My Cat’s Sick but It Landed Me in the ER

He’s never the one to start fights or involved in a fight. A timidly cat, he often serves as our furry early-warning system. When he suddenly sprints to hide, we’ll know the Kimbap and Kimchi are up to their usual mischief somewhere.

This story was originally published in December 2023 under my other pen name, but this is the first time I am sharing it here on the blockchain.

The events took place shortly after the lockdown was lifted - a period when so much was happening in my life.

I felt moved to share this again after following the journey of a fellow cat owner on Facebook; when she posted that her cat was finally recovering, I found myself moved to tears. I cried for her, and I cried for my own memories.

At the time these events, I was going through a period of intense mental health struggles. As some of you may know from my previous writing, I was subjected to campaign of harassment and targeted psychological abuse that led to three near-successful attempts for their permanent solution of my existence.

What made this especially difficult was that I had actually made significant progress in my mental health journey before this; being forced to come face-to-face with my triggers again pushed me back into an even worse condition.

I was supposed to be getting married just one day after bringing Topokki home from his surgery. But even as Topokki was safely back in my care, our big day was called off only hours before it was meant to begin.

It was the culmination of machinations that had been working against us - or rather, not against us, but against me.

I've wanted to write about this experience for years - not for the sake of a suffering performance or to play the victim, and certainly not to go viral, but for the sake of my own healing.

I simply need to get it out of my system. Yet, even after all this time, I just haven't been able to string the words together. It's hard to explain the depth of my fury or the crushing weight of my helplessness.

All these emotions remain trapped within me, like a volcano raging silently inside.

Even though I had my suspicions - and there were far too many coincidences occurring alongside this story - I have chosen to leave the darker details of that conflict out of this particular narrative.

Instead, I want to focus on Topokki's recovery. I am simply so thankful that my little boy is safe and well today.

Photo by author

Topokki is a solid black cat with white fur on the throat like the Roman collar worn by a priest. Hence his nickname, Mr. Priest.

He had a very peculiar habit- he kept watch as I slept, like my silent guardian during the darkest hours of my mental struggle.

On the days that I couldn’t get out of bed, he’d nudge me awake with insistent meows, his furry insistence a lifeline pulling me back from the darkness.

He’d also often stir me awake in the dead of night, yowling insistently as if demanding my attention. His food and water were always fresh, so I was left wondering what he could possibly want.

He would only do this whenever I have nightmares.

The same recurring nightmare, thirty years on. It has gotten even worse since my mental health took a dive. It’s been recurring for at least few times a week.

Even though I was estranged from my family for ten years, the dreams felt so real. Like I’m reliving the ordeal over and over again.

I would struggle in the dream, crying and running away. Most time I’d wake up still crying, it messes me up for days.

For a while there, I actually felt like I was sleeping better, despite Toppoki’s nightly alarms. Then it hit me. Toppoki wasn’t just waking me up, he was pulling me out of that nightmare.

One night, I jolted awake, heart pounding from the same terror. I wondered where is Topokki, why didn’t he wake me up? I spun around just in time to see him sprinting into my bedroom.

Guess I woke up faster than he could rescue me this time.

Perhaps he can understand and sense certain thing, he is always there, like my personal therapy animal in the ever-shifting currents of my emotions.

Photo by Martha Dominguez de Gouveia on Unsplash

One day he suddenly fell ill. Very ill. Nothing I’ve seen before. Head tremors, hiding, barely a shadow of his usual self.

Things went downhill fast. After a day, he’s tearing up. There’s so much tears as if he was crying. He refused medication.

The vet wasn’t helping much. A quick once-over without any proper FIP diagnostic tools, she thrown the diagnosis at my face. Feline Infectious Peritonitis (FIP). The word hangs in the air like a death knell for my cat.

My plea for blood tests fell on deaf ears. The vet, her voice clipped and eyes averted, insisted the diagnosis was final. As if throwing a bone to a starving dog, she suggested an X-ray, an irrelevant test that offered no answers.

Was it just another bureaucratic hurdle, a way to shut down my questions?

Or did the grim truth of my financial limitation, revealed when I expressed my concerned over the potential medication costs, play a part in this sterile dismissal?

I didn’t even get to ask further question because she just walked away from the room and letting her assistant handle everything else.

I was so confused, not knowing what to do. A part of me screamed malpractice but another part is whispering the possibility that the vet might be right.

I cried on my way home with Topokki in his carrier on my lap. I know I had to be strong for him.

Even if I have to scrape by, I’ll find a way. My cat deserves a fighting chance.

With a heavy heart, I had to isolate him, turning his cage into his temporary sanctuary with an old bedsheet. I couldn’t bear to keep him in complete darkness, so I left one side uncovered, facing the balcony. From there, he could still watch the view out there.

He’s on medication and needs to be monitored closely until his next appointment at another vet’s clinic. I’m not accepting the diagnosis and his symptoms just don’t seem to match. I need a second opinion.

The balcony is the only place we can go away from other cats and we would stay there for hours in the afternoon.

I couldn’t sleep either. Every hour, like clockwork, I’d find myself peering into his cage to check on him, both of us trapped in our own helplessness. His yowls and meows, pleading to be let out and I was sitting there crying. I wished I could take his pain on myself.

Trembling, I mumbled, as my pleas dissolving into a desperate outpouring of fear and hope. It wasn’t prayer, not in any traditional sense, for I had long turned away from all religion.

This was an earnest plea to whatever force might be listening:

Please, save my Toppoki. Don’t take him from me.

His appointment was still days away and the wait was just so torturing. But soon he was getting better, eating like usual and finally looking like himself again. Almost at least. My worries wouldn’t budge.

Could this be real? Was he truly getting better?

Photo by Luis Sánchez on Unsplash

One mistake before Topokki’s appointment landed me in the ER. My mind was so full of worry, I barely noticed the can lid when it sliced through my hand like butter. There was blood everywhere, staining the kitchen counter and the floor. Panic seized me.

The only thing on my mind was Topokki.

How could I take him to the vet tomorrow with this mess?

Even my meds couldn’t calm me down. I don’t remember how many stitches I received nor the pain. Only fear and anger with myself.

How could I be so careless?

---

The next day, the vet gave Topokki a clean bill of health after a proper checkup and blood test. Apparently, his recent illness was all stress-related, brought on by not being neutered.

Relief flooded me.

Now, the only hurdle left was surgery. Honestly, I was a nervous wreck again.

What if he had allergies to the anesthesia?

Thankfully, that wasn’t the case either. Everything went smoothly, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

He’s all good now.

Recently he had developed another peculiar habit.

Photo by Caroline Hernandez on Unsplash

He’d would stay with me during my prayers, even if I switched up the timing from 3 PM to different hours. Sometimes, I’d pray at the church’s chapel or I’d delay praying until late evening and he’d still come pester me.

It felt like he was reminding me to pray. In a way, you could say he’s the reason I started praying in the first place.

©Britt H.

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