We found a lump, right on her belly near one of her nipples. It was concerning, because we’d never felt it there before, and that’s usually a sign of rapid cell growth. We went to the vet, who took a needle aspiration biopsy that turned out to have abnormal cells. The next step was removing the lump, which turned out to be a lump with a small lump beside it. The pathologist diagnosed it as a stage 3, malignant type of cancer, and, using the only study of its kind, gave my cat 8 months to live.
Goblin is a white cat with striking yellow eyes. When we rescued her, her name had been Snow White. As soon as she opened her mouth and meowed, we knew she was a Goblin, not a princess corpse. Her meow sounds like an old crabby grandmother complaining to her children about how much her ankles hurt.
Her original vet told us she could be anywhere from 4 to 9 years old. The vet also told us she was spayed. She wasn’t.
One of the best ways to prevent breast cancer in the mammary ducts of most cats is to get them spayed as early as possible. By the time we got her, it was too late.
Goblin has a perpetually worried face, which, now, is finally warranted.
We have a scan scheduled for two weeks from now, which will tell us if any of her other organs have been affected by the cancer. My partner and I have discussed it. If there is evidence of cancer in the other organs, we’re going to let her live out the rest of her life as comfortably as possible and love her until she goes.
If there isn’t evidence of cancer spread, I’m not sure what to do. We could pursue surgery. The first and foremost treatment for feline breast cancer is a bilateral mastectomy, which, unfortunately, has to be two different surgeries. Goblin has a heart condition, which means any time we put her under could be dangerous.
Goblin’s favorite pill pocket flavor is chicken, and she’ll turn up her nose at every other flavor.
The oncologist sent us a study that indicates even with surgery she still has barely more than 8 months left. This cancer is virulent and merciless. But what if she’s the statistical anomaly?
Goblin’s head sometimes smells like vanilla, and she has the softest fur. Her favorite game is when I slide hair ties down the banister so she can catch them in her paws.
I try not to think about it too much. The same feeling of rage and helplessness I felt before my own mastectomy decision is present, but now it comes with a sense of abject fear. I can gamble with my life, make decisions that impact my health with full understanding, but how can I make the same gamble with her life? She’s a cat, but she’s a person with whom I have limited communication and with whom I’ve shared a life.
Goblin has a meow that sounds like she’s saying hello. She has another that sounds like she’s saying wow.
I’ve cried over the situation, spent a day grieving the loss that hasn’t happened yet. I’m no closer to finding a solution that feels fair. I know life isn’t fair.
If I could have the surgery for her, bear the pain of surgery and recovery, take on the risk, I’d do it in a tiny heartbeat. She might know that.
We’ve lived with her for six years, and no matter how many more we’ll get it will never be enough. Her presence is a joy, and she shares her warmth with anyone who sits still long enough for her to climb onto their lap.
Melcontents 