Ovarian Cancer and an Unwanted Kitten

To this day the words of the doctor still echo through my mind, “Anne, I think it’s ovarian cancer, you best go home and get your affairs in order and we’ll operate as soon as we can.”

My mother had surgery late December and was diagnosed with an aggressive form of ovarian cancer. And in my twenties I became her full time carer. 

Her first round of chemotherapy was tough on all of us: the physical side was demanding, but it was the emotional side that was like a rollercoaster through hell. 

I was weary, both emotionally and physically, and I feared for my mother’s future. I worried if she would even have a future. I worried for my seventeen year old brother too. I wondered how I was going to cope financially taking care of my mum, my brother and myself. 

A few days before my mum’s second round of chemotherapy, we were sitting on the couch watching an old movie, The Last of the Mohicans, I think it was called. We were up to a climactic scene close to the end of the film, when suddenly I heard this high pitched sound; it was like the sound that a balloon makes when you pinch the mouth piece and slowly release the air. At first I thought it was the television, but then I heard it again. I paused the film and mum and I waited in silence. There it was again, and being a veterinary nurse, I knew that sound instantly. It was a kitten, and it needed help. 

I jumped up from the couch, donned my slippers and raced out the front door. I searched all around the front yard, following the scream of what I knew was a baby kitten in distress. And finally out of the corner of my eye, I saw something scurry behind the big terracotta pot plant on the front porch. I rushed over and there he was, a tiny fluff-ball of tabby and white. He must have only been about five weeks old. I bent over to pick him up and he gave me a tiny hiss with his gummy mouth. 

He was gorgeous. And I knew instantly that he was just what we needed in a house that felt so sad. Mum, however did take a little convincing at first, her initial reaction was, “Yes, he’s cute, but I’m not really a cat person.” 

Famous last words, mum. 

The kitten only took a few days to settle in, at first he’d hide behind the couch and he could only be enticed out with food. By day two he began to explore the entire house, poking his tiny nose into every nook and cranny. By day three we were introduced to the snuggly, playful and somewhat mischievous little boy that we would come to adore. 

It was on day three whilst I was taking a shower, that my mum startled me with a bang on the bathroom door. I quickly turned off the taps, wrapped a towel around myself, and cracked open the door, “Mum, what’s wrong?” I asked, worried that she was in pain or worse. She looked at me with tears in her eyes, 

“Titus. Let’s call him Titus.” 

Once I got out of the shower, I sat down with mum on the couch and she explained to me that she had been lying in bed, reading her bible-my mum was a Christian, but not in the conservative, self-righteous sense: she was not judgmental and legalistic, she was kind and she loved without agenda. According to my mum, as her eyes gazed over the Bible verse, 2Corinthians 7:6 (‘But God cheers up people in need, and this is what he did when he sent Titus to us.’) the little kitten raced into her bedroom and climbed onto her bed for the first of what would be many times. 

So, Titus it was.

By the eight week mark, Titus had definitely become king of the house. He would race around jumping on furniture and attacking the plants; and then the next minute, I’d see him cozying up next to my mum on the couch or sneaking into my brother’s room for a cuddle-not even my brother could resist his addictive purr and cute little nose. 

Mum barely tolerated her next round of chemotherapy and to make things worse, she had a terrible reaction to one of the anti nausea drugs. She was filled with anxiety and would cry for her mother, whom I had never met. It broke my heart to see her like that. But all the while, little Titus was there, sometimes just sitting and watching, other times crouching around corners waiting to spring out at us as we passed by. It was like joy overflowed out of his entire being. 

I remember when mum started to lose her hair, she handled it well, but to be honest, I struggled with it. I just felt so bad for her. This particular day, I was brushing what was left of her hair and big chunks were falling to the floor, like a shower of blonde rain. I couldn’t take it anymore and I silently began to cry; but as the tears poured down my face, little Titus began rolling around and attacking the blonde hair that covered the floor. He looked like a tabby and white pompom coated in strands of gold. Both mum and I burst out laughing, and Titus played with the hair all afternoon until he dropped from exhaustion at my mum’s side. 

There were many nights following the next eighteen months when I would wake from my sleep and rush in to check on my mother, who would often be overcome by intense nausea or in a state of panic, but Titus was always there. Other nights I would awake to find my mum and Titus snuggled up on the other side of my bed, next to me. 

At the age of forty nine, almost two years after her diagnosis, my mum, Anne Therese Osborne passed away. Caring for her was the hardest thing that I have ever had to do, but at the same time it was the biggest privilege of my life. 

Following mum’s death, Titus attached himself to me. He followed me everywhere. He slept in my bed and waited at the door for me to get home. He even made a point of watching me whilst I showered! He never left my side. He missed my mum, I could tell, but it was more than that, it was as if he made it his job to make sure that I was ok. Each tear that I cried was soothed by his purr, and the anger that I felt was eased by his crazy kitten antics. This little creature had been sent to us to encourage us through a season that was long and hard. 

And for that I will be eternally thankful. 

I wish I could say that Titus lived a long healthy life, but he didn’t. Almost twelve months to the day following the death of my mum, Titus had an aneurysm and he died in my arms. He was only three. 

Like humans, animals too have both a purpose and a destiny on this earth, and our Titus, the little kitten who was dumped, played his part so incredibly well. 

May we meet again, little one xx 

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