Goodbye to Julie

My phone backdrop. I don't know the exact year or place this photo was taken, but it captures a Julie elegance that I will always appreciate. 

I’ve never been that good at saying “no” to Julie. (This doesn’t apply to her long-standing dietary restrictions — those will be the subject of another post.)   She hops up on the kitchen table — I look the other way.   She hops up on my lap — I let her stay until she’s ready to go. Which, if she falls asleep, could be hours.   For the last weeks, that sentiment has been turned up to 11.   Last week, we shared what I already call in my head “The Couch Night.” I write it down here just so I know I’ll remember. Because I know that these days will become a blur, and there will be a time years from now when I do not think of Julie every day.   On The Couch Night, I was watching a basketball game in the living room well after my usual bedtime. The Dallas Mavericks are in the playoffs, playing on the west coast, and I had to force myself to stay up until one in the morning. The game ends, and I’m about to head upstairs for bed. I see Julie approach, and I know what wi...

Julie was fairly normal last night. She ate. She sat on my lap. Aside from the excessive licking of her genitals from the UTI (which I will keep monitoring, but should subside in the next day or so), she seemed to be 100%.   But this morning, something is again amiss.   She does not sleep on the bed with me. Okay.   She’s not there, meowing for breakfast, when I wake up. Okay. She’s not there, flicking around the bathroom when I hop in the shower and brush my teeth. Okay.   I go downstairs to the kitchen, and there she is. She meows to greet me. Okay!   But, that’s it. She has no interest in her food. No interest even in her Squeeze-Up treats, which she adores and have been a fantastic vector to administer her pain medication. I shake a treat in her direction; normally she would approach me like a bear to honey. She does not react. I come closer. She scurries to a spot under the couch.   Okay.   I leave her food in her bowl, mixing in the Squeeze-Up tr...

Yesterday, May 25, was maybe the best day of the last two weeks.   On May 25, I took Julie to the veterinary oncologist.   The news, well, it was the news. It was not good news, but I knew that it would not be good. At least it was news.  She has advanced squamous cell carcinoma in her right jaw.   The oncologist recommended an x-ray and staging tests to make sure the cancer has not spread. The lungs and lymph nodes are of particular concern.   Surgery, the oncologist says, is not an option. It would require removing a sizable portion of her jaw, which cats do not tolerate well. It would only be a matter of time before she stopped eating.   Surgery is viable in less than ten percent of cases. By the time the cancer is detected, it’s too late for that.   Radiation can address the bone pain. Alternately, an oral chemo drug can slow down the progression of the tumor.   The prognosis is 3-6 months.   But with treatment, she can feel better for th...

This is from Saturday, May 22, 2021.  A friend is at the house, reading the rules of a complicated board game. Julie, an unpaid advisor, sleeps on my lap. 

I’m home in Texas for Christmas. Angela goes to see her family in Dutchess County, New York. We aren’t married yet; on holidays, we still go our separate ways.   This means Julie will, for the first time in her life, be on her own.   My friend Jay offers to cat sit. I’m nervous, but I don’t want to be the guy who pesters his friend about the cat’s welfare, so I keep it cool. These days, Julie has a cat sitter who drops by whenever we’re out of town. The cat sitter gets paid and I have no hesitation to ask her for updates and photos. In 2007, we can’t afford the luxury of a paid cat sitter. We use Jay, for free, and I don’t bother him with too many questions.   I later learn that Jay isn’t a cat person. He means well, of course. But not everyone knows how to interact with them. Cats can tell when you want their attention. They will come to you on their own terms. This is a valuable life lesson, I’d later realize. With some people, you need to let them think what you want i...

Today’s photo is a throwback to before Julie was even Julie. Yes, this is from the Lola days, and it depicts possibly the first game of Lick Lick Bite, which itself will be the subject of a future post. The orange tabby is Duncan, and he is clearly oblivious to the bite that’s about to come.  

It’s six in the morning. I just woke up, and I have to pee.   But I feel something. A rumbling, traveling up my leg to the calf. And I hear something, the unmistakable rasp of Julie’s purr.   Wonder how long I can hold this pee inside.   Today of all days, I might prefer to just piss myself, if the other options is disturbing her perfect sanctity and ending this moment.   Half an hour passes, and I do not regret this decision at all. (No, I didn’t piss myself, but I came pretty close.)   An hour passes. At this point, I have to get up and get ready for work. I lean up, leaving my legs as they were. Her head perks up to look at me. This is all part of an established routine: I awake with Julie on my legs, I arise to pet her without moving my legs, she soaks in the attention and then springs awake, ready to lead me in the direction of her bowl.   Today, she stays on the bed longer than usual. Perhaps she has the sense of the fleeting nature of these moments. ...

