Tripaw

I woke early on a spring Saturday morning to Colin walking into my room with a look of deep concern on his face, “Mom, Peaches is hurt!”

I open the front door and Peaches, our 10 month old kitty, is curled up on a chair on the front porch, with her radius bone protruding from her front arm. Her paw hangs limp and bloody, seemingly unconnected to her arm. This is my baby, the littlest of all of our 3 cats, so tiny and fragile. I gently pick her up and bring her in, placing her on blanket. I stay calm. People have broken bones that protrude all of the time. Yes, she’ll need veterinary care, but it’s just a broken bone. The vet will fix it, but it’s only 7:15 AM and the vet’s office isn’t open. I inspect the injury, she does not appear to be losing any more blood. She is a mess, with streaks of diarrhea erratically scattered in her fur. I want to wash her off but know she hates it and it would just add to what has clearly already been a traumatic experience.

I weigh my options. Wait until the vet opens at 8 AM? Take her into the emergency room? My mind is becoming cloudy and I am having difficulty making a decision. I wait 15 minutes and then call my mom, guru of pet care. We talk it through together. Peaches most likely needs surgery. What are the chances the vet can see her with a busy Saturday clinic? Even if she could see her, would she have the time or expertise to do the surgery? It becomes clear to me after answering these questions that I’m in an emergency situation, so I hang up with mom and call the emergency vet. They tell me to bring her in.

Peaches was accidentally left outside the night before. We have had cats in this neighborhood for over 15 years, and many nights the cats have been left outside, with no issues. With the kittens, we made more of a concerted effort to bring them in, but we didn't strictly enforce this policy. No one knew she was out.

But I’m her cat mom and I’m responsible for her well-being. She is severely injured and could have a bad infection; she could have been injured for many hours. The guilt is compounded by having our older tabby cat, Wickett, also have a night-time injury where she broke her foot and was recovering from surgery to fuse her foot to a steel plate. Two cats injured at night under my care, in less than 1 month. I choke down a sob thinking about how I didn’t protect them. Then I start spiraling, remembering that I didn’t protect Andy either.

I pack her up as carefully as I can in her cat carrier, trying to keep it as level as possible as I put her in the car. Immediately after I turn the ignition I feel the panic surging. I’m in an emergency situation. Again. Deep in my core I feel the effects of trauma, a memory response. Breathing becomes more labored, and a sense of panic sets in. I begin sobbing and call my mom again through the tears as I drive to the vet. All of my fears and insecurities are now piling up, creating a whirlwind of emotion. I’m saddened that I’m alone in making these decisions. I feel guilty I keep letting our furry family members be subjected to intense pain and trauma.

I’ve already been here three times in the last year. The day I was in charge of making decisions about when to be concerned about Andy, when to call to have people check on him, and all of the phone calls and seemingly endless waiting still haunts me. I’ve worked hard to squelch the guilt for what I could and should have done; most days I’m successful at rising above it and reminding myself that I did the best I could with the information I had at the time. Today, I question my decision-making authority. The conviction I built up that I can do this on my own without Andy is quickly unraveling.

After I pull into the parking lot of the emergency vet, I sit and wait a while for Peaches to be brought inside. Despite the fact that we can go into all buildings now that we are over 2 years into the COVID pandemic, veterinarian offices seem to hold onto this new world of no humans accompanying their pets. It strikes me as odd that there are permanent signs of this being the new normal, with aluminum signposts set in concrete displaying the COVID protocol to call and wait in the parking lot.

I am crying pretty hard now. A new skill I’ve learned. I can do it anywhere, but also can shut it off in seconds if needed. The memories came flooding back. The phone calls to decide if Andy’s ok. A month later, the phone call to come to our regular vet, just a few blocks away from where I am now when our older cat Abbey succumbed to kidney failure. The decision that was mine and mine alone to put her to sleep. The irony that I was allowed to make this choice to end her suffering, but Andy’s choice was unsanctioned. The anguish of having to let go of another family member, even if a furrier one, just weeks after the impossible loss of my husband.

