Wednesday, January 23, 2019
She's seventeen now, and that only adds to the risk.
About a year ago, one year out from surgery, I noticed a tiny bump under her arm. Tiny, smaller than a lentil. I decided to stick with my resolve and just keep an eye on it.
Flash forward a year, and it's conservatively about the size of a Cadbury chocolate Easter egg, on her chest and under her arm on the right side. Like the two previous tumors (which were still tiny when removed), it seems to be encapsulated - it's completely smooth and there are no other lumps, bumps or irregularities anywhere on her.
Now that I'm faced with the realization that this is going to kill her sooner rather than later, I'm regretting my decision not to treat it. But then I second-guess my second-guessing, and have to admit that I've got a living cat who doesn't realize yet that there's anything wrong, and that the surgery might have done more harm than good and I might have lost her sooner.
So we're in a holding pattern until she tells me she doesn't feel right. At the moment, she's still eating and drinking normally, her fur is still shiny and not falling out, and it doesn't impede her movement at all - she still jumps on and off the bed and chases Katie like a kitten. She sleeps more than she used to, but she's also seventeen. What does that make her in cat years, 85? I'd be sleeping more, too.
I've done this before, and I'll do it again. Annie will let me know when to do it.