Three years ago today, my best friend was diagnosed with cancer. It has weighed heavy on my heart since then, and I’ve struggled to find the right words to tell her story as beautifully as the life she lived and the imprint she left on my heart. My small friend stood less than two feet tall, only ever demanded love… and oh, yeah… she was a cat.
If you’re reading this, chances are your feline companion was recently diagnosed with feline oral squamous cell carcinoma (FOSCC). And if that’s the case, I’m truly sorry. I lost my best friend to this cruel cancer in the winter of 2022, and the journey was one of the most harrowing experiences I’ve lived through. As the three-year anniversary of her diagnosis passes, I thought I would finally sit down and write everything down. There’s a lot I could say about the experience and my relationship with Melanie, a then 19-year-old longhair calico.
Melanie was the poster for why more people need to adopt senior cats. Her little heart had so much love to give. She was very much a person–my someone.
When I learned Melanie was sick, I struggled to find many first-hand accounts that were detailed enough to understand what squamous cell carcinoma would be like. Since then, I’ve wanted to put together something that might be able to help others navigate the uncomfortable, frustrating, and tear-filled experience with some perspective. I learned a lot from the kind doctors who treated Melanie, but nothing could prepare me for the journey ahead.
I feel it’s important to give her a proper introduction before writing about the disease that took my angel away from me. You can follow the links below to read each part of our journey together and what you might expect as you face squamous cell carcinoma together with your companion.
[These will be linked in the future.]- Saying Goodbye
- The Diagnosis
- Treatment
Our Introduction
I suppose I met Melanie during one of the first dates with my wife in 2012. At the time, I was tragically allergic to cats and avoided all five of her felines, gulping in a big breath of fresh air and holding it while racing through the cats’ room. I had to do this every time I entered the house through the laundry room from the garage. I was familiar with the family dog who spent most of his indoor time in the laundry room with Melanie and her four companions; two of them included her mother, Heidi, and brother, Kovu.
There were countless times that I would leave their house all stuffy from allergies, even though the cats were not in the rest of the house. When outside, Kovu followed me around like a dog. I hardly remember anything about Melanie during this time, except that my wife was there for her birth in 2002.
Around the same time I met my wife, I started receiving allergy injections for–among other things–cats. Then, if I spent more than fifteen minutes in a room with a cat, I would leave coughing, sneezing, and with itchy, burning eyes. On a few occasions with other friends’ cats, my encounters led to months-long episodes of bronchitis. When we got married, I remember telling her that there was no way we would ever have five cats.
Then, in 2018, while visiting Angel’s Pet World after a dinner date in Hudson, a tiny black cat caught my eye. He reached through the bars and wrapped his paw around my finger. So… after a few weeks of going back and forth on it, I signed the adoption papers and brought home my first cat, Salem. After a few months, most of my allergy symptoms subsided.
Six months later, we welcomed home our second cat, Simba. To my surprise, I had no reaction to him whatsoever.
It was during this time in-between Salem and Simba that I first truly met Melanie. It was only a week after we buried my grandfather. The day before we brought Salem home, we stopped over at my in-laws to let out their dog while they were out of town. Aria had disappeared into the laundry room for what seemed like hours while I hung out with the dogs. When I finally entered, she was brushing the cats, untangling the gnarled matting from their hair. This was the first time I saw how snarled her coat had become and the matted dander that flaked from her follicles. I wasn’t exceptionally pleased, but I couldn’t be in the same room as her without dying. But of that entire day, I just remember being amazed at how sweet and loving Melanie was. I had always been told that Heidi was grumpy and incontinent; Melanie had a persistent cold and was always sneezing. I suppose I lumped the two together in my mind as an unfriendly mess of medical problems.
Then, sometime between spring break and Easter, we stopped over to their house again. I’m pretty sure it was at the end of Easter Sunday. We would have been there for the new Game of Thrones episode in anticipation for our upcoming trip to Ireland.
It was a repeat of the same thing, and I just remember feeling sorry for the mound of fluff and her unkemptness. I made a quiet promise to Melanie that I would take her home and give her the love she deserved. Seeing the mats of hair, I looked Melanie in her kind, green eyes and made a promise to her. “I’m going to give you a good home where people love you.” I told her she could live out however long she had left with us and live in the house instead of in a dingy laundry room. I remember she looked up at me with her big eyes, possibly gave a little “mew,” and we understood each other. Little did I know that she would remember that promise months later.
It was like she understood every word I said.
I told Aria it wasn’t fair to Melanie, and that we would take her once we returned from our European trip. My concern at the time was that we were traveling abroad for two months. Bringing this aged cat home only to leave a few weeks later wouldn’t be fair to her. I rationalized this with my in-laws and agreed to rehome Melanie as soon as we came back in August. I still wasn’t sure how to reconcile my chronic allergies to her, but that was quickly resolved. Now that I knew I could have cats, it was decided. She would be coming home.
