I remember that night in the car, but the details of the day are still a little fuzzy. I had just had my first round of chemo and, because I felt terrible, Brad had stayed home from work to take care of Trent and me. After I ate breakfast I started feeling better so I asked Brad to take Maggie to the vet while Trent and I laid down for his morning nap.
As the day wore on, I started running a fever, feeling very tired and battling bouts of nausea. The fever got so high that we called the oncologist at Hopkins who said she would call in a prescription, but warned that if the fever remained high, I would have to spend the night at the hospital. Brad went to pick up the medicine and shortly after the phone rang. I was propped on the couch holding Trent when the vet technician said, ‘Mrs. Saylor, Maggie is in renal failure and nothing we have tried has worked. She is really suffering and the vet recommends putting her to sleep.’ I knew I couldn’t let her die alone in the vet office surrounded by strangers so I told her I would be right there. I called my brother and my dad to see who was closest to my house and could watch Trent. Then I called Brad.
Although Brad thought that driving across Berkeley County in the pouring November rain while his wife had a raging chemo fever to sit with a cat while it died was nuts, he relented and we were on our way. The entire way there all I could think of was Maggie. On a search for a companion for my other cat, Madison, I had gone to the animal shelter three years before looking for a kitten. When the shelter volunteer reached to the back of the cage and pulled a tiny furry kitten, it was over. She was mine. She was such a fun animal and, for a cat, was full of personality. Days before she had started getting sick and, in the chaos of a new baby, doctors appointments, scans, and chemo, I just mopped up the messes and tried to keep an eye on her.
They brought Maggie to us and I sat and rubbed her head and told her she was a good cat and that I had loved her. And then, she was gone. It wasn’t until we were in the car on the way home that I realized how hot my cheeks really were and how much those tears stung. The rain continued to pelt the windshield so hard that we had to drive slowly on the Interstate. Then it happened. Brad started laughing. Not, just a little giggle or a chuckle but truly laughing. I could not imagine what in the heck was wrong with him. He looked at me and said, “Well, if you were ever wondering what being at the bottom of the barrel feels like, I think we are getting pretty close. You are sick with cancer of all things, our house is under construction minus the top of the roof, it has been pouring down rain all day, these bills are outrageous, and now we are driving home with a dead cat in a box on the backseat.” And then I started laughing too.
There have been several times over the last eight years that we have laughed because that is what we do.
I remember what my mom said to me on the day Brad and I were married, “there will be days when you two don’t see eye to eye and there will be times when you don’t really even like each other very much, but I really believe that you and Brad will take care of each other and will be there for each other until death do you part.”
Of course, she was right. Happy 8th Anniversary Brad!
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