Well, it turns out that Todd, our quirky,lovable 14-year-old cat, has cancer.



We'd been noticing that he was getting thin, and then realized that he had a growth on his jaw. I took him to the vet that our animals usually see,and he said he thought it was cancer, but that we needed to go to the MSU Vet clinic for a diagnosis. We also started feeding him canned food instead of the dry food we usually put down for the cats, and he perked up immediately - turns out that the growth had made it impossible for him to eat the crunchies, as we call them.

So before today's vet visit, I was optimistic that maybe his trouble would turn out to be an abcessed tooth, or something simple like that. But still, if it did turn out to be cancer, I wondered what I would think and feel when I actually talked to the vet, especially if the treatment cost were to turn out to be something we could afford. Having seen cancer treatment in humans, it's not something I would wish on anyone, let alone on a cat, who would have no idea why he was being put through such misery. And I know that some of you disagree - but personally, I find it unconscionable to spend money on that kind of disease in a pet when there are humans who need basic medical care and aren't getting it.

Today the vet at MSU confirmed the diagnosis (inasmuch as she could without a biopsy) and then proposed all sorts of surgery/chemo/radiation alternatives, depending on what kind of cancer it is. But she allowed as how the prognosis wasn't too good in any case. And even before they could do any treatment, they would have to do a biopsy . . . which would require anesthesia, and before they could administer anesthesia, they would need to do blood work . . . so, aside from the pain and misery for the cat, we'd be in it for about $1600, just to really nail down what he's got. And treatment could run between $3-5,000.

So even before the sticker shock, our inclination had been not to treat, and today's appointment just confirmed that hunch. Of course, the decision was easy, given that the prognosis isn't good and the cost is high. But, still, here I have to thank Emil's father once again. Somehow, remembering that Emil's father had made the very same decision about his own life made it all easier. I didn't feel the slightest bit guilty about the decision. I didn't feel like a bad person for not needing to know exactly what's going wrong with my pet. Once again, I became aware of the degree to which wanting to know, wanting to treat, wanting to take action are all manifestations of the underlying "want" - which is the desire to forestall the inevitable. The cat is going to die soon, with treatment or without. For many (dare I say most?) human cancer victims the scenario is the same; cancer is a disease that doesn't give you very good odds, and even worse choices.

The ability to face that truth squarely was one of the things I valued about Emil's father. And it turns out to be a memory that keeps on giving, if that makes sense . . . I hope that when I die, I too manage to do so in a way that helps the living to keep on keepin' on.