits:
comfort, support, companionship. But I also believe there is purpose to each
of us, pets included, confounding explanation.
As I make my way through this cancer experience, Gracie and
Glory are, indeed, those confounding- and wonderful- beings.
Copyright © 2020 by
Sheryle Cruse
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