Live each moment as if it is your last

You hear it all the time: "Live each moment as if it is your last"; "treasure your time", etc.

And you remember, at the most inopportune times. And forget in the mind numbing tedium that comes in between. Where life inexplicably gets in the way of living.

Live each moment as if it is your last.

In High School I had a Basketball coach who said a few things that have always stuck with me. I have forgotten much of my younger years but these words have always bounced around in my head, always reminded me.

The first was the old athletic cliche "We're (or I'm) Number One!" with the big digit pointed skyward. As she always liked to say -- if you are number one there is really one way direction to go.

And she always told us to "Play every Play as if it is your last". And she had a story to match, an injury that ended a career far short of where one would expect, far earlier than the athlete was prepared for, and a last game that was less than the best effort that could have been produced.

Live each moment as if it is your last.

You've had those moments, that brutally remind you of the time you are destined to spend here, of how short this life truly is, how precious the moments you spend are. The touch, the fleeting memory, that last Christmas, the painful argument, the time spent, the time lost. Those are the times you remember -- to Live each moment.

And in the times between, when life gets in the way. You think of that friend who is struggling, that family member that is ill. That birthday you forgot to acknowledge, that funny story you didn't share. You don't have time to reach out, to write that card, to remember your friend.

You don't have time, until it is too late. Too late for that one last precious moment. Until it's too late to remember . . .

to Live each moment as if it is your last.

So when you do remember, reach out. Make that card and mail it, place the phone call, tell your friend how dear they are to you. Play each play as if it is your last, just in case it is.

When Alex first got sick I realized (combined with my friends having to put their cat (strangely named Alex and the exact same age but a boy) to sleep) that time remaining was precious and I've done my best to enjoy each moment.

Today was a brutal reminder of how fleeting each moment is. It was to be a routine visit, to re-check, re-weigh. I was concerned about her labored breathing, her inability to have bowel movements, my concern that she wasn't gaining weight back.

She lost more weight.

And her lungs sounded awful. Not crackly like pneumonia, but awful. So to feel better, to go home knowing it was either nothing or something I went ahead with the X-ray. Fortunately she is small enough we could get both the chest and the bowels on one plate. I was concerned about a bowel obstruction.

But it was the lungs. The X-ray was quite shocking. Where there should be black to indicate lungs there was nothing but grey. Fluid. He estimated that less than 30% of her lungs were able to function. She was indeed laboring to breathe, she was downright drowning.

And the choices were scary. None were good. None had a good outcome over a month. And this is an 80 year old cat. Who most likely will not see 81.

I did not agonize over my decision out of guilt. I agonized over what was right, what was fair to Alex, who could not proctor an opinion on her own (other than fighting, batting, and growling). He wanted to drain the fluid (the color would tell us a bit more where we stood), but there were huge risks vs possible gain, and I do not want her last moments to be miserable. I do not want to put her through the trauma of surgery, and I do not want to risk her for the sake of my conscience or a medical procedure.

She is just a cat. But darn it she is my cat, she is my "family". I love her and just want to do the right thing.

So we agreed to a compromise. He could do the procedure to make her more comfortable, but if there was any risk, or she fought too hard, if she was too miserable, that was it.

And then he took her away.

That was the hardest part. I can't imagine if she was my child, but then again she is all that I have so she is a bit of a child (an 80 year old diva but you get the idea). I bawled my eyes out. It is inevitable that she will die. I just didn't want that to be today (or tomorrow or in the forseeable future quite honestly).

And the longer he had her, the worse it got. It was a miserable wait. So I promised, yet again . . .

to Live each moment as if it was the last.

She looked much better upon return. He told me she was the diva I love her to be and continued to try to swat at him. They shaved her (if you look closely you can see where) and drew 100cc's of fluid out of her. 100cc's. OK no I don't really know how much that is but it sounds like a tremendous lot and he was amazed. Now of course she weighs even less than when I got there as that was probably a large portion of her weight.

Two things, she was more comfortable and could actually draw a breath, and the fluid was clear. That was not one of the choices but no, it's still not good. Most likely her heart is failing.

When asked if I was to continue the thyroid medicine they said yes, and then asked me how much I wanted. I smiled and said in return "I'm optimistic, let's go for the whole month's supply!".

And in the meantime I will treasure her, and spoil her more than normal. Giving her the pills will be hard but I'll continue. I'll no longer aggravate her by clearing her fur mats. And I will love her every moment.

And I will call my friend who is sick, my 99 year old grandfather that was just hospitalized, send those cards I keep neglecting, and play hard each and every play.

The inevitable will come whether I want it to or not, whether I am ready or not. So until then I will:

LIVE EACH MOMENT AS IF IT IS THE LAST.