A Conversation with Mila

No updates here. Only a daydream.

“Doctors know the best answers for problems. And they’ve studied your disease for decades — centuries even. It’s best to do what the doctors dictate recommend. Quit rebelling.”

These are probably the thoughts I would contrive if I tried to imagine reassuring Mila that the Albuterol is necessary for her well-being, as I forcibly “apply the mask to her muzzle and ensure an effective seal.”

Mila is our cat. Eight to 12 breaths, twice a day — every day. Mila does not like her treatment.

She runs away and tries to hide. Once captured, she tries to evade the mask, but she’s no match for my strength (and wisdom). Yet she still resists. She holds her breath, but eventually has to concede. She tries to fake me out by acting compliant, then suddenly yanks her head back in an attempt to escape. Resistance is useless.

We have noticed that her asthma does seem to be quelled since using the feline inhaler. I think she knows we are trying to help her. She often purrs afterwards.

But she always tries to resist. Over the years, we’ve broken her spirit a bit. (I mean, we’ve convinced her we know what’s best.) Since she knows it’s inevitable, she resists a little less.

I can imagine Mila asking me,

“Well why are you questioning taking chemo? Doctor’s say it’s time to double the dosage, so do it. I mean, who are you? You read a few books and watched some videos. You think that qualifies you to question the Standard of Care approved by the FDA? You do want to live an extra six months, don’t you?”

Like Mila, my instinct is to resist or at least seriously question this “answer” of what is best. Maybe Mila, like me, is not convinced that the prescribed treatment is the best.

“Is this helping more than hurting? Is it really helping at all? Why am I having to deal with this?”

These are the questions we might ponder tonight as we share a bowl of (sugar-free) ice cream.

Pickles

Epilogue

Despite living under the same roof as Mila and I, Pickles hasn’t seemed to learn a thing. She continues to live recklessly. She stays out late; eats red meat (mice); strolls across the street; scratches furniture; drinks too much (milk). Maybe it’s genetics, or luck, or nutrition, or karma, or activity level, or God’s plan, or state-of-mind.

Who knows?