A Sun’s Journey: Day 0

I had hoped I would never have to write something like this, especially after the years spent crying over the passing of my beloved Nibbles. But souls find each other for a reason, and I believe in the one entrusted in our care.

We woke up Saturday morning, a knowing and solemn nod between each other. Something was wrong with our little sun, Mio. I quickly packed a bag with two bananas, some slimjims, and a water bottle. I didn’t know how long we would be. I didn’t even think about finding my charger at this point. After rushing up and down the stairs to find my wallet, my thoughts racing, we headed to the emergency veterinary hospital, Mio quietly loafed in his carrier. It was 8:00AM.

What proceeded to follow was a long and painful wait in between a whirlwind of machines, technicians wizzing in and out, hypothetical this-or-thats, and our stomachs churning with uncertainty. They put us in a room with the fan on, hoping to cool down our little sun, who bleakly stared at us. Nestled in our arms, but a fever rising. We had been concerned for a long time that he may have an upper respiratory infection, as he frequently sneezed out the most monstrous boogers, which then morphed into a potential diagnosis of feline herpes. But we could only wish it had ended there.

There was fluid in his abdomen. More than they’d like, they said. They changed their tone dramatically, their stare burned into the backs of my eyes.

Feline Infectious Peritonitis.

I feel like those three words have turned our world upside down since they reached our ears. Like casting a spell that transformed how we will live each day, for the next 84 long, arduous days. It used to be fatal, she continued. But there is hope. And this hope we cling to every waking moment.

We softly cried as we held him in that office room.

He is so, so young.

He’s only five months old.

It’s not fair.

It happened so fast.

But I’m a shiny hunter, and you’re insanely lucky.

And we will beat these odds.

After five hours at the emergency hospital, we sat in our car and cried. We cried, and cried, and cried. We cried on the drive back home, and we cried holding Mio in our arms again and again. It took some time, but we managed to connect with a support group for FIP patients. We learned that every day makes a difference, and with our prescription status unavailable until Monday, we took a leap of faith and reached out. There was someone who could help us with our first week of treatment an hour away. Despite it being so late in the evening, we were welcomed without any hesitation. Versu made the drive while I watched Mio, and came back home around midnight.

Through tears I tried to administer his first dose, knowing that this would be the start of a very good, but very important thing. Our support team encouraged and educated us throughout the night, and we could not be more grateful for their encouragement and reassurance. We fell asleep with our tears still lingering on our cheeks. Tomorrow is a new day.