A really quick (and quite lazy to be frank) piece of vent art. I needed a way to unleash my feelings quickly and artistically.
Sadly we lost one of the family cats on Wednesday. We don't know exactly when the tumours began appearing, but poor Candy, one of two of our cats with her sister (Cotton), hadn't been right for a while. She'd often throw up after guzzling down her food, which she'd never used to do, yet there was no apparent change in her behaviour. Nevertheless, we brought it up took her to the vet a while ago to get her annual vaccinations (this was whilst I was at home for Christmas). He, though not our regular vet, checked her and he said that it was probably a thyroid problem, even taking a blood test for us. Her white blood cell count was up slightly, but there was 'no need for concern'. With that, we took her home and, under the advice of the vet, cut their food down. I then had to go back to University to continue my studies. And for four weeks, everything was fine.
Or so we all thought.
After a while, both cats began to lose weight, which was to be expected. Only Candy lost a lot more weight than her sister. Drastically so. I had no idea that any of this was going on, my family being in Cambridge and my University being in North Wales (they're a 4 1/2 hour car journey and an even longer train journey apart). But according to my family, they had to take her in on Monday after she lay down on her side and had difficulty getting to her feet and breathing in general. The regular vet checked her over this time when he came across a small lump located just below her chest cavity. My mum was allowed to take her home and rang me up to let me know what had happened. Being a zoologist, I decided to Google the subject. And oh dear. Everywhere I looked that one word kept appearing. Cancer. I shrugged it off. It could have just been an infection. The bacteria involved with tuberculosis in humans produce solid lumps of calcium carbonate. It could have be something like that.
But I was so, so wrong.
I was sat at my desk on Wednesday afternoon. It was Reading Week, so we had no lectures to go to. Just work to catch up on. So I had decided to work on my homework for my Tutorial session: re-writing an abstract for a scientific journal paper. Our tutor was working on cancer research, so (rather ironically) I had to use a journal paper on cancer research, my particular being a paper on detecting bladder cancer. It was around 14:30 when I heard the faint humming of my mobile on my bedside cabinet, followed by a loud ringing tone. I immediately got up ran over to it, expecting it to be either my mum or one of my flatmates. Seeing my mother's name on the screen, I had an idea of what was coming. Candy. Nervously, I slid my finger across the bottom of the screen to activate my end of the line. My mum's voice was distant when I spoke to her. She told me the news I was expecting: Candy had been diagnosed with cancer. I remember taking a sharp intake of breath before asking my next question: 'how long has she been given.' The deathly silence of my mother's pause still haunts me slightly, more than the words she said next.
'We actually put her to sleep at the vets earlier today.'
I remember almost dropping my phone as I slumped back down into my desk chair. The shock was overwhelming. That little cat? The one who I had seen grow up from an 11-month-old? The one who'd been so shy at first, but latched onto my little sister and myself as time went by? The same cat who'd play with me? Who'd sit by my laptop as I'd work from home? I did everything I could to deny it in my mind. But, as comes to us all, maturity took over. I guess not being at home, with the atmosphere and everything, helped me to accept things more easily. I burst into tears, sobbing and squeaking down the phone at my mother. They were mainly squeaks of 'I'm sorry I can't be there' or 'you did everything you could for her, it's not your fault.' I felt so trapped and helpless in my little University room, over 200 road miles away from home. I kept on thinking I should be with my family. Issy especially. My thoughts were immediately with her. Her bond with Candy was the strongest of all. It was even stronger than the one between my sister and me, as Candy would always be there for her if we got into a fight. I managed to speak to both mum and dad that afternoon, but Issy wouldn't speak to anyone. She'd shut herself in her room to grieve privately. I knew she'd be fine deep down, but this didn't stop me from worrying about her. I remember how awful I felt her age and I didn't suffer such a great loss as her. It frightened me greatly.
After the initial phone call my flatmate came to my door. Seeing the tear tracks on my face, I explained the situation to her and many hugs were shared. She had to continue to work, so I took myself off to the local pier to clear my head. There was no way that I was continuing my work on that abstract now. The 'high' winds at the far end of the pier helped to take my mind off things, as well as a quick trip to the swings after my walk. Fish and chips made for a great comfort dinner, before logging onto CS and trying (and failing) to judge the Cottonwood Jousting Tournament. I called it a night relatively early on. I wasn't in the mood to stay up for too long, despite being able to laugh and smile again so quickly.
I've been ringing home everyday since, mainly to check up on my sister more than anything. Today was the first day I actually managed to talk to her (besides through Facebook). She seemed different, half-herself-half-shadowed. It is more than understandable that she is still grieving. I was just relieved to hear from her. So relieved I almost broke down into tears of joy at the sound of her voice. I almost hugged my phone! I will probably ring everyone again on Sunday to check on them now. They need some space, especially since Candy still needs to be buried...
We still have little Cotton, which is a big relief. She's not as loving towards Issy as Candy was, but she's still a funny little thing. We're also thinking of getting a new kitten, both as a playmate for Cotton (though she's 8 years now), but more importantly as a companion for Issy. The prospect seems to have given her hope and is probably the reason I was able to speak to her today. Just goes to show:
Every cloud, no matter her dark and ominous, will have a silver lining.
