I’ve joined this site specifically to post on this forum because I’m going round in circles and I really need some answers and support.
On 22nd March 2022, my little Mimi—who was about to celebrate her 10th birthday on the 25th—went into the clinic for a routine check-up and never came home.
It was the first time we’d been to this clinic; we wanted a second opinion because Mimi had developed some small lumps at the base of her tail over the last few months. Vet 1 treated the first lump as a sebaceous cyst and surgically removed it in October 2021.
As two or three more lumps appeared in the same spot over the following months—including one that really worried us because it was very hard—and Vet 1 said he couldn’t operate again (as there wasn’t enough skin left to close the wound) and that it was best to leave it be, we decided to see Vet 2.
Vet 2 said it could be cancerous and recommended a "minor" needle biopsy and a "quick" X-ray to find out for certain. Looking back, I don’t think I properly weighed up the risk-benefit ratio of the procedure, which was presented to me as being very routine.
I should mention that Mimi didn’t have any known health issues and seemed perfectly healthy. She was a tiny thing, weighing just under 8 lbs (3.6kg), but she was eating well, running around, playing, and was very sociable. She’d already had a few general anaesthetics at Vet 1 before (for abscesses from cat fights and such), and everything had always gone fine.
Anyway...
Translated from French
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I’m so sorry about what happened to your little girl. As you say, it’s so hard to accept when things go wrong when you’re just trying to do your best, especially with those nasty health issues that you know shouldn't be left too long because they can spiral so quickly. Even when you're aware of the risks of anaesthesia, it’s such a tough call to make—it’s the same for humans too.
My own girl isn't doing well at the moment; she’s wasted away over the last fortnight. I haven't managed to get any sedatives into her to take her in for a full check-up, which she really needs as she’s so stressed. Her condition means she can’t be put under without an increased risk, on top of the usual statistics (I read there’s a 10% chance of anaesthetic complications), plus she’s 11 now. It’s a risk I’m just not willing to take.
I’ve had to cancel two appointments because she wouldn't take her tablet; despite twelve attempts, she can smell it a mile off and she’s cleverer than most moggies. No matter how much I try to outsmart her, I just can’t do it, and I feel so guilty for failing. Seeing her condition get worse, I pushed it and took her in anyway without any tranquillisers. As it turned out, we’d barely gone 300 yards when she had a fit from the stress. I nearly lost her on the way because I was being stubborn, trying to do the right thing, and because I refuse to just watch her slip away without trying to find out what’s wrong and help her.
In the end, all I got was a tentative diagnosis (after having to insist on being seen, as the vet was reluctant to give us an appointment after the two cancellations, but that’s another story). We’ve got some palliative care now, which is something at least, so I’ll have to make do with that and let time tell the rest. You see, it’s never simple with our pets; whatever you do, it never feels perfect and the guilt is always there. Even when you have to put them to sleep, you worry about the timing. Life takes them from us in all sorts of ways and at any age—it could have happened two months later for yours, you just don't know—just as it could have been a success and saved her from more trouble. It’s almost always unfair, and it’s only natural to feel angry, but you have to try to accept it because you did what you thought was best.
I was panicking, I rushed to the clinic door. They took Safir in, but I could see it in the vet’s eyes—it was over. They were with Safir for about 20 minutes, doing chest compressions and injections, and then the door opened. I remember that woman coming towards me with that look on her face and telling me... he’s gone, cardiac arrest. I thought I was going to collapse, I just cried and cried. I had this knot in my stomach that hurt so much, it was horrific. I left my baby at the vet to be cremated and then hell began. From Sunday night to the following Saturday, I was in a state I’ve never known before. I was crying, I couldn't eat, I was just going through the motions—I was there but not really there. I couldn't sleep, everything was just playing on loop in my head. I still can't get used to him being gone, it’s just terrible. I’ve gone back to work and I even cry there; I feel that knot in my stomach and I have to go to the loo to cry. When I get home I look for him, I’m thinking of him, I miss him so much, the emptiness is just unbearable.
He started having breathing problems about three months ago. The vet increased his treatment and for a month everything was fine, until the day his breathing got really bad. He spent a night on oxygen at the vet's. We brought him home and he seemed better, but three weeks later it started all over again—another night at the vet's on oxygen. Back home again, he wasn't doing great, but he was eating and moving around.
Then last month, on Sunday 13th March at 3pm, I saw things weren't right. His breathing was very poor. I saw him in the hallway with his mouth open, gasping for air. I called the out-of-hours vet who told me she didn't have oxygen at the surgery and that I needed to go to a clinic. It was about 15 minutes from my house. We put Safir in his carrier and headed for the clinic. He was calm, meowing every now and then while I talked to him. When we were about 3 minutes away from the clinic, he started coughing and trying to get out of his carrier. I opened it and he stayed on my lap; his breathing was terrible. I was stroking him when he jumped over me onto the back seat. He lost his balance and fell, but I called him and he climbed back onto the seat and lay down. I thought to myself, "It's okay, he’s just resting."
We arrived at the clinic and I jumped out of the car. Safir wasn't on the seat anymore; he was lying behind my seat. I picked him up and realised he was dead—his little head was to the side, his eyes were open, and his tongue was hanging out.
Good evening. It’s hard to find the right words at times like this. I lost my cat on 13th March and I still think about him every single day. I’m just inconsolable and can’t stop crying. I keep replaying his final moments over and over in my head, and the worst thing is how much I miss him—the flat feels completely empty.
