Jasper's SCC of the Jaw

Jasper's Fight with
Squamous Cell Carcinoma
of the jaw



	Jasper and SSC 02/10/04 Jasper was almost 12 when he was diagnosed with advanced Squamous Cell Carcinoma of the jaw. Jasper came to me via the Manhattan ASPCA when he was six months old. It was the middle of summer in New York City. I introduced him to travel early on. We drove up to a family house by the sea in Rhode Island. Jasper would stay out all night in the country and sleep all day under the shade of lilies in a patch of garden between the house and the water. Jasper moved to India with me when he was a year and a half. He lived on Science Diet (never his favorite, but dutifully packed in the suitcase) and sautéed chicken hearts and livers (procured raw from my butcher-cum-video shop in the local market). His litter was sawdust from a timber yard. Friends and family brought special treats of Sheba or Fancy Feast whenever they visited. Jasper chased bright green parakeets, crows and other cats that ruled the Delhi rooftops. He weathered the cold, unheated winter and patiently endured the dust storms and fry-pan heat of the summer. It took Jasper less than a month to find a way to crawl down the front of our building through a network of climbing vines. He loved to scamper around the garden below in hot pursuit of illusory mongooses. We returned to the States after a year abroad. Newport, RI was our first port of call. I’ve never seen a happier cat in my life. Even after 20hrs of travel in the belly of two British Airways jumbo-jets he was as wide-eyed and as spirited as ever. Summers came and went for us between New York and Newport. Jasper caught moles, rabbits, mice and birds. He had a memorable run-in with a pack of wild mink along the rocky shoreline one year and lost a sizeable chunk of muscle, flesh and fur from his thigh. It didn’t faze him in the slightest. A vet stitched the wound and he was back to his usual tricks within a couple of weeks. This is all by way of describing what I thought to be a particularly vibrant, energetic and invincible cat. A cat that always looked like a kitten (the photo is of a peculiar mood of irritation, not typical at all). A side effect of Jasper’s proficiency for hunting was, that, over the years, he lost most of his teeth. One fang at a time, embedded in some dim-witted mammal. He had regular check-ups. He never gained weight. He always ate conservatively – even during the long, dull months of winter in the city. He even acclimatized to living with an elderly Cocker Spaniel – for seven years. The two of them shared a wonderfully peculiar relationship – part intolerance, part devotion. Jasper and I moved to Brooklyn from Manhattan in the late summer of 2003. He had had major oral surgery the previous May. His last remaining molars were rotting and were causing an inflammation of the gums. The vet, a trusted source, had said that it had been a complicated operation. Jasper returned home grumpy and lethargic. His spirits lifted with the warm weather and he behaved close to normal during our trips to the seaside, but I noticed he was slowing-down. He didn’t stay out at night. I attributed it to age, not health. All of last summer, Jasper’s chin appeared to hang lower than usual. I thought it was fallout from dental surgery. By the time we moved to Brooklyn, Jasper had become less and less frisky (again, I thought it was the move – and/or his age). I found a wonderful apartment, flooded with morning sunlight (his favorite). I was at home most days, writing. Jasper slept. He was especially attentive – always looking to be on my lap, by my side. This was unusual. His chin seemed to swell more. Again, foolishly, I attributed it to the surgery. Thanksgiving 2003. Jasper, the Cocker Spaniel, my partner and myself spent the holiday in Newport. The dog (15 years old) was unusually protective of Jasper, and Jasper no longer waited in hiding to swipe at the dog with his claws. The dog sat close to Jasper when they napped. They seemed to be communicating in a completely different and specific way. By then, Jasper had started having problems eating his food. He spilled on his snow-white chest. He drooled – not excessively, but enough to notice – though his appetite had increased. He had never eaten so much in his life. The day after Thanksgiving, my partner suggested we visit to a local vet as he was alarmed by the state of Jasper’s jaw (he had not seen Jasper for a couple of months). We went to the vet and I was immediately told that Jasper had SSC. The vet asked to perform a needle biopsy. She told me that she did not like the “feeling” that she had found when doing so. She advised, kindly, that Jasper was ready “to go any time.” I was devastated. I cannot describe the feeling. My world collapsed. There was a tiny black-and-white kitten in the waiting room (with my partner and his dog). I looked at the kitten with incomprehension. How could Jasper… such a pal, such a friend, such a constant… be so sick? How could life go on with