Sadly we lost one of the family cats on Wednesday. We don't know exactly when the tumours began appearing, but poor Candy, one of two of our cats with her sister (Cotton), hadn't been right for a while. She'd often throw up after guzzling down her food, which she'd never used to do, yet there was no apparent change in her behaviour. Nevertheless, we brought it up took her to the vet a while ago to get her annual vaccinations (this was whilst I was at home for Christmas). He, though not our regular vet, checked her and he said that it was probably a thyroid problem, even taking a blood test for us. Her white blood cell count was up slightly, but there was 'no need for concern'. With that, we took her home and, under the advice of the vet, cut their food down. I then had to go back to University to continue my studies. And for four weeks, everything was fine.
Or so we all thought.
After a while, both cats began to lose weight, which was to be expected. Only Candy lost a lot more weight than her sister. Drastically so. I had no idea that any of this was going on, my family being in Cambridge and my University being in North Wales (they're a 4 1/2 hour car journey and an even longer train journey apart). But according to my family, they had to take her in on Monday after she lay down on her side and had difficulty getting to her feet and breathing in general. The regular vet checked her over this time when he came across a small lump located just below her chest cavity. My mum was allowed to take her home and rang me up to let me know what had happened. Being a zoologist, I decided to Google the subject. And oh dear. Everywhere I looked that one word kept appearing. Cancer. I shrugged it off. It could have just been an infection. The bacteria involved with tuberculosis in humans produce solid lumps of calcium carbonate. It could have be something like that.
But I was so, so wrong.
I was sat at my desk on Wednesday afternoon. It was Reading Week, so we had no lectures to go to. Just work to catch up on. So I had decided to work on my homework for my Tutorial session: re-writing an abstract for a scientific journal paper. Our tutor was working on cancer research, so (rather ironically) I had to use a journal paper on cancer research, my particular being a paper on detecting bladder cancer. It was around 14:30 when I heard the faint humming of my mobile on my bedside cabinet, followed by a loud ringing tone. I immediately got up ran over to it, expecting it to be either my mum or one of my flatmates. Seeing my mother's name on the screen, I had an idea of what was coming. Candy. Nervously, I slid my finger across the bottom of the screen to activate my end of the line. My mum's voice was distant when I spoke to her. She told me the news I was expecting: Candy had been diagnosed with cancer. I remember taking a sharp intake of breath before asking my next question: 'how long has she been given.' The deathly silence of my mother's pause still haunts me slightly, more than the words she said next.
'We actually put her to sleep at the vets earlier today.'
I remember almost dropping my phone as I slumped back down into my desk chair. The shock was overwhelming. That little cat? The one who I had seen grow up from an 11-month-old? The one who'd been so shy at first, but latched onto my little sister and myself as time went by? The same cat who'd play with me? Who'd sit by my laptop as I'd work from home? I did everything I could to deny it in my mind. But, as comes to us all, maturity took over. I guess not being at home, with the atmosphere and everything, helped me to accept things more easily. I burst into tears, sobbing and squeaking down the phone at my mother. They were mainly squeaks of 'I'm sorry I can't be there' or 'you did everything you could for her, it's not your fault.' I felt so trapped and helpless in my little University room, over 200 road miles away from home. I kept on thinking I should be with my family. Issy especially. My thoughts were immediately with her. Her bond with Candy was the strongest of all. It was even stronger than the one between my sister and me, as Candy would always be there for her if we got into a fight. I managed to speak to both mum and dad that afternoon, but Issy wouldn't speak to anyone. She'd shut herself in her room to grieve privately. I knew she'd be fine deep down, but this didn't stop me from worrying about her. I remember how awful I felt her age and I didn't suffer such a great loss as her. It frightened me greatly.
After the initial phone call my flatmate came to my door. Seeing the tear tracks on my face, I explained the situation to her and many hugs were shared. She had to continue to work, so I took myself off to the local pier to clear my head. There was no way that I was continuing my work on that abstract now. The 'high' winds at the far end of the pier helped to take my mind off things, as well as a quick trip to the swings after my walk. Fish and chips made for a great comfort dinner, before logging onto CS and trying (and failing) to judge the Cottonwood Jousting Tournament. I called it a night relatively early on. I wasn't in the mood to stay up for too long, despite being able to laugh and smile again so quickly.
I've been ringing home everyday since, mainly to check up on my sister more than anything. Today was the first day I actually managed to talk to her (besides through Facebook). She seemed different, half-herself-half-shadowed. It is more than understandable that she is still grieving. I was just relieved to hear from her. So relieved I almost broke down into tears of joy at the sound of her voice. I almost hugged my phone! I will probably ring everyone again on Sunday to check on them now. They need some space, especially since Candy still needs to be buried...
We still have little Cotton, which is a big relief. She's not as loving towards Issy as Candy was, but she's still a funny little thing. We're also thinking of getting a new kitten, both as a playmate for Cotton (though she's 8 years now), but more importantly as a companion for Issy. The prospect seems to have given her hope and is probably the reason I was able to speak to her today. Just goes to show:
Every cloud, no matter her dark and ominous, will have a silver lining.
