First of all, I want to thank everyone for their concern and support the other night when I found out about Marcy. I wasn’t really able to elaborate at the time because I kept crying. But I woke up yesterday with a small glimmer of hope, because she is, after all, still alive and here with us.
The vet said that aside from the tumor, she is otherwise healthy. Her weight is good and she hasn’t stopped eating at all. She’s still feisty, she still terrorizes her daughter Willie, and she still absolutely hates me.
It’s just that now we know she has breast cancer.
The reality of the situation is that Marcy is 15. Even though she doesn’t act like it, she is, for all intents and purposes, an old broad. The vet discouraged us from considering surgery because the stress of it could actually worsen her condition. But the silver lining is that he didn’t mention euthanasia at this time. Henry said it wasn’t even an option given.
He did, however, refer us to a cancer clinic, so we’re waiting to get an appointment with them. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I know that I don’t want to put her through anything invasive, but if there is anything at all, acupuncture, special diet (we already switched to some gluten-free food, thanks to Andrea’s recommendation), anything holistic to give her a little more time…well, then I guess I will have to fill out that application I was given last weekend at Sephora, because god knows I’m going to need the extra income.
I’ve had her since I was 18. I was a telemarketer at Olan Mills, having a cigarette in the break room when the proof consultant mentioned that her neighbor’s cat had kittens and there was only one left that desperately needed a home. I wasn’t a cat person. Growing up, we always had dogs. BIG dogs. German Sherpherds, sheepdogs, Siberian Huskeys. What the fuck did I know about raising a kitten?
But still, my arm shot up and I said, “I’ll take her.”
She was brought in for me the next day, this tiny, fluffy ball of fur with bright blue eyes, purring and meowing furiously. My boss wanted me to name her Shaniqua. But this was 1998 and I was obsessed with the band Marcy Playground. So she became Marcy. I brought her home to my apartment and she has ruled the roost ever since.
Even if you’ve only been reading my blog for a month or so, you’ve probably deduced that the theme here is that Henry is a pushover, my kid is spitfire, and I AM OBSESSED WITH MY CATS. I honestly live everyday like it could be Marcy’s last, especially after losing Speck and Don last year. When I leave for work everyday, I come running back in to give her one more hug and kiss. And you know, Marcy in all of her surly glory is like, “Bitch, GO!!” When I went to Australia in 2000, that was my first time leaving the cats. I had accumulated all 4 by then: Nicotina (Speck) was given to me two months after I got Marcy (and Janna took Speck’s brother, and I made her name him Harvey after Harvey Danger. Alternative music in 1998 ruled, OK?) and then Don and Willie came from Marcy’s first litter 2 years later. I was such a nervous wreck about leaving them that I went out and bought them nearly $100 worth of treats and toys. (I also used to call them from work and leave messages for them on my answering machine. It’s a wonder I have always had a boyfriend when it’s so apparent to all of them that I love my cats more.)
But Marcy, out of all four, has become somewhat of a reluctant mascot over the years. My friends either love her or hate her (depending on how many wounds she’s inflicted upon them); sometimes when people I know on the Internet meet me in real life, they seem more excited to meet Marcy; she even had her own LiveJournal for awhile there and once won “Dark Hottie of the Month” on a goth website. I just can’t imagine life without her, after having spent nearly half of mine with her at this point. Pets are the ultimate heartbreakers.
I wasn’t at the vet that day we got the news. I was at work. And when Henry told me over the phone (and he was, of course, so calm and matter-of-fact about it), I was a mess. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to stay at work. I was worthless. She’s my Shark Attack, my Smidge, my Pretty Rainbow Sparkles.
When I came home that night, I pushed Chooch and Henry out of the way and ran upstairs to see Marcy. She was in my room, glowering as usual. I sat at the top of the steps with her, dousing her fur with my big sloppy tears, when “Sex and Candy” came on the radio in my room. I’m not making this up. I even called Henry upstairs because I thought I was going nuts. Fucking Marcy Playground, of all times to come on the radio.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go smother my cat some more. Because she is still alive and I don’t want to waste anymore time.