No sooner than I press “publish,” I get a call from the oral surgeon.   Cancer.   We discussed options, with the understanding that these will be covered in more depth next week with the oncologist. But they didn’t sound great. He recommended against surgery. It would be a traumatic, difficult procedure with considerable recovery time. And Julie’s quality of life afterward might be severely compromised. The procedure would involve removing a large chunk of her jaw. She might be unable to eat or drink.   Radiation or chemo might, or might not, reduce the size of the tumor. But they would be stressful and difficult, and would cause her great discomfort.   A palliative care, such as steroids, could manage the inflammation and keep her comfortable.  But it would only be a matter of time.  Yes, that word. Time.  “How much time does she have?” I asked.   “It could be a few weeks. It could be a few months.” A few weeks. A few months. That’s all the time ...

We have developments today, I suppose. Julie’s biopsy results have not come back yet. Evidently, the test takes longer because it includes bone, and not just tissue.   Last Tuesday, the results would come back in 3-5 days.   When I called on Friday, I was told that, actually, it usually takes 5-7 days. Now, today, I’m told that they will hopefully be in by the end of the week. Whatever. On Monday, May 17, I called every veterinary oncologist in New Jersey. A few of them were long-ass drives away, but I called ‘em all. Perhaps it’s just due to limited supply, but it’s incredibly hard to get an appointment with one of these vets.   “We have mid-June,” one said. “Mid-June? I don’t have any idea how much time we have. I can’t wait till mid-June.” “That’s our next appointment.”   Jesus. Who calls an oncologist for an appointment in four weeks? Finally, I got one with an appointment available next Tuesday, May 25. I would love to get in this week, but it looks like this is...

Today. Julie shares my lap with Annie, the dog.  Their dynamic, which will be the subject of a future post, is well-conveyed in this photo. Julie is relaxed and in her own world. The dog is antsy, excited, and slightly terrified to be so close to her older sister. 

It’s Saturday, May 15 — the first weekend since the news.   I drove to Pennsylvania today to play in a racquetball tournament. I signed up for the event months ago — the first event I’ve played since COVID. Today was a Saturday that I would have rather been a Julie Day, but maybe it helped to get out of the house and think about something else.   In my internet reading before I drifted off last night, I found a few people who said that steroids could reduce the size of the tumor. Which got me into a tizzy about trying to get her to see an oncologist to prescribe them, or to prescribe something to have the same effect, or just to do anything, really.   This. This is the most frustrating time. The dead time. The days that pass when I can do nothing of substance for Julie. When I know, but I don’t know.   When I haven’t gotten an official diagnosis. When I have no real treatment to to give her, except for the pain medicines prescribe by her vet.   When we still do ...

From last night -- a sign of normalcy.  Watching some old Breaking Bad with Julie on my lap. And take note of whose face is on the sweatpants. 

At noon on May 11, 2021, I found out that Julie has cancer.  At 12:30 p.m. that day, I went to get a haircut.   I would normally go for lunch at this time, but I couldn’t eat. My stomach had that weird feeling that accompanies tragic news. I thought about hanging around court, but that would put me in close proximity to other people. There’s about a dozen lawyers, myself included, that spend most of their days in this particular traffic court. I’m friendly with all of them, and count a few as close friends.   I’d be forced to talk to them. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. So I got a haircut. I’m the type that sits in dead silence during a haircut. It’s not personal. I guess at baseline, I’m an introvert, although I’m very good at pretending to be the opposite from nine to five. I have my regular barber on May 11. He’s a nice guy, and we know each other, but we never get past small talk. Today it’s smaller than small talk.   “The city is opening up again, huh?" “Yep.”...

In what I expect will be a regular feature:  Right after we moved into our new home, in October 2020, it was just me and Julie. My wife and the dog would stay in Connecticut for another week. Without my wife as the enforcer of rules, I put Julie on the cabinet above the refrigerator, so she could survey her new empire from on high. 

  November, 2007.   My girlfriend Angela and I live together in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I worked in politics, managing a City Council campaign. She was temping in a corporate office, biding time until medical school.   The week before, my candidate was elected in a surprising victory. For a few days, I reveled in this achievement, in the congratulations and the media buzz. But by the end of the next week, I realized a few (admittedly, obvious) things. One, I personally had not been elected to the City Council, my boss had. Two, I was unemployed and lacking clear job prospects in Cambridge.   I began discussing plans to go home to Texas for the upcoming holidays. Angela mused that she would be lonely when I was away. “Maybe we should get a cat,” she said.   Of course I wanted a cat. I’ve loved cats my whole life. I was raised by a veritable cat lady. At our peak, my family had ten domestic cats, plus an ever-evolving herd of outside cats that my mom fed each da...