Blossom was put to sleep this morning. It was the bleakest thing I’ve ever done.
She fell off a cliff on Tuesday morning. I’d been desperately sad all weekend trying to get her to eat. She’d eat a bit of tuna from my hand and then look at me as if to say “I know you want me to eat, but I’m just not up for it.” The sadness seemed to ooze from every corner of the flat as she faded, yet continued to be her lovely self.
On Monday I took her into the vet (if you are in west London, Paws Inc in Dawes Road, has the kindest and most compassionate staff I’ve ever seen) who thought it was worth giving her steroids. He thought the steroids would boost her appetite and have the added bonus of working on the tumour, and indeed when she came home she was absolutely great: she went straight to her dish and chowed down on some tuna, then proceeded to hold court with the friends who had come round to see me – and her, of course. I was elated, and went to bed with her purring next to me, thinking we’d turned a corner and that she might well get what the vet described as “three to six good months”.
On Tuesday morning, I heard her give out a loud meow about half an hour before I got up. I called her, then ignored it, as she often was pretty vocal in the morning. When I got up, I found her staggering, drooling, pawing at her mouth, trying to walk and obviously very frightened. I got dressed and took her straight round to the vet, fearing the very worst. Before we left I carried her round the flat saying goodbye to her sunny spots, cosy corners, favourite nooks, the garden, the sofas, the bed; all her places. I knew she wasn’t coming home.
I thought we’d probably have to put her to sleep there and then as she was in a bad way, stunned by whatever had happened to her, frightened and holding her head very oddly. The vet thought she’d had a stroke or that the cancer had got into her brain: I thought she’d had a stroke too, but he asked me to leave her with them.
She spent the last two days of her life on a drip. I didn’t see her on Tuesday or Wednesday: bastarding work. Simon, the vet, says she perked up last night, that she was sitting up and purring and engaging with him and I so wish I’d seen that.
When I went in with John this morning, though, it was absolutely clear that she’d come to the end. Something awful had happened to her in the night and she just lay on the table. She knew, I think, that John and I were there, but she barely responded to our voices. In the end she just slipped away without any fuss, so peacefully. I’d been very frightened about watching her die and in fact there was nothing to be scared of – if anything, it was a relief. The vet was sad, too – he’d spent a lot of time with her and he had really thought she was rallying and would be able to come home for a bit this morning.
I miss her. I miss her desperately. I keep seeing her out of the corner of my eye. I keep looking in the places I always found her: on the white sofa, on the blue sofa, on the bed. I keep expecting her to come in through the catflap with a cheery chirp. There is a huge Blossom-shaped hole in my flat and in my heart.