I made certain my wife relayed the message to her parents. We would take Melanie, for sure, one hundred percent, but it would have to wait until we finished traveling. Of that, I was adamant. At that point, this calico was seventeen years old, and Melanie’s mother was still living with her. I didn’t know that we could take in both of them, but I just had to save Melanie. I felt bad and wanted to give her love for whatever time she had left.
Welcome Home
We were staying in Germany with my wife’s extended family when she received a text from our housesitter. Melanie’s mother went into kidney failure and my in-laws put an end to her suffering. After Heidi had passed, they dropped Melanie off at our house early. Needless to say, I wasn’t happy. I didn’t know how the other two cats would react. I was also miffed that I had promised Melanie a happy welcome home and that she had just been dumped off.
We arrived home from our trip to disaster. Salem had been moved to the bathroom and was eating the cushion toilet seat. He also began pooping in his food bowl. The first night home, Simba cuddled up next to me… and promptly urinated on my legs and then took a steaming poop on them.
By the end of it, Melanie looked at me like, “Hi, Dad. This house is crazy, but I’m happy to be here with you.” It was like she remembered my promise to her, and we became fast friends. Looking back, it’s hard to realize that she’s been gone longer than she was with me; even a few months out from coming home, I couldn’t think of a time without her.
Unlike everyone else, Melanie was instantly settled in and immediately bonded with me like a baby duckling. From the moment we were home, the little peanut followed me around the house like a baby duck. Everywhere I went, she was there. I remember one of my first at-home interactions with her. Her eyes looked up to me, acknowledging me as “dad.” It wasn’t long before she would routinely sit on me to remind me of her presence and sometimes paw at my face with her soft paw. I’m convinced that during our first meeting, she thanked me for bringing her home and realized my commitment to making her a part of our family.
We cleaned her up and brushed her. She forced her love on everyone else in the house, much to the dog’s chagrin. At 17 years of age, Melanie did what she wanted on her own time, and if I didn’t pay attention, she wasn’t afraid to reach a tender paw up to my face to remind me, “Dad… I’m right here.” She would brush her little old lips against my cheek, sometimes sneezing a glob of snot onto my face, recompose her posture, and remind me that she was dignified. She played with the catnip mouse toys we bought for her but would freeze when she saw us, pretending she was too mature for it. Despite her age, she was still very much a kitten at heart.
After a visit to the vet, they questioned if she was really 17 years old. We replied that my wife was there for her birth. They commended Melanie on her health, saying that she had the health of an eight-year-old cat. We were astonished, and it put my mind at ease. I believed we had many more years together, and we could enjoy the rest of our time once I finished my degree.
Bonding Time
Europe was my last big hurrah. Within a few short weeks of returning, I started my master’s program. I took it seriously. Every day, I focused on turning out my best work. When at home, this meant sitting in my chair or at the dining room table. In both places, Melanie decided it was her spot as well. Pushing the door open and announcing I was home, Melanie would be standing at the top of the stairs, waiting for me. Other times, she would be napping in our chairs. During my online classes and while completing my homework, Melanie was always sure to hop up next to me. These spots would eventually accumulate buildup of her fine hair, which marinated with blue dye from my jeans from sitting there so often. These places were ours.
I remember somewhere in there watching Disney’s “The Small One” and realizing she was my small one, my little one. It made me think of when her little body would start failing her and just wanting love from us, and I just broke down sobbing. I knew our time was short. I just never realized how quickly my little miracle would be gone.
It wasn’t long before Aria and I received the stay-at-home directive at the start of COVID. Melanie became so intimately intertwined with my daily routine. At the start of the day, she would jump into bed and wake me up just before my alarm went off. After showering, she joined me for breakfast, sometimes sticking her paw in my milk and daintily licking it off. While teaching my classes to the alphabet soup that was Google Meets, she would relieve herself from her post and nap, allowing Simba to vie for my attention.
My wife’s school resumed in-person teaching during the following school year. Mine kept us home–for the most part–through March of the next year. Melanie was my little buddy, and everywhere I went, she went. Every aspect of our days were scheduled around each other.
When she sensed my stress levels were high, she would jump up into my lap and badger me. “Dad, I’m here. Look at me. I’m what really matters.” She would grab my face with her paw and always remind me of that.
In hindsight, I regret all of the times she followed me downstairs that I closed my office door to focus on my work. Melanie would sit there, waiting patiently for me, sometimes pawing at the door. On the off-chance she could sneak in, she inspected every corner of the room, disappearing behind furniture to investigate.
Looking back, I would trade every perfect paper grade and every extra dollar earned to gain back those extra minutes with her.
To be continued…
