Alarmed, I called Philip, who was out with friends, and he stopped to
get some fiber powder. We mixed it with some wet cat food to try to hydrate her and
stimulate a bowel movement. She ate it — then vomited. Eventually she had
bloody diarrhea in the hallway, but her distress only elevated. She began
yowling in pain.
Totally freaked, we took her to the emergency vet at 12:30 a.m. They quickly identified that her bladder was as hard as a rock, and her urination was completely
blocked. They were able to express her bladder, but an X-ray showed she had two
bladder stones that would need to be removed as soon as possible. The next morning, we transferred her to our regular vet.
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| Abbi rides from the ER vet to the animal hospital sporting an IV bandage. |
Our regular vet performed surgery to remove the stones later that day. We bit our nails through
the entire procedure, which ended up taking twice as long as normal, as one
of the stones was so wedged in Abbi’s urethra that the vet had to stop surgery and
consult a specialist over the phone about how to remove it.
Eventually the vet called us to say the surgery had been a
success, and Abbi spent two nights recovering in the animal hospital.
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| Visiting Abbi at the animal hospital after her first surgery |
When we
went to pick her up on a Saturday, the flippant vet tech wasn’t much help in
communicating to us what to expect — the tech said some blood in Abbi’s urine
would be normal, and she also said Abbi hadn’t been eating, but hopefully when
she got home, her appetite would return.
Abbi was in terrible shape when we got her home. Her abdomen
was severely distended. Her fur was greasy, and she wouldn’t clean herself. She
kept moving around and couldn’t get comfortable. She didn’t want affection. She
wouldn’t eat or drink, and she didn’t try to use her litter box. Was this
normal? We didn’t know, and the vet was now closed for the weekend, so we
couldn’t call to ask.
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| Abbi with her distended abdomen and shaved belly |
Concerned that Abbi would become dehydrated, we force-fed
her some water out of a syringe. At one point, Abbi retreated to my dark closet
alone, which scared me immensely. We oscillated about whether or not to take
her back to the emergency vet, as we’d already spent a couple thousand dollars,
and the ER vet is terribly expensive. We decided to continue to monitor her. It
was a long night of waking up every few hours to check on Abbi. She didn’t seem
to be sleeping, but she was still alive.
The next day was worse. She began to urinate, but it was
bloody, and it was just leaking out of her; she was totally incontinent. We had
to keep her shut in the laundry room with scrap towels, which kept instantly
getting soiled. It was terrifying and exhausting.
After another long night, we dropped her back off at our regular
vet in the morning. We didn’t hear from the vet all day and assumed no news was good news. We called a half-hour before the vet was closing to get an update. To
our shock, the on-duty vet (not our regular vet) said an X-ray indicated that
Abbi had fluid (translation: urine) in her abdomen. The vet felt uncomfortable
taking next steps, as Abbi wasn’t his patient, and our regular vet had been out
sick.
Basically, Abbi had sat in a kennel all day with an IV while
urine was poisoning her blood stream, and this vet had done nothing for her.
We drove straight to the animal hospital to talk to the vet
in person. He was very defensive, saying he had been overloaded with patients
all day. We asked him if we should take Abbi to the ER vet, and he was
ambivalent. He offered that we could leave Abbi at his clinic overnight (no
staff stays the night with the animals at this hospital), and he and our
regular vet would run some tests in the morning (provided she was back
from being out sick).
There wasn’t a chance we were doing that. We paid $150 for
nothing and drove Abbi straight to the ER.
The ER vet was immediately very concerned. She said she was going to run several
tests on Abbi’s vitals, and Philip and I should go home to get some rest. But back in our bed, we were too upset to sleep. Melting into tears, we asked each other, “How did we get here?” The surgery to remove bladder stones was supposed to be fairly routine, and now our precious cat’s life was in danger.
We decided to go back to the ER vet, driving the quiet midnight streets in silence. They allowed us to sit with Abbi in a treatment room while
we waited for the test results. Wrapped in a towel in my lap and hooked up to an IV
bag, she barely moved. She would begin to nod off, but then her body would
spasm; she was in too much pain to sleep. Philip dozed on the bench, and it was
so quiet. My heart squeezed tight to bursting, I thought, This is it. This might be the last time I ever hold her in my arms.
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| Philip gives some love to Abbi while we wait to have her vitals tested. |
After about an hour, the ER vet determined that Abbi’s
kidneys were failing; she was dying.
“Abbi’s bladder is not in tact,” she said. She
recommended that she insert an emergency drain to get the urine out of Abbi’s
abdomen as an immediate life-saving measure. So for the second time in four days, Abbi was administered anesthesia
and went under the knife. Philip and I sat out in the empty waiting room and
clung to each other, weeping.
“Are we losing her?” I choked out through sobs. “I feel like
we are. I feel her slipping away.”
