Tuesday, July 26

I’m back at a familiar place. The Balkan restaurant in Clifton, NJ, where I’ve bided time during Julie’s radiation treatments.

Julie is back at the oncologist this morning, but not for another radiation session. She’s all done with those. (There’s a chance, in a best-case scenario, that if she’s better and still with me in a few months, that she can go in for another round of radiation treatment. But I don’t want to let myself think about that until it’s an actual possibility.) Today’s appointment is a checkup to see how she’s doing, test her blood cell counts, and see what the mass in her jaw looks like. 

And how is she doing? I wish I knew. For a few weeks, I daresay she was the old Julie again, or pretty damn close. She looked good. She had her usual level of spunk and affection. It was an amazing site. 

For the last few days, though, she’s been reclusive. She has adopted a repulsion to the medication that far exceeds anything I am used to seeing from her. And while she’s eating, she doesn’t have her old appetite or her old zest for life. 

I don’t know what to do. 

The news from the doctor is at least somewhat optimistic, I guess? I don’t really know anymore. 

“She looks better,” the oncologist says, “but we are still waiting on some tests and bloodwork.”

So we don’t know much more today than we did yesterday. 

On the way home, watching Julie sitting shotgun in her carrier, I feel a rush of irresponsibility. 

Zip. Down goes the carrier door. And she’s out, in the passenger seat, and then on the floor, and then in the backseat, and then in my lap, and then shotgun again, zoomed to life with a cat’s never-ending desire to explore. 

The ride home is a blast. I have to grab Julie when she runs down by my feet. It would be an appropriate way for me to go, I know. 

“What happened here?” asks a passerby, shaking his head somberly at the scene of the fiery crash. 

“His cat blocked the brake,” replies the investigating officer. 

She sits in my lap, looking out the driver side window, much to the amusement of the people passing me. Yes, for this ride, I occupy the right lane and drive at a grandmotherly speed. Julie bounces around the car like a kitten, leaving a half-cat’s worth of fur behind in the passenger’s seat. We get back home at around ten in the morning, leaving me with enough time to shower, change clothes, eat breakfast, and walk the dog. In the midst of all this, Julie keeps trying to get out. Every time I open the back door, she runs toward it. 

“Not now, baby,” I say. “I have to go to work.”

But what can I say? I certainly can’t say no to Julie anymore. Out we go, with her on her leash. It’s 11:30 in the morning on a Tuesday, and I’m walking my cat along the side of the house. 

In hindsight, I should have just called out for the day and enjoyed it with her.