"Euthanasia" was also suggested... Facing the difficulty of dealing with my beloved cat's life and death while she fought her illness.

When treatment options run out during an illness, veterinarians sometimes suggest euthanasia as an option. Before my beloved cat Jiji passed away, I was told about this option and struggled with how to say goodbye.

When treatment options ran out, I was advised to consider "euthanasia"...

Jiji developed angiosarcoma, a rare malignant tumor of the blood vessels in cats. Although the tumor was removed, fluid began to accumulate in his chest. Even with weekly drainage, the fluid continued to build up, and seeing his body become sunken filled me with anxiety, constantly thinking, "Fluid is building up again, I need to get him to the vet quickly."

No matter how much I saved for his cat fund, I knew there were illnesses that couldn't be cured. I understood that in my head, but I didn't want to give up on treatment.

Jiji's chest fluid was reddish, mixed with blood. When I asked the vet, "If we keep draining the fluid, can he live?", the vet gave me a harsh but realistic answer: "We're also removing blood, so he'll likely become anemic. Honestly, it's difficult."

On top of that, the vet suggested an option I hadn't considered: "Jiji has fought hard enough, so if you, his family, wish, there's also the option of letting him go peacefully through euthanasia."

I believe the vet told me about euthanasia as an option, also considering my mental state, as I would cry at the animal hospital, fluctuating with every change in Jiji's condition.

However, knowing that euthanasia was an option deeply shook me.

Struggling with the weight of deciding my beloved cat's "final moments"

Did I have the right to decide Jiji's final moments? How and where did Jiji want to depart? The more I thought about it, the more frustrated I felt that we couldn't communicate with words.

Unable to bear the weight of deciding my beloved cat's final care alone, I consulted my husband. When I tearfully told him about the euthanasia option, he also became troubled, saying, "If it were a human, we could ask their will, but since we can't ask Jiji, I couldn't choose that."

That day, I was once again keenly aware of the gravity of facing a single life. I stroked Jiji, who was breathing with a sunken chest, and asked him repeatedly, "What do you want? If you tell me, I'll do everything you wish."

Each time, Jiji looked intently at my face with a powerful gaze. Looking into his eyes, it seemed as if he was saying, "You're my family, so you decide," and at the same time, it felt like he was pleading, "I don't like hospitals," which made me even more conflicted.

He had endured so much treatment and painful tests, so wouldn't letting him go peacefully in the end be an act of kindness as an owner? But did I have the right to end a life?

Besides, my honest feeling was that I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. I wanted to be with him until the very end, with our whole family. Wasn't staying by his side and caring for him until the end the true meaning of lifelong care?

For a while, my feelings continued to waver between these contradictory thoughts.

A tweet became the catalyst to put an end to my "days of悩み"

I didn't know what to do. I wanted to know what was right for Jiji. While struggling with these thoughts, a tweet on X resonated with me.

That person was in a similar situation to mine. They had been struggling with the idea of euthanasia but seemed to have decided on at-home care until the end.

I believe their post said something like, "Cats think of the animal hospital as a place they can return from. So, if I chose euthanasia, they might think, 'I couldn't go home...'"

When I saw that tweet, what came to mind was Jiji looking intently at me as I left the examination room during tests, as if pleading, "Huh? Aren't I going home?" I thought that perhaps he endured the pain and hardship because he knew he could "go home."

That might have just been my own assumption, and perhaps Jiji felt differently. But when I remembered Jiji's behavior at the animal hospital, I found my answer for how to say goodbye.

I couldn't choose euthanasia. If I ended my beloved cat's life myself, I would surely regret it, thinking, "He might have lived longer." Euthanasia might offer a more peaceful passing, but I decided to care for him at home until the very end.

After making up my mind, I first apologized to Jiji. "I'm sorry. Euthanasia might mean less suffering for you, but I can't choose it. Please let me be with you until the end. I'm sorry for being a weak owner."

Jiji looked at my face and listened intently to my words. I'm sure you made up your mind then too.

Experiencing a "less peaceful ending" than I imagined...

From that day on, I prayed daily to a God I usually didn't even believe in, "Please, when he passes, let it be as peaceful as possible, without suffering." That was all I could do anymore.

But even God probably doesn't want to hear prayers from someone without faith, just conveniently wishing for something. As it turned out, Jiji suffered more than I had imagined before he died.

When he breathed his last, I repeatedly apologized to Jiji's stiffening body, saying, "I'm sorry. I caused you pain. I'm sorry I couldn't choose euthanasia. I'm sorry."

I have no regrets about being able to see him through to the end as a family, and letting Jiji live until what he felt was "his limit." However, the guilt of causing him suffering is immense, and I still question whether the way I chose to say goodbye was correct.

However, through Jiji's death, I realized something by deeply confronting "euthanasia" and "how to say goodbye to a beloved cat." And that is, any choice made in their final moments is born out of love.

Honestly, euthanasia always gave me the strong impression of "humans deciding the final moments of their beloved cat," so when the vet first suggested it, I felt resistance.

However, after being exposed to the opinions of both those who chose euthanasia and those who didn't, my perspective changed somewhat.

I thought that if Jiji had been in severe pain, or had a visible tumor that was worsening and making daily life difficult, I might have chosen euthanasia too. Because alleviating pain and suffering can seem like the ultimate care an owner can provide.

Because of love, deciding how to say goodbye to a beloved cat is difficult. Whatever choice is made, there will surely be regrets, and whether the chosen decision was what the beloved cat wanted will forever remain unknown.

However, cats are much smarter and kinder creatures than humans realize, so perhaps they accept their final moments, seeing right through their owner's hesitation and struggles.

It may not be persuasive coming from me, someone who constantly questions the correctness of her own choices, but I truly believe that the choice made by the owner who is closest to the cat is ultimately what's best for their beloved cat.

So, even if the farewell isn't what you imagined, please don't blame yourself. And when you see a "farewell" on social media that differs from your own approach, I hope you'll gently observe it, thinking, "This is a choice born out of a bond and love that only the family can understand."

I hope that people will imagine the backstory that cannot be conveyed by a single photo or 140 characters, and respect the feelings behind various ways of saying goodbye.