The Tale of Fern

by Eleanor Collins--

Wednesday 29th of May 2019 began much like any other day, except that my beautiful little cat Fern had been snuffling in my ear all night. She always slept snuggled into my neck, except on particularly cold nights when she would pour herself seamlessly under the duvet and I would wake in the morning with a little warm body on my chest or shoulder. But snuffling all night?  That wasn’t right, she sounded as if she had a nasty cold, but I had studied veterinary nursing sometime in the distant past and knew cats don’t get the common cold as humans do and do with great frequency indeed.

Once I was showered and dressed and felt like a human again, I phoned the Cat Hospital in Glanmire for an appointment.  Chloe - one of the vet nurses - told me the vet had a space at 10.00 am and to come in then.

So I gave Fern her medication, a pill for her stage 2 kidney disease, a pill for her blood pressure, one for her pancreas, as she is prone to pancreatitis, and her food supplement of fish oil.  Then she had her breakfast and I had a coffee and fed the dog.

Seventeen years old and she looked like a young and beautiful cat, but ,to make sure she looked her best, I brushed her gorgeous smoky coat with its black guard hairs and an undercoat of pure white.  Next I cleaned her face and eyes with a damp cotton wool pad.

I opened the door of her cat carrier with its soft fluffy blanket inside and in she popped of her own volition.  Most cats hate going to the vet, but not my little social butterfly, she loves it. She loves the vet Clare and all the veterinary nurses admiring her and kissing and cuddling her.

Clare examined her. Fern was so pleased to see Clare I felt a tiny bit jealous.

“Cat flu, I’d say,” she pronounced. 

“But Clare, I’m meticulous about her vaccinations, how could she possibly have cat flu?” 

“It can happen, it’s rare, but it does happen to vaccinated cats, especially with a cat like Fern who has so many other health problems; her immune system could be compromised.”

So, I was given more medication and took my darling home.

A week later Tuesday 4th June and her condition had worsened, so Fern and I were back with Clare again.  This time, Clare had decided to do a biopsy on her nose tissue.

To say I was worried was an understatement, I felt like I couldn’t breathe properly. 

I came home on my own, without my baby and Clare phoned me later to tell me to come back for her, that she was awake and in good form after her anaesthetic.  I came back to collect her, hardly daring to ask a question.  

Then came the news I was dreading: the biopsy tissue would have to be sent away for analysis, but Clare felt that the tumour had all the hall marks of a malignant one.  

Benign tumours of the nasal passage are almost unknown in cats and this one didn’t look benign to Clare. So the upshot was there was a 99% chance that my little cat had a malignant tumour. 

There was a knock at the surgery door and Clare told me there was this film crew from RTE outside and would I mind if they filmed the consultation?

I looked at her blankly, it felt surreal and my first instinct was to say no, but then I thought again.  If my little social butterfly could speak, wouldn’t she say “Oh yes please, do film me.  I was born to be a film star.”

So the film crew arrived in and with a total sense of unreality on my part, we went through most of the consultation again in front of the camera. 

A few days later the results of the biopsy were through and, as we thought, the tumour was malignant.

I was against any chemotherapy, I had seen a close friend go through hell with chemo and die anyway.

Both my parents died of cancer as well.  I was only a child at the time and it was well before the time of the invention of chemotherapy, but it would have been a mercy to both of them if a kind doctor had ended their suffering a lot earlier.

But Clare had a different view of chemotherapy, she felt cats tolerated chemo better than humans and that she would prescribe Fern a gentle type that would be easy on her system.

With the chemo shrinking the tumour the prognosis was that Fern would last six months and hopefully we might see next Christmas together.

So, we started Fern on a course of chemotherapy.  Clare gave her her first dose, then she showed me how to give her her subsequent doses. It was a biggish pill for a very small throat, designed for humans not cats.  I had to wear disposable gloves and any waste; for instance – if she spat the pill out, or vomited it, had to be bagged and returned to the Cat Hospital to be safely disposed of. 

Fern was wonderful and accepted all her medication with good grace.

Things seemed to be going fairly well for a while, then about halfway through July, Fern’s breathing had deteriorated.  She sounded like a little corncrake. When the biopsy was taken first it had removed some of the tumour and eased her breathing, the chemo had helped as well. But now something had to be done.  I asked Clare if she could remove some more of the tumour. She said she would see what she could do. Fern went under anaesthetic yet again. I waited at home for the phone call. The news was not good.  

The tumour had metastasised to her soft palate at the back of her mouth.  There was only one option – she would have to be put to sleep.

I drove over to the Cat Hospital on auto pilot.  When I got there, Fern had recovered from her anaesthetic and was glad to see me.  I held and cuddled her, while she wheezed into my ear.

Clare suggested I could take her home for a few days to say goodbye to her; but no, I felt that would have been a cowardly decision on my part, her breathing was just too difficult.  I would say goodbye to her now. 

I held her in my arms as Clare gave her her final injection.  She didn’t even feel the needle going in, her breathing stopped and she lay in my arms like she was sleeping peacefully.

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P.S. If I ever have a terminal illness would someone please take me to a vet, not a doctor?  

Thank you in anticipation of your kindness.

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