2022: Recurrence
We awoke nine months ago to find Bella hiding under the bed, her breaths coming in rapid groans. We’d euthanize her six hours later.
It’s hard to believe that the emaciated, enervated cat on the Ottoman was the same tabby we brought to our new home the previous August. Though she’d had her share of scares and issues, she had survived and thrived through each crisis, culminating with her recovery from cancer in 2020.
Twenty Twenty Two had been a difficult yet exhilarating year. We’d started house-hunting the previous fall in one of the worst markets in decades, but after dozens of showing and a dozen bids, 13 was our lucky number. We closed on our house, a small Cape Cod in Syracuse’s University Neighborhood, at the beginning of August. We spent the month moving, leaving me exhausted at the start of the fall semester.
As she always did, Bella took the move in stride. She settled in within minutes, even delighting in the chaos. It took some time for us to set up our bed, and despite the heat, she enjoyed sprawling on the mattresses conveniently placed on the floor or gazing out of one of the windows. I remember her sitting on the new Ottoman, looking regal with her eyes closed.
She’d have less than one good month. In mid-September, she suffered from an infected tooth, leading to the first of many trips to the vet. On October 77, the day before she was due to have stitched removed from the surgery, Traci found a hard lump at the base of her right jaw. This could have been a reaction to the surgery– Bella had several teeth removed, though none were near the mass–but given her history and the sudden swelling, we were concerned.
The vet had checked Bella thoroughly before and after the surgery two weeks before we found the swollen node, and she was surprised by the lump’s sudden appearance. Ominously, she told us that reactions of this kind were rare following dental work. Given Bella’s sensitivity to anesthesia and the trauma of having teeth pulled, the vet opted to use a fine needle aspirate to examine the tissue within the swollen lymph node. It was the same procedure used to detect Bella’s cancer in 2020, and it was far less traumatic though less reliable than a punch biopsy.
The sample was sent to a lab, and for two weeks we tried, with limited success, to hope for the best. Traci and I suspected cancer, though we were convinced it was lymphoma. The mass didn’t seem to change, and Bella was as cuddly and playful as ever, but the affected lymph node posed a serious threat. If it grew, it could keep Bella from eating or even breathing.
Two weeks after the sample was taken, we got the call. The lab detected signs of inflammation but could find no cancer cells. Dr Hoerner was quick to point out that the test, while not positive, wasn’t truly negative either. Nevertheless, we were both relieved. Perhaps Bella had dodged another bullet after all.
I found the second lump when I rubbed Bella’s chest early one morning. Our respite had lasted five days. We both knew what this probably meant: metastasis. The cancer was in her lymphatic system, and unlike the lesion, this would be far more difficult to treat, if it could be treated at all.
Traci took her in for a punch biopsy, a more invasive but also more accurate test, at the end of November. Neither of us looked forward to the inevitable phone call. At this point, we didn’t expect a miracle.
Bella came back with a shaved chest and lower jaw. The second swollen node in her chest was difficult to reach and required an incision, while the larger mass had a number of stitches from the punch. Bella’s thick coat hid the size of the lump under her right jaw, but with her fur shaved, we could see just how large the tumor was.
We got the call a week later. It was as we feared, a carcinoma with such poorly differentiated cells that the lab couldn’t identify the specific kind of cancer, but we knew what it was.
The old cancer was back.
As we listed to Dr. Hoerner on speakerphone, Bella pranced around the base of the stairs, perky as ever, as if to belie just how sick she was.
Perhaps strangely, the news didn’t come as a blow. I anticipated it, and now that we knew what we were dealing with, we could finally plan a course of treatment, starting with X rays to see if the tumors had spread beyond the lymph nodes in her jaw and chest.
In retrospect, it was a forlorn hope, but at the time I felt compelled to do something. A year later, I don’t regret seeking treatment. I think Traci and I would always wonder if we could have done something more if we had simply decided to let the disease run its course.
In the end, it didn’t really matter.
The X ray revealed that the tumors hadn’t spread. It also showed an enlarged heart. IBS, sinus issues, eye infections, a sensitive stomach, cancer, and now this. Our poor Bella lost the genetic lottery.
Dr. Hoerner suggested we seek a veterinary oncologist for the surgery. Traci as worried that with her sensitivity to anesthesia and enlarged heart, Bella would die on the operating table in the presence of strangers. For my part, I worried that when she fell ill, Bella would suffer. We both knew that her life would be cut short, but we had no idea if we were talking weeks or months, and I felt that if we could make her more comfortable, the consultation with the oncologist would be worthwhile.
Traci made the call. The earliest appointment was at the end of January–six weeks away.
That was the moment I knew we were going to lose Bella soon. Cancer operates on its own schedule, and six weeks was an eternity with such an aggressive variant.
Any hope vanished at that moment.
