A Poor Prognosis

Cold, Clinical, Professional, Detached
I suppose you'd have to be
You probably have this conversation on a daily basis
"A poor prognosis" you said
"We've done all we can do" you did not say
Medicine gives us an impressive variety of options
There's always One. More. Thing. we can do
But it doesn't tell us what we should do
And you can't either

It took a while to understand what you were telling me
My questions were the wrong ones
But they were the hope I was clinging to
So maybe I needed to ask them just the same

As I was falling to pieces
My love stayed strong
She once worked in a place much like this
An invaluable translator from the clinical to the emotional
She helped me understand that there were no good choices
But I had to choose just the same

What Have I Done

In the end, it was my decision
The humane one, the correct one
I mean, you wouldn't want him to suffer, would you?
Well no, of course not
He's lived a good, long, happy, healthy life, better than many (most?)
At his age, these things progress quickly
Just days ago: "at least he's not having trouble breathing"
Now he's having trouble breathing
Tests show fluids, masses, abnormalities
He can't even lie down comfortably
It's not going to get better
The best we can hope for is to slow the progression
We'd be right back here in a few weeks, months at most





And yet.

Tap Tap Tap Tap

Never exactly stealthy, all the more so on hardwood or linoleum
A ponderous thump after leaping off of anything
I knew right away when you were on the move, where you were headed, and how quickly
Your usual destination: me

A new home, a new cat
(The fluffy black one you were beginning to tolerate)
Her noises are different from yours
But in the dark night of half-sleep, they're close enough to startle
It takes a beat for me to realize
Too late, I wake, remembering

Thirteen

Thirteen is a good age for a cat.
If you were wild, unneutered, or spent a lot of time outdoors, you'd be downright ancient.
Was it too much to ask for a few more years, though?