We thought he was going to die. It’s the way of things. You know in your brain that this is the destiny you are choosing when you hold a new kitten in your arms, though you aren’t thinking about it. I was not thinking about it, thirteen years ago, watching that cat we’d name Ivan hanging upside down from the ceiling of the kitten crate. I continued not to think about it as he zoomed with energy through the apartment, leaping onto everything. He had some impressive jumps. It stayed far from my mind as we moved apartments, had kids, bought a house, every day coming back to him.

Cats have routines, just like people. Ivan, a Siamese tabby mix we adopted from the Bellevue, Washington animal shelter, would spend the night sleeping next to me. He liked to wake me early. He’d make all the noises he knew would rouse me: nuzzling the lamp, crinkling any plastic or paper, and of course, meows. The plan is that I wake at five. I would do my best to ignore him until then, but sometimes I’d surrender at 4:45AM. He’d follow at my heels meowing – as if I’d forget him! – until I changed his water and gave him food. Daylight savings was a monster. He’d then sleep on particular couches and rocking chairs at particular times, getting snacks at specific moments from my husband, who works from home now.

Until he didn’t.

He stopped eating. We didn’t want to panic over a day’s lost appetite but it didn’t come back. We watched him eat gradually less over the years and attributed that to old age. He had been slowly losing weight as he became a senior cat. But not eating at all? Our hands felt, too easily, the outline of his skeleton under his coat. He wasn’t drinking, save one triumphant moment where I put water into one of our cups (forbidden) and then put it on the dining room table (also forbidden) and then put him on the table (forbidden!!!). He drank then. Cats these days! But not enough to off set a couple days of dehydration.

We called the vet and brought him in. That vet suggested kidney failure. But we’d need to look at the blood work. They took blood, gave him fluids, and send him home. They handed me a write-up that showed him losing almost a pound from three months ago.

He did little but sleep. You could have measured our anxiousness about his health with a Geiger counter. I found myself prepping myself to lose him, being on the edge of tears, trying to hide that from the kids. My instinct here was that I needed to be a steady person. The kids would read my sorrow as a certain diagnosis of imminent death. But that’s also what my heart said was going on.

Memories of losing the other cat – a relatively sudden death, where she was herself and then suddenly [redacted]. I’d spent the previous year looking at her with a sense of “at some point…” but also a healthy dose of denial. The cause of her struggles were unknown as she defied the things the vet usually sees. (We think, in retrospect, that she had cancer.) They gave her vitamins and fluids. That mostly gave her energy to be more vocal about how much pain she was in. I spent the night on the couch in front of the Christmas treat, watching her be in pain. I was waiting for a call back from the vet first thing the next morning when she stretched, screamed, and died. DIY mortality on her behalf saved us a vet bill at the cost of traumatizing my son. He was home sick, watching the whole thing, trying to care for her as he could. That was a year and a season ago. The kids have been hounding Ivan as he slept, worried this is a repeat.

My husband took Ivan back to the vet on Friday. They said the blood work was actually pretty much fine – something else was wrong. They gave him fluids, vitamins, an appetite stimulant and anti-nausea medication. He came home and went straight for the food dish.

With the medicine, we had our old Ivan back. He was eating and drinking and running around. He batted at the feather toy and snuggled up against me to sleep. He woke me in the middle of the night demanding snacks. I pulled myself out of bed to feed him each time. Petting him felt less like running your fingers along a fuzzy Halloween decoration.

This morning he didn’t wake me for snacks, the medication having worn off. He did meow and following me around, but when I put the food down, he nibbled and walked away. The vet’s getting another call tomorrow. He is obviously sick but I’m less convinced his end is near.

I’ve been thinking about how ready I was to accept his death as an inevitability, which it is, but to assume it was now. Circumstances suggested that I could have had a hope that I didn’t bring to this situation. Why didn’t I? If you’re a white person, you’re socialized to avoid being “wrong” because of an implicit perfection is attainable and desirable. Being “wrong” isn’t just a transitory description of a circumstance but also a threat to your self-worth. It mostly serves to reinforce the status quo and prevent people from trying something risky. I try to be mindful of my tendency towards that; sometimes I am less successful.

Hope was the risk I was avoiding. What if I was wrong about being hopeful? I’d have just as broken a heart as I had by choosing to see my world as setting myself up for sorrow. I don’t protect myself from future pain by assuming all I can accept is now is sadness.

There are other circumstances that I’m more readily embracing a perspective of doom instead of a perspective of hope: for instance, climate change and politics. But what do I gain by embracing such defeatism? Nothing. I can be realistic about the odds but embrace the work and belief that something better is possible. Surely I must. Surrender rarely leads to victory. Breaking my heart now won’t keep it whole later.