This morning, the phone rang and the voice at the other end said, "Really great news, KAK. Warty Beast does not have Cushings Disease." Yippee. No, really. Yippee. 'Cause treatment boils down to beastie chemo. I'll go to great lengths for my bairy heasts. I give them the same considerations as I give a human in my care. The catch?
I'm all about quality of life superseding quantity of life.Not every cure is worth the the hell of salvation. How many cures actually restore the sick to comparable health? Not as many as one would like to think. Somewhere along the winding path of medical advancements we, the populace, lost sight of existing not equaling living. There is no universal scale by which that equality can be measured. It has to be an individual decision. That decision is one we are terrified someone else will make for us, so we muddle onward, laboring under misguided notions of longevity and deserved distrust.
If there is sentience and opportunity after death, one can guess where I'll be found.
I hear you on this. My five-year-old cat died of cancer a few years back. We opted not to do chemo. It would have involved driving her an hour each direction in the hated car to be poked and prodded by strangers - I couldn't put her through it, as much as it broke my heart to say goodbye.
ReplyDeleteYeah, chemo = blarg, be it for two footed or four.
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