Last night, we thought the game was up.
Parsley was still at the vets, had refused to eat a single thing since Saturday morning, and his white blood cell count had dropped notably. Clearly the side-effects from the chemo were taking their toll. There was talk of putting him on a feeding tube (inserted directly into his throat, requiring an operation), and we thought, maybe it's time, how much suffering can we force him through in the hope that he might get better?
When the vets rang this morning, I was kind of ready to make the call. Falling to pieces, but ready to do what was right for my baby.
As it is, we've been given a reprieve, he's started eating again, only a little bit, but enough that today probably won't be the day that we have to say goodbye.
We still have to seriously consider the wisdom of moving forward with the chemo, if it's not going to be able to offer him a comfortable life, but I believe the vets can play about with the cocktail of drugs they're giving him, and it's possible this can be improved.
I don't want to get too excited at all. We still have to face the fact that he isn't going to get better. Ever. But there's still a chance he'll get along easier on the chemo drugs if we can get the dosage right... and so be able to come home with us for a little while, play in the garden, cover everything in mud, shout all day at the top of his lungs, insist on sleeping on my chest so I can barely breathe, and all the other things he loves to do. Here we are, hoping.
To lighten the mood a little, here's a pic of the P-man before he got sick, cosying down on top of me for the night.
Hang in there Parsley, we love you.