His Last Breath

And now I am gasping for air.

💔 NOTE: This post may be triggering 💔

Last Friday, I took Trevor to my regular vet and shared in this post on Saturday, June 6th, explaining what was going on and that I was waiting for answers. . . and that eventually I found out that Trevor had cancer in his lungs based on his X-rays, but they’d know more once the bloodwork came back from the lab.

I naively hoped to get positive info on Saturday, but when Trevor wasn’t doing any better, and in fact, possibly declining, I called my vet again for answers.

My regular vet wasn’t there, but they told me some of his bloodwork had come in, emailed over his results, but that nothing looked particularly alarming. They were still waiting on the final lymphoma panel, but no one made it seem urgent. No one made it sound like we were running out of time. And because they weren’t acting urgently, I wasn’t either.

That’s one of the hardest things I sit with now 😢

He ate breakfast like any normal day. I was hopeful enough that I even gave him his flea medication after noticing a bug jump on his back from the grass. That’s how convinced I was that he was going to be okay.

But as the day went on, his breathing became noticeably worse. I spent most of the day holding Trevor in my arms so he could rest easily getting more air.

I called the vet again, an hour before closing time. They offered a steroid prescription, which I already had left over from Randy, and another medication that might help his breathing. Then they kept telling me all the pharmacies were closed. I remember thinking, no they’re not. There’s one two minutes from my house that’s open until nine. The vet was closing at eight and there wasn’t much time left, so I kept texting. Eventually they told me I could show the (human) pharmacy the prescription email the vet sent and hopefully get it filled.

I threw on my pink dress and rushed out as fast as I could, telling Trevor I’d be back in ten minutes. . .

I sped to the pharmacy. . . and waited impatiently, only for them to tell me: No.

I raced back home and found Trevor sitting on the edge of the rug near the couch, at the door waiting for me, just like he always does. He greeted me happily, reached for his favorite toy, and still looked okay enough that I believed we had time.

I found the prednisone I’d saved from Randy and tried to give it to him, but suddenly he didn’t want food. Not his food. Not my food. Not chicken. Not honeydew. Nothing. I couldn’t get him to eat a single bite. But he was drinking so much water, his little body was bulging along the sides.

He turned away from the food, then headed slowly toward the back door like he needed to go outside. I opened it and he stepped out briefly before turning around and coming right back in. Then he made a motion like he was trying to throw up—heaving once—but nothing came out. Then his body stiffened and he started to tip over onto his side.

I panicked and screamed his name, dropping to my knees and stopping his fall, then holding him and rubbing his throat back and forth from his chin to his chest, to clear his airways, but it wasn’t working. I kept screaming: TREVOR WAKE UP, TREVOR—TREVOR, TREVOR—WAKE UP, but it didn’t work.