Safir was 15 and had been ill for three years with hyperthyroidism. The treatment worked well for the first year, but as time went on, he started eating less and had his ups and downs; he’d lose weight and then seem to pick up again for a bit. Then he developed high blood pressure and a heart condition. He was on three tablets plus a liquid dose every morning and the same again in the evening. All those meds helped as long as they were actually working, but eventually they barely made a difference. He’d been so tired for the last six months. I could see it in his eyes whenever I gave him his treatment—I could tell he’d just had enough.
Hi there,
You didn't leave your little one with strangers, but with professionals who specialise in feline health. It’s exactly what any responsible owner does when there’s a health issue or a change in their cat's behaviour. Unfortunately, medicine isn't an exact science, and that's just as true for humans. But taking them to the vet is still the most sensible and helpful thing you can do.
Anyone who’s had several cats will have that one ‘favourite’ who stays in their memory—a cat who was more impactful, more loving, more of a kindred spirit, or just more intelligent. A soulmate, in a way. I experienced this with my Siamese, Blue Cat, who passed away at 17 and a half. Even so, I have three cats now, including two Siamese/Orientals, whom I love dearly. No cat can ever replace the one you’ve lost and will never forget, but continuing to love other cats does a world of good—both for the grieving owner and the new cats themselves. You find a little piece of the one you lost in every living cat. Life goes on, and that’s exactly as it should be.
Mimi had years of happiness with you, and that in itself is a lot.
Just like me, you thought you were doing the right thing; you believed it was the best solution.
Unfortunately, fate stepped in and we were just unlucky.
Vets don’t always stress the risks of their procedures enough, which would allow us to prepare for the worst and make a fully informed decision.
If I’d known it could be fatal, I would never have taken the risk and my little sweetheart would have passed away by my side.
You have so much love to give, even if the sheer weight of the grief is overwhelming right now.
It’s hard to imagine the future without them at the moment, and the guilt only adds to the pain of their absence.
I hope the stories on the forum bring you a little hope, even if the road ahead feels long or even insurmountable for now.
Don't hesitate to share; even if it doesn't take away the pain, it helps to know that others have been through this tragedy and can understand without judging.
Thank you so much for taking the time to reply to me.
It really helps to be able to talk and feel understood. When I mention my guilt, everyone tells me to stop beating myself up, but it's not that simple.
We know it doesn't change anything, and the worst part is that if we hadn't taken them in, we'd have felt just as guilty if their condition had got worse — we'd have regretted not acting sooner and kicked ourselves just as much.
I try to tell myself that if Mimi had had cancer, she would have hidden it so well, and it could have been just as sudden — and on top of that, she'd have been in pain. But at least I would have been with her right to the end, the way she was unconditionally there for me throughout those 10 years. Unfortunately, the thought that it might not have been anything serious — that her days weren't actually numbered — keeps coming back to me and breaking my heart.
It's such a strange way to go. So brutal. I've been living completely detached from reality ever since it happened.
I wish I could turn back time, just like you. I feel like I'm living in a nightmare. I think about her constantly, and about everything I lost by leaving my baby in the hands of strangers.
She was with me every single moment — waiting for me in the evening by the cat flap window or on the kitchen table. She'd sleep curled up against my neck, kneading my hair and purring like a little engine. She was the most intelligent and communicative cat I've ever known. She chatted (and grumbled) non-stop. She understood everything and was just as good at making herself understood too. She was at once a little princess and a complete handful, never missing a chance to show off and be the centre of attention. Sometimes I'd ask her if she'd been human in a past life.
The worst part of all this is that the older they get, the deeper the bond becomes. I'm so heartbroken that it all ended so soon. I feel so guilty that it turned out this way after everything she did for me...
We’ve finally got the ashes back, after so much worrying. Following the awful series of events that led to Mimi's death, I was honestly prepared for the worst. When I think back to how much we hesitated before taking her in... We’d talked about it for months because she’d been to the vet so much lately (abscesses and cysts one after the other) and we felt it was all becoming too much for her, especially since those "lumps" didn't seem to bother her at all. But of course, once the second vet mentioned cancer, we panicked; we couldn't just leave things as they were.
And in hindsight, even if we’d known, given it was inoperable, was it really worth putting her through that test?
I’m just... devastated. And heartbroken. I got her when I was 14; she saw me grow up and was there for every transition in my life. I thought we had more time. I wanted her to grow old. She was too special to only live until she was 10. What a waste...
I dug a hole at the foot of her favourite tree, the one where she’d lie in the shade on summer afternoons. But when it came to putting the urn in, I just couldn't do it. I just held it close and cried... I’m going to keep her with me for a while longer; it’s just too hard to say a final goodbye right now.
I don’t know what to say; once again, your words echo my own thoughts exactly.
Today marks two weeks since I took my darling boy to meet his tragic end.
I just want to scream, I’m in so much pain.
I feel such terrible guilt, and I feel so much resentment towards the professionals who couldn't save him.
He was at a specialist veterinary teaching hospital, and it had reassured me to know that if anything happened, they had all the equipment right there on-site.
He passed away all alone; he must have felt abandoned. The day before he went, while he was in his cage in intensive care, he’d managed to stand up to try and leave with me before collapsing again. That image will haunt me for the rest of my life.
They called to tell me he’d gone into cardiac arrest and to ask if they should try to resuscitate him, but it didn't work, and by the time I arrived, it was too late.
14 years of love reduced to those three days of suffering.
I hope that when you get Mimi’s ashes back, you’ll find a little bit of peace knowing she’s back home with you.
Just tell yourself that Mimi passed away peacefully, almost as if she’d just fallen asleep.
