Dee (5:20)
My husband and I are stuck at home with COVID desperately waiting for the phone to ring with news about Molly. It's late 2021, so it's not the kind of life threatening, scary type of COVID Covid's been around for a while, but it is bad enough that we do feel quite unwell and lockdown rules and quarantine is still a thing, so we're not allowed to leave the house at all. So we're basically stuck there with absolutely nothing to do but speculate and wonder about what might be wrong with Molly. We're googling stuff, going around in circles, trying to eliminate certain things like guess what might be wrong. And it's like the house is thick with tension as we're just waiting for an answer. Molly had had to spend the night in hospital to have an emergency chest operation to remove some fluid from her lungs. And the fluid was causing her to have difficulty breathing. And we had absolutely no idea what might be causing it. It had come on really suddenly, but deep down I just had a sinking feeling that it was bad news. So Molly is a one year old fluffy black cat, really, really sweet and we adopted her along with her brother Cole. Earlier that year in the summer, their personalities just came through so quickly. We hadn't had them very long, but they became part of the family almost straight away and settled in really, really quickly. Cole was the playful cat, so, like, really, really curious about everything, wanted to explore everything and go outside and play all the time. And Molly was the really cute, sweet one. So she would purr and, like, lift her chin, wanting to be tickled, and was just. She didn't even have a proper meow. She would just sort of squeak. It sounded a bit, like, really cute. And they acted like proper siblings. So sometimes they play together, sometimes they'd squabble. But they were adorable. We absolutely adored them. So I'm perched on the edge of a stool, phone in hand, and although I'm kind of heavy and tired from the COVID there is a sort of lightness in my chest, like a fluttering, and my heart is just going really, really fast, and my breathing is shallow because I'm so anxious to know what is going on. And eventually, the vet calls with some news. She explains that they have managed to drain the fluid from Molly's lungs, and she is breathing a lot better. But after examining the fluid a bit more closely, they strongly suspect she has a virus called feline infectious peritonitis, or FIP for short. And when I hear those words, it's like being hit by a tidal wave and I'm submerged underwater because this is the news I've been dreading. So the vet starts talking to me and explaining what FIP means. And although I'm, like, hearing the words on the other end of the phone, I'm not really listening or taking them in because I already know what this means. It's fatal, and there is no cure for fip. So she's explaining this, and I'm not crying. I'm not getting hysterical. I'm just sitting there calmly nodding, saying, okay, yep. And it's like an awful, sad calm just fills the room because it's just like I'm preparing to say goodbye. And then the vet says something I wasn't expecting. She says if I do some more research into fip, I might come across a Facebook group claiming to have a experimental antiviral drug which is only available via the black market in Hong Kong. She says she can't really recommend this treatment because it hasn't gone through the necessary tests. It's not approved for veterinary use, so it can't be recommended. But she does tell me that some other people have chosen to go down that route with their Cats. And some of them say they have had quite good results. So. Yeah. So at that point, I'm thinking, is this a warning or is it a lifeline? Like, on the one hand, everything about it sounds really suspect. Like, Facebook, black market, it's not approved. All of that stuff just sounds so dodgy and, like, a warning, like, do not do this. But on the other hand, there's a question mark there. I'm thinking, why is she telling me this? Could this be the thing that could save Molly's life? So I never really grew up with pets. My parents were allergic, so I wasn't really allowed, like, dogs or cats or anything. I was only allowed small animals, like, things that could be contained, like a fish or hamsters, things like that. And with these smaller animals, it was always a bit like they didn't want to be pets, you know, like they didn't want to be played with. They didn't want me coming up to them. Like, ideally, they would escape and live their lives. So when we adopted Molly and Cole, it was completely different. And they were my first real pets. They actually wanted to follow us around. They wanted to be in the house voluntarily. They didn't need to be contained. It was so sweet, because when we'd leave a room, they would follow us into the next room and just want to be where we were. They actually look to us for comfort, playtime, affection. And with cats, I just realized really quickly that they're communicating with us all the time. Like, when they looked at me with their eyes, like, looked up at me, it was like they were trying to tell me something, communicate even their sounds as well. I started to learn their different sounds for different things. Like, when they wanted playtime, it sounded different to when they wanted to be fed or to be cuddled. So it was like we had this secret language between us, and it was a completely different relationship with them. So just the thought of losing Molly, even though she hadn't been with us that long, it would be like losing a family member or a friend, you know? So that night, I joined the Facebook group, and within minutes, I am chatting to an admin called Dee. And Dee is asking me all of these questions on Facebook Messenger. What age is Molly? What type of FIP does she have? Is it wet or dry? Has she been to the hospital? Has she had it removed? What is her weight? What is her age? And it just feels very impersonal. Like, I don't know this person. I don't even know their full name. At the same time, she's almost Putting a bit of pressure on me as well. Like, you need to act fast, otherwise this is going to come back. This can't be cured. If you don't act now, she's going to get worse. So it's almost like I'm being sold something. In the back of my mind, I am so skeptical about this. Like, everything I've heard about talking to strangers on Facebook just. It