Sunday, July 25

It was going to be a good Julie day. 

I woke up with her on my legs, as all days should begin. For the last two hours of sleep, her purring formed a harmonious soundtrack for my dreams. 


When I woke, she flitted around the bedroom, and while I showered and dressed, she kept a watchful eye. 


And when I came downstairs, she was up to her old mischief. She had that look in her eye, the look that tells me she’s okay. She was rubbing her face against the kitchen table, frolicking around the kitchen and dining area, and the rest of the time was no more than a foot or two away from me. 


I thought it would be a good time to medicate her. She was nearby and accounted for, and would be easy to grab. Every other day, I give her Palladia. Twice a day, Gabapentin. She last got the Palladia on Friday morning, and it was a battle. I could give both in one fell swoop, then feed her breakfast and get on with the day. 


And I grabbed her, and did the deed. Palladia is a chemo drug, meaning I have to wear gloves during administration. But if I put the gloves on first, Julie will run — she knows what the sound of me donning gloves means. So I put one glove on my right hand after I clutch her in my left. And here goes nothing. 


Except, this time, something is different. Julie hates having these pills put down her throat, but today she has a frightening reaction, a truly animalistic repulsion, scratching and howling in a note I’ve never heard her reach before. I look in her eyes. She’s truly miserable. 


After a few scratches and a few minutes of struggle, I get the pull down the hatch, and then the liquid Gabapentin. I hold her mouth shut to make sure it’s down, whispering to her the whole time and kissing the top of her head. 


And then I let her go, and she cavorts into the living room, under the couch. 


And then I see the pill, moist from saliva but undigested, on the floor. 


For the rest of the day, Julie hides in her now-familiar hiding spot, and I don’t see her. She doesn’t even come out for dinner. 


And that ended the once-good Julie day. 


It’s days like this when I wonder whether it’s worth it at all — the procedures, the medications, the routinized agony. 

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