At What Cost?

In my baby book, my mom wrote, Jessica is fond of animals; she has a compassion for them unlike most kids; I think she might be a vet.

When I was 11 years old, my parents took me to this apartment I’d never been to before. They wouldn’t tell me why they were taking me there, but upon opening the door and seeing a mama basset hound I knew! I was picking out my first puppy for my birthday. I can’t remember how many basset hound puppies there were, maybe 7 or 8, but I remember how absolutely adorable they were. Covered in brown, black, white, or checkered with all three, they all had ears—loppy, floppy, and insanely cute. One had the biggest, blackest ears that as she ran to greet me, she tripped on them. I fell in love with her instantly. We took her home and I named her Lady Molly Madison Montana. Years later, she was fatally struck by a nasty neighbor who refused to drive no less than 70 mph down our 35 mph road. Thankfully, I was in college at the time, so I missed the terrible episode my parents had to experience. My parents waited to tell me about Molly until after semester finals because they knew I would be devastated (at the time I was ticked they waited, but in hindsight, it was a smart move.)

During Zoology lab in my sophomore year in college, we were asked to inject a LIVING sea urchin with a saline solution that forced the urchin to secrete eggs (or sperm, I can’t remember). I asked, will the saline solution kill the sea urchin? Well yeah, my professor flippant. I put my sea urchin down and walked out. I didn’t care if I failed the class; I would not be a part of killing an animal.

To this day, I don’t kill ants, spiders, or flies when they enter my home if I can help it. Nope. Instead, I trap them in a glass and whisk them outside. I’ve stopped traffic to rescue a turtle tramped on a busy street. I refuse to stab worms with fish hooks. My Facebook page is littered with anti-poaching, palm oil bans, and save the Earth campaigns (to the point where people have stated, you don’t post much about yourself, do you?) All in all, I am an animal person. I pretty much love all of them, even the ugly ones (wait, there are no ugly ones.)

I understand people and animals must die; it’s a part of life. However, it’s the pain just before death I hate. Life’s biggest injustice is the pain a being feels before death. And, if possible and pretty much at any cost, I do not want to contribute to that injustice in any way. This time, however, I can’t rely on my parents to protect me, walk out on a lab experiment, or go vegetarian when it suits my fancy. Death is knocking on my door.

My 13-year old cat, Rusty, has a giant mass attached to his liver in his right abdomen. It may simply be a cyst, a light bulb shaped growth squishing against his organs, thus causing discomfort when he eats. Or, it may, of course, be the dreaded cancer, which can be exceptionally aggressive especially when disturbed. Problem is, we don’t know what it is unless we operate (though he also has other smaller lesions growing directly on his liver, a sign of cancer.)

Since adopting Rusty seven years ago from the Animal Rescue League, he has been my constant companion. Through late night study sessions, arguments with boyfriends, the passing of my wonderful grandfather, personal sick days, moving days, and lazy Sundays, he has seen it all and still loves me. Even as I type this, he is nestled on my desk, head tucked under a paw, sleeping against my arm. I know he is not supposed to live forever and as my mom so poignantly noted, don’t you want to outlive your pets; otherwise, who else but you would take good care of them? She is so right.

Even still, I’m faced with a decision. Go through with surgery, which sounds easy cheesy coming from the surgeon, “We just cut his chest open from his forearms down about six inches, remove the tumor, and stitch him back up,” he says, “he’ll be in the hospital 2 or 3 days, then expect a 10-14 day recovery period at home.” To me, it sounds like I’m waiting for UPS to deliver a package.

Of course, the cost is expensive. But, even if I had a mere $100 or an explosive $1,000,000, I know I could come up with the money. Money is not the issue. My issue is whether he should go through a surgery like this? Even in the human world, cutting open one’s chest followed by a 2-3 day stay in the hospital is substantial. Recovery doesn’t wrap itself up in a cute little bow in 10-14 days. In reality, there will be pain medication, check-up visits every 2 to 3 months, ultrasounds to see if the tumor is back and metastasizing to other organs, blood samples to test organ functions, and x-rays to monitor the remaining lesions on the liver that are not removable.

So, agree to a surgery hoping the mass will not grow back and his internal organs will have room making eating more comfortable (assuming he will still be interested in eating at that point); agree to surgery that will also most definitely bring pain to his body and destroy any semblance of peace and comfort he currently has; agree to a surgery that might end his life because, if it is cancer, we are disturbing a beast? Time of survival? If it does not metastasize, then he lives as long as the lesions on his liver will allow.  If it does, he has approximately 2 to 3 months.

Otherwise, decline the surgery, leaving the huge mass. He will experience discomfort after eating some days; other days, he will be fine. Until eventually, he will stop eating altogether. The mass will have grown so big, nothing else will fit. Eventually he will die of starvation, dehydration, or liver failure (from those damn lesions). Time of survival? Unknown.

Right now, he is eating, drinking, sleeping, purring, and snuggling. Surgery or no surgery, I’m preparing myself for the day I have to take him to the vet for that final needle. I say prepare because I need to. Even though it is down the road, I can already feel my heart breaking.

In my life I have saved spiders, sea urchins, turtles, cats, and dogs…overall, providing comfort to animals whenever I can. Now, I wonder if Death is just laughing at my indecision and pointing at my fruitless efforts to give Rusty a painless death. He knows he has a winning hand. Inevitably, victory will be his. My question is at what cost to Rusty?