I felt the sorrowful waves of grief intersecting and amplifying, multiplying my heartache. And then again with Peanut, our little COVID pet hamster. A husband and 2 pets in 2 months. I was devastated at the prospect of another end of a life, one again cut too short. It was too much. I vividly recalled Andy telling me many months before his death that he didn’t want to die alone, and the crushing sorrow knowing he was alone when he died. But with Abbey, and then Peanut, I could be there. I could stroke their fur until they took their last breathe. I know I could have asked someone else to help me, but I felt it was my duty to be her custodian into death. If I couldn’t be there for Andy, at least I can be there for Peanut, with a warm and loving hand to hold and comfort her.

Eventually, Peaches goes inside, and they call back 10 minutes later to tell me she is stable and I can leave her. The wave of grief passes, and I return home to be with the kids. The vet said it could be 4-6 hours before we would hear anything, so we cancel our plans to meet with friends and just wait, in the holding pattern to hear more. Naively, I thought we may need to go pick her up after surgery.

Eight hours later, I’m with the kids at the grocery store, ordering a late lunch from all the deli counters, waiting for the orders to be filled when the vet finally calls. She tells me she will need surgery, and that they may recommend reconstruction. Then she drops the bomb on me:

“But in cases like Peaches we find that amputation often offers a better solution. The damage appears to be very significant based on the x-ray. She has additional damage in her paw, and the joint where her bone broke is very difficult to heal. There is also the risk of infection, and while she is receiving antibiotics now, with an amputation that risk is very minimal, as all of the infected tissue would be removed. Cats do very well with 3-legs, and she would be expected to make a full recovery.”

I cannot believe what I am hearing, I literally lose my breathe and can hardly speak. I’m in shock. I walk outside the store for some fresh air as the vet continues to give me more details. The surgeon has been busy all day with more pressing surgeries and hasn’t had time to review her case, but he will weigh in to see if this is the best treatment plan. We go over the costs next - $6-7K. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. I’ve been trying to find my financial footing for much of the last year, and I’m not yet prepared to weather unexpected large bills. I quickly do the math and realize that I’ll have spent $10,000 in less than one month on the cats. No price tag would have been too high to save them, so it was never a question of whether it was too much. Preserving the life of our fuzzy family members was essential after all of the losses we had been through this year. But I began to worry about how many of these emergency expenses would come up. How many can I afford? What if there are more that I don’t see coming?

I wanted to go home, and felt the desperate need to cry. But our deli orders were still in process and I had a full grocery cart. Thirty minutes later, after one of the longest and slowest grocery check out lines I can remember, I finally made it home. We brought the bags of groceries in, along with lunch, and I told the kids I needed some time. I asked them to unload and I made a beeline for my room. I sat and cried on the floor of my closet, the most soundproof room in our house. I sobbed uncontrollably and started to feel the pity party coming on strong. I had to cope with this alone, without the support of another adult. So I call my mom, again. I can hardly speak I’m crying so hard. I let it all out. I tell her Peaches will likely have an amputation, that I was completely blindsided by this and never imagined this could be a possibility. She tells me it crossed her mind, but she didn’t want to bring it up and worry me. I begin my downward spiral, spilling my guts. I share my fears about my inadequacies as a responsible pet owner, the guilt that I let this happen. She’s at an art fair with my aunt and sister, they are hearing all of my blubbering. The all chime in to say how sorry they are. They share their own pet mishap stories, and the guilt they felt, but they keep reminding me that sometimes these things happen and I am not to blame. I talk openly, too openly, about how much the surgery is. It’s an amount I can afford, but what they don’t realize is that I’m really voicing my fears that I can’t do this life alone. I can’t handle the decision-making, or sustain my current lifestyle with my income. My confidence in myself has fallen to zero. I’m completely devastated in in the depths of a new wave of grief. Yes, it is Peaches and grief over what she has lost. But this loss just magnifies all of the weak spots of my recovery. The places where I’m not yet resilient.

