Friday, July 11, 2008


I love my cats.  I've had them since before kindergarten and, being a socially awkward only child, ended up caring for them more than I do anyone or thing else.  But this is about my cancer-kitty. 

He's not really a cancer kitty anymore.  For a few years a benign tumor had been growing on the knee of his good back leg (the other had been chomped in 2 and now has a plate).  It eventually got so big that he could barely walk around.  You could tell that it hurt him, but you could also see that if it weren't for that leg he'd be up and about.  The summer before it got to the point were he barely ever got up, he'd managed to climb up the stairs and onto the roof by himself.   I knew that if we could at least find a way to cut the thing down he'd be able to get up again.  So, after what felt like an eternity of asking mom to take him to a freaking vet (I really wanted them to cut it down if they couldn't cut it off), she finally did.   

The oncologist's first question was why we had let it get so bad.  

They of course ran some tests, it didn't look like it had got into the pelvis but they couldn't do anything even if it had (to the pelvis, the leg could be removed but it meant cancer would grow back) and they might not have been able to say that the cancer hadn't spread, I can't remember. 

Then they started talking about surgery.  And cost.  My mom complains about finances so much I was paranoid to spend money or ask for things even before I decided to transition.  During those moments I was terrified she'd say no.  I was forming a mental plan to quit school and get a job if I had to to make the money for Patch to get the damn operation (I hated the place anyways).    Luckily she agreed to it.  

Patch ended up getting rid of my biggest fears about transition.  The first time we were able to visit him, just a few days later,he was doing so much better.  He had lost about 1/2 his body weight (the tumor was that big), was wobbly, had needles for the tubes in him, got stitches, looked funny as heck, probably was still high on pain meds,  and I still think the moron who shaved him scraped him up a bit.  But he was doing better already.  He hop/hobbled around the exam room we ended up visiting him in, and we ended up having to hold the cat who could barely stand comfortably from bolting out the door when someone came in or out.  

This was a limb removed.  He had had cancer and was underweight before it started growing.  All I'm definitely looking at is getting rid of breasts that aren't really vital to anything but growing babes.  Starting in fall I'm going to try and get healthier, in shape, etc, for it so my body'll be in a better place to heal.  If my kitty can deal with all that and still chase flying bugs as if he were a little kitten instead of a 13 yo cancer/dog bite survivor- a little chest surgery better not be able to do too much damage.

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