Barely Bailey

She is still there. I see it twice a day when the first 12-hour dose of her medicine wears off and before the next dose takes full effect. For about 45 minutes twice a day she is alert, she is joyful and, for the most part, she is strong and stable. For about 45 minutes each day, she enjoys a short walk to greet friends at the park. For about 45 minutes twice a day I see light in her eyes. And because of those 45 minutes twice a day, I know that she is still there, even though for much of the other time she lies restlessly, neither awake nor asleep. Even tough the rest of the time she breathes with a rasp not heard for several months. Even though when she moves it is unsteadily, falling frequently, walking headfirst into objects, and at times appearing lost and scared. But because of those 45 minutes twice a day, I know that she is still there even though her eyes, clouded and fixed, reveal little life the rest of the time. Because of those 45 minutes twice a day, I tolerate the feeling of my heart slowly breaking.

The cats—Bailey’s cats; the cats that she raised and cared for since they were just nine weeks old—they know that something is wrong. Since Bailey returned from the veterinary emergency hospital, Milo has shadowed her everywhere. For three days now wherever Bailey is, Milo is nearby watching her closely, grooming her, or cuddling with her. And whenever she falls (which is infrequent only because she rarely gets up) or whenever her breathing is abnormal (which is far too frequent), both Mabel and Milo run to her but look to me with faces seeming to plead for help. Before, whenever I wondered how the cats would react when Bailey is gone, I took comfort in the notion that, as cats, they will adapt quickly. Now, I am not so sure. But, they are cats. But they are Bailey’s cats.

One day's medicine

Bailey is medicated. She is over-medicated. The first day was dangerous—the falls were frequent and hard. Now, after reducing the dosage of the one drug that I knew I could, she is very slightly more stable—more precisely, slightly less unstable. And she likely will adapt to the medications at least to some extent—at some point she will not get as drowsy and aloof. But to what degree? I hope that we (the vets and I) can find a satisfactory balance between seizure prevention and retaining some of Bailey’s mental alertness and physical activity. I hope that we will be able to find an acceptable trade-off between pain reduction and her being awake and present. But, for now, save those 45 minutes twice a day, she has little life. For now, save those 45 minutes twice a day, she is not usually sleeping (I could accept that), but lies suspended in an unpleasant plane somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. For now, save those precious 45 minutes twice a day, she is barely Bailey.

In the next few days I will make a decision—hopefully, not that decision. I pray that she will adapt sufficiently to the medications and the decision will be made easy. If not, I will opt to provide her the opportunity to live more fully even if increasing the risk of seizure and even if shortening her life. And if this decision cannot provide her the opportunity to be really Bailey without undo pain or suffering, then I will consider that decision and hope that I can put aside my own wishes and pain, to do what is right for her.