Milo, the best boy, 2020-2025

I'm writing this in the foodcourt of the airport in Doha, Qatar. We left Dallas on Sunday (yesterday, I guess?) at 10:50 pm and flew for 14.5 hours and now it's 10:50 pm on Monday Doha-time and we leave at 2 a.m. for Cape Town where we will land 9.5 hours later which is apparently noon on Tuesday there. I'm so glad we're here and together and on this grand adventure.

But yesterday was very, very hard.

When I last wrote I was in the waiting room of the 24-hour veterinary ER. We'd spent the night before in a different emergency vet. Milo hadn't kept any food down since Thursday morning. The first vet felt there was likely a mass in his abdomen, but couldn't do the further testing needed to diagnose it. Normally we'd make an appointment on Monday with an internist or oncologist, but of course we were leaving the country Sunday night. They recommended a different ER that had an internist on staff, so that's where I spent much of Saturday.

They agreed there was definitely a large mass in his stomach, that he was in pain, and they should admit him overnight so he could get fluids and pain meds and then get the more thorough ultrasound with biopsy if needed on Sunday morning. I gave him lots of pets and went home thinking that maybe they could diagnose him and he'd be stable for our trip and then we could determine next steps when we came back. Or maybe he'd need surgery, but our pet sitter was willing and happy to pick him up when he could come home and even stay the night at our house to keep a close eye on him.

On Sunday morning, while trying to convince myself to do a quick workout before packing, I got a call from the internal medicine vet. His voice was sad. He said Milo was a beautiful, wonderful cat. That the mass in his abdomen was indeed in his stomach. That it was a tumor. that it was taking up nearly his entire stomach.

They were able to do a fine needle aspiration, and while he wasn't an oncologist, the doctor was confident in calling it large-cell lymphoma. he said Milo was very sick and in a lot of pain. He said with aggressive chemotherapy treatment we could maybe get a couple of weeks, maybe even two months, but no longer. And without treatment he would not survive the two weeks we were gone.

He was incredibly kind and professional. He gave options without judgment, but I think he agreed when I said we couldn't put Milo through chemotherapy just for a few extra weeks that weren't even guaranteed. It would require constant vet visits, which he hates and finds so stressful, and it would be scary and painful and ultimately, selfish.

I made an appointment to come by with the whole family for 2 pm when we could love on him and say goodbye. Then I broke down sobbing as Cora walked into our bedroom where I'd been on the phone.

Anyone who has said goodbye to a pet knows how exquisitely painful it is. We are so, so lucky to have them, and their lives are too short under the best of circumstances, but we only had Milo for 4 years. He was only 5 years old.

I'm comforted knowing that we absolutely adored him and that his foster mother before we adopted him adored him just as much. As I told the kids, through just constant tears, he doesn't know his life was too short. He doesn't know we're left behind. All he knows is that he was constantly surrounded by love and the softest of blankets. That he slept with one of his human siblings every single night. That he played with his brother Moose and never quite figured out the purpose of the white non-human/non-cat creature.

We packed and cried and ate lunch with the remains of whatever was in our fridge. Then we drove to the emergency vet. We were escorted straight to a private room where they brought us Milo.

We'd brought his favorite soft blanket and a Churu treat. He looked so sick.

The vet said he must have had the tumor for a long time, that he'd likely been sick for a long time, but cats hide it well until they simply can't. And now he couldn't.

He still snuggled with us. He purred as we gently pet him.

He licked his Churu with a hint of the exuberance he had mere days ago.

Everyone got some time with him. Everyone cried.

Everyone had a hand on him when we said goodbye and the doctor gave him the drugs to put him to sleep and then stop his heart.

It quite simply broke my heart to pet him that final time, when his body had gone still. To see my kids, tears streaming down all our faces, but I'm also so deeply grateful that we got to do that together. That we got to hurt and love and feel and say goodbye. That it all came to that sudden head literal hours before we were heading out of the country for 2 weeks.

It hurts. It hurts so much. But it helps to feel at peace with it. As I talked about with the kids- this is life, a life with love in it has pain too, and we're in control of so very little.

Cancer is deeply unfair and unpredictable, but we can't change the facts of what happened. I think we all felt peace with saying goodbye when we did-- that it was the right decision even if we'd been home for the next month. He so drastically changed in mere days- as if he was determined to live fully right up until he couldn't live at all.

The IV was the only reason he was awake and able to move around with us on Sunday. James and Landon had been gone for five days for a swim meet. We would all be gone in mere hours. And somehow he threaded that needle so we could all be together to say goodbye with all the love in our hearts.

He was simply the greatest cat.

Handsome, fluffy, curious, friendly, social, snuggly, and soft as the puffy clouds that touch rainbows.

He was the cat for people who didn't think they liked cats.

He ran when you called his name. He greeted everyone who visited at the door.

He bopped between all three of the kids' beds, but anytime I was sick or recovering from a surgery he was next to me every minute except when he was eating. He was my snuggly little shadow and I have one million selfies on my camera roll of him curled up on my lap no matter where I'm sitting or what I'm trying to do around him.

Nearly every time Landon came into my office to lounge and chat at night, he had a Milo attached to his person. Milo spent every summer morning snuggled in blankets with Cora while she watched her nature documentaries. He spent hours on Claire's lap at her desk in her room.

He was just the best.

We loved him so, so much. And will miss him just as intensely.

Farewell our sweet, handsome boy. We loved you with all our hearts, thank you for being one of the best parts of our lives for the last 4 years.

Sleep well.