Sylvester took a turn for the worse last night. I was up all night again, making sure he was going to make it until I could get him to the vet this morning. The vet is going to run more blood work, do an x-ray, and give him iv fluids for the day, but he believes that whatever Vester has going on is neurological and wants to refer us to a neurologist.
And we’re currently a one-income home, barely scraping by.
I have a decision to make, and I know it. And it’s killing me. I am holding on to the hope that it’s not neurological and that magic pills are going to make it all better. But I am walking around the house is a daze, crying my eyes out, because he’s sick and I may not be able to make it all better.
He trusts me more than he trusts anyone and has slept by my side (or in my hair) for 9 years. That’s only 52 in human years, I guess. He’s still got a lot of life left to live, if only.