“I don’t know,” Philip said, holding me and trying to be the
strong one.
The thought of potentially losing Abbi weighed on me so heavily, I couldn’t breathe; I had never felt such an acute loss, not even when my grandparents had died. “I can’t bear this,” I gasped.
Finally the ER vet emerged and said the surgery had been
uneventful, and we should go home and try to rest. There was nothing to do now but wait and hope the drain helped bring Abbi’s vitals back to normal. In the morning, we would
have to take Abbi to a specialist for another surgery to repair her bladder,
and likely a blood transfusion.
After a couple hours of fitful sleep in our bed, we drove
back to the ER vet to pick up Abbi. Riding in the car to the specialist, she
didn’t struggle or cry; she was so weak. By this point, she hadn’t eaten in
five days.
At the specialist, it was more testing and more waiting. Finally we were able to sit down to consult with the surgeons. I was wearing my pajamas, had no makeup on, and was utterly exhausted. Through tears, I weakly asked if Abbi was
going to live. “We don’t know,” they said. “We’re going to do all we can for
her.”
Before we left, they let us say goodbye to her. She was in a
wall of kennels, sleeping. The surgeon opened the gate and nudged Abbi awake. As soon as Abbi
heard my voice, she popped up and began head-butting my face. “I love you I
love you I love you,” I urgently whispered into her fur. I kissed her head, and then we were rushed out. I wondered if I would ever see her alive again. Abbi’s vitals had
stabilized after the insertion of the drain, but we had no idea what the
surgeons would find when they opened her back up.
They sent us home to try to get a little more sleep. After
another restless nap, we got up to get the house in order, laundering bloody
towels and stowing away Abbi’s toys, so they wouldn’t be painful reminders. We
went for a distracting run, then again waited for the phone to ring.
For the third time, Abbi went under anesthesia and endured
surgery. When the surgeons finally called us at the end of the day, they said
they found that the original incision had begun to leak, so they sewed it back
up using a different technique. They also inserted a catheter to hopefully
prevent scarring/blockage in her urethra, and they gave her a blood
transfusion.
Amazingly, our little Abbi had come through both the transfusion and the surgery and
was recovering. The surgeons couldn’t guarantee that she would be home-free, but for now, things were looking hopeful. For the first time in six
days, we felt like we could exhale.
For the next week, Abbi stayed at the specialist animal
hospital with the catheter in. We visited her every day, and she was always thrilled to see us. She had begun to eat
and drink almost immediately after the second bladder surgery. She was bone-thin and loopy from her pain meds, but
as soon as we removed her cone, she bathed herself and napped in our laps in the visitation room.
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| Visiting Abbi at the veterinary specialist |
We were cautiously hopeful. At home, we showered AJ with
attention. Finally, Abbi’s catheter was removed, and she seemed to be able to
urinate. She was still straining and peeing small amounts frequently, but she
seemed to be emptying her bladder. We were finally able to bring her home. A urine culture showed she had two types of
bladder infections, so we were prescribed antibiotics to give to her.
Abbi’s recovery was slow. At first, she wouldn’t eat her
special new diet food; she would only eat canned tuna. She was too weak to jump
up on anything. She didn’t want to sleep in our bed with us, as she always had.
She hissed at AJ if he even looked at her. She had to wear her cone of shame, which she hated, so
she didn’t mess with her stitches.
A week after bringing her home, we went back to the
specialist to have her stitches removed. Then the cone could come off for good,
which improved her mood somewhat.
The next Saturday, however, I observed her going in and out
of the litter box several times in the space of an hour, only urinating a few drops each time. So back to the specialist we went. This time we were given
an anti-inflammatory medication for Abbi’s bladder.
Finally, four weeks after this all began, we took her back
to the specialist for the last time. They cultured her urine again, and it was clear
of all infection. The vet gave her a clean bill of health! Later that
day, Abbi finally seemed like herself again. She and AJ curled up in my lap
together while Philip and I watched a movie.
Now Abbi is eating and drinking normally; her scar is
healing; she’s playing with her toys; she has the strength to jump up onto
counters and desktops again. She has even put on a little weight (though we’ve
gone from calling her “Little Chunk” to calling her “Little Nugget.”) She is
still urinating smaller amounts at a time than before this all happened, but we
think it’s due to some scarring in her urethra, and this will be her new
reality.
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| Abbi curled up with her mom |
During this nightmare, countless people said they were
praying for our little Abbi. I’m so grateful for their prayers, and I so
thankful God spared her little life. I don’t know why he did, but it amazes and
humbles me every time she hops in my lap and loves on me in her little Abbi way.
Even as was I sitting at the computer writing about
the loss of my childhood cat, Alex, all those years ago, I unexpectedly started to cry, and Abbi
came rushing up to me, showering my tear-streaked face with her kitty kisses.
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