ends in a scam, right? I'm just waiting to be given a link to put in my PayPal details, my bank details or something like that. And I'm just thinking, no. Like, the sensible person inside of me is saying, what are you doing? This is someone you do not know on Facebook. But the other part of me is thinking about Molly and how much she's part of our family. And when we adopted them, we went into this thinking, these cats are going to grow old with us. They're going to be part of our lives for so long. I just can't bear the thought of not seeing her develop and grow and being part of that family and leaving Cole without a sibling. And I can't even go there. I don't even want to imagine it. So this Facebook group and this conversation with Dee is the only hope I have that that might not happen and that I could get this time back. So before I know it, I'm answering all of Dee's questions, giving her everything she wants. And the next day, I have delivered to my door syringes, vials, needles, everything I need to treat this cat with this experimental drug, all given to me from someone I don't even know from Facebook. They explained to me that there is a payment, but. And that I have to go online and purchase, but that if I want to get started straight away, they can send it to me and I can pay afterwards. So they're willing to let me try this. And they say, look, if you have got any doubt in your mind, just give it a go and you can send us the money later on. So it's all there at my door, and she explains to me how it's going to work. So she says, for this treatment to have any chance of working, you need to inject Molly every single day with a very precise dose that is measured according to her body weight. It needs to be done at the same time every single day for three months. And every month, you need to get her blood tested to see how she's responding to the treatment. So even that is completely terrifying, right? Like, I've never injected a cat. I've never Injected, anything. I don't know how to administer treatment, and it just feels really technical. Like, even if this drug is completely safe, I am not an expert. I have no training in this. And an injection just feels so risky. Like, what if I do it wrong? And it's just so daunting to me. So before I can administer the first injection, Dee asks to see a photo of Molly's eyes and a video of her walking. And that's because she wants to check to see if the virus is starting to affect her vision or her neurological symptoms or her mobility in any way, or her balance. So I send her these things, and she comes back to me and says, okay, they all look perfect. And then she says, P.S. molly is absolutely adorable. What a total cutie pie. I am in love. I know. And then she says, I have a soft spot for black cats myself. I've got two of my own, and I actually treated them in the exact same. Same way. They're both FIP survivors, and they're living their best lives right now, completely cured. So then I think, okay, maybe Dee is just a crazy cat lady just like me. And I think, okay, maybe this is someone that I can put a bit of trust in. So the first injection comes, and as I'm preparing to do this, my hands are totally shaking. Like, I'm terrified of getting the dose wrong, preparing the syringe wrong. The whole thing is just. I'm trembling. I don't want to do it, but at the same time, I know I have to do it. So my husband decides he's going to be the one to hold her, and I'll be the injector. But I'm looking around on Molly, trying to find a bit of skin to inject into, and she's so thin and she's lost so much weight that I can't even find a place to inject. It takes me a while to just pinch a bit of skin, but eventually I do. I take a pinch of her skin, and as my thumb presses down into the syringe, she lets out the most heartbreaking, piercing cry. I'll never forget that sound. As soon as it's done, she bolts, runs away, hides under the sofa, and I just drop the syringe and collapse into tears. It's like I've betrayed her, and I just can't shake the feeling that I've done her some harm and I've hurt her, and it's absolutely awful. But Dee, at the other end of the Facebook messenger, says, don't worry. You've done the right thing. As long as it got in her, that is good. She's gonna be moody for a bit. Just try and make sure that she eats something. And just the thought of doing this for three months after that, I'm like, how am I gonna get through all of this? This was so much like. It took so much of my emotional energy just to bring myself to inject Molly. Her skin could barely be injected. How are we going to get through three whole months of this? But my husband and I say, okay, well, let's just give it one month, see what the blood tests show after that, see if there's any progress, and we'll just take it from there. So pretty soon we find ourselves going online and ordering this drug, which we just know as Lucky Skincare for Cats. It has to be named something like this so that it doesn't sound like anything that shouldn't be being sold. And it arrives in these sparkly, brightly colored envelopes that are completely decorated with mad cat stickers, pictures of paw prints and sweet little messages. And at the same time they're also marked urgent. Urgent must be delivered today. What must the postman have been thinking when he dropped off these crazy looking packages every week or so? So that sort of becomes our routine every single day. We get up at 6am before work and we prepare for battle. And it's not long before Molly understands what's going on. She sees me preparing the injection, getting everything ready, and she hides. She knows what's happening and it's horrible. My husband has to claw her out from under the sofa, pin her down, and I've got to inject her. And every time she absolutely hates it, she cries, bolts underneath the sofa and spends the rest of the day sulking. Doesn't want to be near us. And it's horrible. And the worst part is we can't even explain to her what's going on. And every day when she hides, my husband tries to. To talk to her in a soft voice and make it seem normal. And he strokes her head and says, there, there, Molly, don't worry. It's all for your own good. We're not doing this to hurt you. We really just want to make you better. And it's not for long. And it'll just be a tiny little pin prick, then it'll be over. But as long as he's doing that, that's just for him.
