The other day I took Toby to the vet; he’d recently been diagnosed with diabetes and while I had hoped to be able to regulate his blood sugar with his diet, after checking his sugar levels (which were extremely high – higher than his first visit) his doctor said he’d have to go on insulin. The vet also discussed other health issues he was having and a couple of potential issues. I had a few teary moments in the office but I tried to stay focused and took notes because I knew I wouldn’t remember most of what she said. She gave him his first shot of insulin and a shot of antibiotics. I made an appointment for the following week and took him home.
Other than the teariness I felt in the vet’s office, I haven’t really felt any emotion about the whole thing. Until this morning. This morning I realized I am angry. I’m not mad at Toby – he’s just a cat and has no control over the way his body metabolizes his food. I was angry at the vet he saw first – but I realize now the fierceness of the anger I felt was anger-misplaced. She gave me bad news. She had a bad bedside manner. Somewhere inside I must have thought it was her fault.
His vet, Dr. U, has a wonderful way with Toby and she gave me worse news. And I’m still mad.
Who can I be mad at? God? It’s not His fault either.
It’s no one’s fault.
But I’m still mad. Who can I be mad at? No one. And that’s hard. I want someone to blame. Someone to get mad at. Someone to shake my fist and scream at. Someone to ask ‘Why?’. Why did you do this thing, this terrible thing, to my precious cat? Why did you give him this terrible disease? Why? Why? Why?
I suppose the only thing I can do now is sit with the anger and pray for release.
Release from the anger and sorrow. I accept what’s happened to him. I just don’t like it. And I don’t know how to live with the pain I feel deep in my heart. I love Toby. If you’re not a ‘cat-person’ then you don’t know how deeply a furry creature can dig its claws into your heart and not let go, so that every possible pain they feel, you feel.
Maybe I need a good, old-fashioned cry. Maybe I need to hold him tight, bury my face in his fur and be grateful for every moment I have with him. Maybe I need to trust God. Maybe I just don’t know what to do now. And since I don’t know what to do, I’ll pray.