Sir Nolan.

My sweet little cat, Nolan, is sick.

About three years ago he lost a lot of weight very suddenly and I took him to the vet where they confirmed my googled diagnosis; that he had diabetes.  We got him on insulin right away though and he seemed to bounce back.  He gained weight again and acted like his chill, snuggle on the bed with me, eat all of his and his sister's food like he'd never seen food before, self.

A couple of weeks ago though, he started acting off.  Out of it.  He'd walk around confused, his cognitive skills not functioning.  He'd stare off into space without actually focusing on anything for long stretches of time, he started peeing on the floor more often than he would make it to the litter box.  Most disturbingly though he'd walk into walls.  Or he'd walk himself into a corner and not know how to turn around and get back out of the area he had just walked into.  More often than not he wobbled when he walked, looking drunk.  Naturally, I was worried.

Two vet visits later I am still worried.

We have upped his insulin dosage and the vet gave me some pills to lower his blood pressure.  We are going to try this for a week and see how he fares, but unfortunately, there is no denying that he is a sick little guy.  Today, when I picked Nolan up after a day long visit at the vet's office, the vet told me she thought that he was blind.

Of course, I started crying.

I have been crying a lot these past few days.

I think I've got it under control, I'm trying to get the facts to help my cat get better, and then I lose it.  I lost it at the vet's office on Friday and again today.  I cried on the phone to my Dad on Sunday and to my Mom tonight.

This is hard.  And heartbreaking.  And while people and vets and vet tech sympathize and try to help, I feel like I'm the only one that's actually going through it, having to process all of this, trying to understand what we can do and what we can't.  Nolan and I have been together since day one and I'm scared to death that our days are about to run out.

The rational side of me thinks that I should have expected all of this.  Nolan turned 11 at the end of June so he's getting older.  Cats that fight diabetes have an extra challenge as they navigate old age.  I know animals age, it's the circle of life and all of that.  But to be honest, I was mentally projecting these sorts of feline health issues at least four years out, when he hit 15.  Maybe longer.  And the rational part of me, the one that can look at my sweet little cat and know that he is not himself right now, knows the outlook on all of this probably is not very good.  I help him toward his food dish, I show him where his water is often.  I try and carry him to the litter box though I still find I'm cleaning up more urine than I ever have before - I sort of count on it at least once a day now.  And I don't even get mad about it anymore.  He can't help himself.  There's a part of my brain rooted in reality that understands, at least on some level, that Nolan likely doesn't have much time left with me.  Over the weekend I went to bed praying my little guy would still be awake in the morning.  I come home for work, ready for both of my munchkins to greet me at my door like they always do and now, I have a moment where I insert the key into my lock, pause and whisper a quick prayer that they will both be able to greet me. 

Nolan can't talk and tell me what's wrong, he can't tell me or the vet if he can see anything anymore, or what he would like us to do to make it better.  This is breaking my heart.  Because the side of my brain that eschews all logic, all rational thinking, just wants my little guy to be himself again, to be the cat that I have known and loved for these past 11 years, from the very moment I picked him out of the litter when he was only days old.

Nolan can't jump anymore, his legs aren't strong enough to propel himself up onto my bed or the sofa.  So on Saturday night, I pulled him up onto my lap while I sat on the sofa.  At times he acts like a limp rag, his muscle control and reflexes aren't what they used to be.  He laid by my side, staring into space while I petted him.  I talked to him about our years together - how I had his name picked out before he was born, after my favorite character Francie Nolan, from my favorite book A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.  I told him the stories of how I would visit my neighbor almost daily, playing with the litter of five kittens, always holding onto my little oreo colored munchkin the longest.  The day I finally was able to take Sir Nolan as my own was also the day that I moved into my first one bedroom apartment.  A place of my own.  And two cats.

Nolan and I have seen a lot together, he is the very first pet that has been completely and 100% my own.  We have moved five times, driven back and forth to New Jersey to visit Camp Dad on at least three occasions, navigated a U-Haul into New York City together (well, I navigated.  He yowled.)  In the winter months, he and I have watched TV together during countless snowstorms, in the fall and the spring, he has laid on my lap on the sofa while I read a book.  Come the summer, we move to my back porch for an afternoon or two where I brush him in an effort to help him shed his winter coat. Nolan has met countless friends, my family, and even a boyfriend or three.  (He never really warmed to any of them.  He knew the score from the beginning.)

Oh Nolan.  I fell in love with this guy the minute I saw him, plucked him out of the litter sure as anything that he would go home with me.  Just as I've got hundreds of reasons why I love his sister, the other cat I adopted, there are a million unique little things that make Nolan the Nolan that I adore. I love the way his pink nose shines through his black and white mustache.  I love how he has four white socks but on the bottom of his pink paws the center is always black.  He has always adored belly rubs and sleeping on my bed.  He loves food.  All of it.  All the time. And I have always adored, from the minute I saw him yawn as a kitten that he has one little black spot - a birthmark of sorts - on the roof of his pink mouth.  What I'm trying to get at is: I love this damn cat.  I don't want him to be sick or in pain or confused or scared.  And I don't want to lose him.  Not yet.  Not now.

If you are single and live on your own with two cats you can easily be labeled a "cat lady."  These days, I don't care.  It's a stupid stereotype.  Because these two furry critters are my family; have been for the past 11+ years through good and bad and ups and downs.  So I continue to pray for my cat.  I continue to tell him how much I love him, multiple times a day.  I have moments where I try and prepare myself for the worst.  There are moments when I hope with all of my heart that we'll get his medicine adjusted and just work on navigating life with a blind cat. I tell him every night before I go to bed that I'm here.  If, in the middle of the night he starts yowling, I call out to him again, telling him that I'm here.  That I'll always be here.  Because we take care of each other.  That's how we work.