After about an hour, Colin comes in. I’m consciously aware that I can try to hide my sorrow, or let him see me cry. I opt for the latter, it seems easier and authentic. I’m tired of hiding the tears, and I’m aware that this is a deviation from the past when I was an accomplice to helping to hide Andy’s. I tell him I’m sad, but I feel bad for Peaches, and I feel guilty for letting her down. He, too, is depressed, and says he keeps wondering what he could have done to prevent this from happening. I reassure him with the same words my own family just told me: sometimes these things happen, it sucks, but it’s not our fault. Learn one, teach one…

Natalie walks in moments later. She is stoic and says, “It’s ok to have a 3-legged cat”. I’m both in awe of her wisdom and practical perspective, and also concerned that she feels no grief.

The kids resume their baking project, our back-up plan for the day when we canceled our earlier plans. It was also the reason for the grocery trip. Colin has decided to make a cheesecake, something neither of us have done before, but his indecision in selecting a receipe means he opted to combine instructions from 2 recipes. This creates some confusion, and he is also starting to make mistakes. The emotional load from the day is building up. He realizes that he forgot to flash-bake the graham cracker crush before pouring in the filling. Out of frustration, he leaves the kitchen, stomps into the living room and karate-chops the top of a reclining chair. He incorrectly assumed the chair would be soft, and did not realize there is a rigid hard structure beneath. He is immediately in pain, and Colin is not one to exaggerate pain. He has a high pain tolerance, as do I, and many in the Burtch family. I wait a few minutes but the pain is worsening, it is clearly not passing. It is 8 PM on a Saturday night. I know it is not an urgent imminent issue to solve. I know it can wait until morning, at least, but I’m supposed to take Natalie to her soccer game. I can’t decide how seriously I should take this and how long it can wait.

I’m emotionally drained. I cannot believe this has happened after the day I’ve had. I’m so tired, I don’t even have the energy to Google. I go straight to phoning a friend. I’ve worked with physicians for over 15 years professionally, and have many I could call in a pinch. My go-to friend relocated to the east coast, so I was trying a new friend on for size, a mom friend. She was amazing, she offered to drive right over and helped be the adult I needed to make an informed decision. We both agreed it could wait until tomorrow, and if it wasn’t worse, maybe until Monday. She also stayed to chat, and provided some much needed distraction from the weight of the day.

It wasn’t until Monday that I was able to see Peaches. Her surgery was Sunday morning, and they wanted to keep her overnight to monitor her. After getting an appointment for Colin to get his hand checked out with accompanying x-rays, I swung home to pick up Wickett for her appointment to get her stitches out at our regular vet, and finally made it to bring home Peaches. I opened the gate of the cat carrier, and she slowly stumbled out. She was in a transparent plastic cone, with the entire upper half of her body shaved. She looked like she had been through a war.

She immediately jumped on the couch (which she was not supposed to do). I picked her up and put her on my lap and she began purring. It was then that I realized that my mind had exaggerated the severity of the situation. I began thinking of COVID patients who were dying and unable to see their loved ones, the agony of being separated and not know what is happening. That’s what I felt with Peaches; they physical separation disconnected me from her. I concocted a tragedy worse than the one I was living in. Once I could see her, pet her, and look into her eyes I realized she was still Peaches, just minus one paw. Touching her fur grounded and soothed me. I also began to have such gratitude that she was alive. Our best guess, and based on the types of wounds she endured, is that she was attacked by the resident raccoon who had been frequenting our backyard over the past few months. Her injuries could have been more severe, we were actually lucky.

I spent the next 2 weeks in “kitty jail” (aka my home office) with Peaches. I bonded with her in a deeper and more meaningful way. She curled up to sleep on my lap for hours, an easier task for her as she was on a lot of pain medications. I envisioned her as a cartoon superhero with her ears down flat, tackling the world. Over the last 6 weeks, I’ve been amazed at how well she has recovered. She can jump just as high; run just as fast, catch just as many bugs; and importantly kick, bite, and fight her sister with as much vigor as before. She is truly amazing. She became a symbol to me, a symbol of recovery, resilience, gratitude and grit. She is my tripaw, initially designed to function on all fours, but completely capable of operating on 3. Just like me, Colin, and Natalie.