Blossom is still at the vet, where I took her yesterday morning after she crashed badly. We had been on Monday evening for a steroids jab, which the vet hoped would stimulate her appetite, and indeed when we got home she was noticeably brighter and went straight to her dish and chowed down on some tuna.
Not that she hadn’t been quite bright throughout the past difficult few days since she’d been diagnosed with the tumour: the most heartbreaking thing of all has been the fact that she’s been absolutely herself, but fading gently as she was eating so little. The vet was optimistic that the steroids would give her a boost and that if she responded, she’d have “three to six” good months left.
However, yesterday morning it all went horribly wrong. When I got up, she could barely stand, was staggering, drooling, pawing at her mouth and holding her head very strangely, and clearly very frightened. I rushed her round to the vet, whose first thought was that she’d had a stroke or that the cancer had got into her brain.
Later in the day it transpired that her potassium levels, which were low anyway, had fallen and he thought that that could well have produced the terrifying and distressing symptoms. She seems to have picked up a bit on the drip and she’s eaten a bit, but this evening I am not confident that she’s going to be coming home with me tomorrow. The vet says that she’s ok in herself, her temperature and colour is good and that she seems to be all there, but she’s not very interested in food: she might be “turning her little nose to the wall”.
Yesterday before I took her to the vet I carried her around the flat saying goodbye to the bed, the sofas, the sunny spots, the garden, the cosy corners. I am getting used to the idea, but my heart is shredded at the thought of losing her.