this adorable kitten at my feet? The weekend continued and I slid into denial. “It just couldn’t be,” I said to myself. I’d consult Jasper’s vet in New York and all would be well. Back in the city, I jumped in a cab with Jasper and headed to Manhattan. The vet took one look at Jasper and gave me his apologies. He confirmed the SSC diagnosis. The vet said that he could “put Jasper down, then and there,” advising me, again kindly, that it was better to do so sooner rather than later. I was not ready, and I didn’t think that Jasper was ready either. The vet did not recommend surgery or chemotherapy. He gave me the names of an animal communicator and a homeopathic vet. Driving home, we passed a favorite movie theater that had gone out of business. On the marquee, it said: “All farewells should be sudden.” I wrote it down on a piece of paper and will never forget it. I had two final weeks with Jasper. The cancer developed at an alarming rate. It was if the diagnosis had allowed the cancer to manifest itself completely. It had come out of hiding. It had free reign. I called the animal communicator. It was an interesting conversation over the phone. She told me that Jasper was “ready to go when I was ready to let him go.” She told me that he was not in great pain, but that his pain would increase. She told me that he would not be around to see his next birthday the following February. Some of this I believed. Some of it was too surreal to comprehend. I was in the throes of panic/sadness/despair and confusion. I could have believed anything at the time. All I could think of to do was to talk to Jasper himself. This I did. I did it every day, sometimes every hour every day. Each time I asked Jasper a question he would respond. It was a revelation. It sounds uncanny, but his ‘voice’ was loud and clear. When I asked him if he was ready to go, he said: “Anytime.” When I asked him if it was OK for me to let him go he’d say: “Absolutely.” I was never in any doubt. More importantly, he was never in any doubt. The look in his eyes had changed. It wasn’t sad, it was simply tired and ready and sure. He was infinitely stronger than me – that much was apparent. On some days, during those two weeks, Jasper seemed perfectly normal. On others, he barely woke up. He continued to eat heartily, but the drooling worsened. I had to comb Jasper daily (something he would have gone to great lengths to avoid in the past… but now, seemed to appreciate). The cancer was beginning to swell his lower gums. There was no bleeding yet. I was vigilant. I cooked broccoli and asparagus and puréed it for him in a blender… it was his favorite. Sometimes I had to feed him from my fingertips. He still ate treats, leaving a trail of drool across the kitchen floor as he chased them down. However, it was clear that he was on a fast downwards slope. I arranged to have our Newport vet make a house call in Newport ten days after the initial diagnosis. The weather report was good – good for mid-December in the Northeast. It was the most awful of appointments to keep. The five days in-between are blank in my memory. All I can remember myself doing was thanking Jasper for our shared adventures and keeping myself as close to him as possible. He was a trooper. I was a wreck. Jasper, the Cocker Spaniel, my partner and I drove up to Newport late on a very dark Friday night. Jasper was disoriented, but as soon as we hit the final bridge across Narragansett Bay his eyes lit up and he seemed genuinely surprised. Jasper ran about the house, out on the porch, and down the dark lawn when we arrived. He acted like the little kitten he always had been. He slept soundly with me that night. I felt I had given him one last chance to be in the place he loved the best. The following day is difficult to describe. We all took a walk down to the water, per usual, in the morning sun. Jasper crawled about the rocks hunting the mink. The dog dozed. We sat for an hour, soaking in the warmth of the sun. The sea was calm – there were no waves. Jasper slept most of the rest of the morning at the house and seemed very, very content and weary as he snoozed between my arm and my chest. I asked him, again, if it was OK to let him go. He looked up at me, whiskers in full flare, and said: “Yes.” I hadn’t a choice. At two o’clock, the vet arrived. We were all indoors with the low sunshine streaming through the windows. It was St. Lucia Day, December 13th – a joyous holiday in Sweden that celebrates the middle of winter. We were purposefully playing cheerful Lucia Choir music on the stereo. This was not to be a dreadful, gloomy, downcast event. The minute the vet walked in the door Jasper went wild. He bounced off of the walls, literally, before tucking in to a plate of venison Sheba (as best he could). It was terrible… and, at the same time, comforting. The vet apologized. Nothing, she said, could ever get the smell of ‘vet’ off of her. Time was not on my side, and I felt I had prepared as best I could for this moment. I was numb, frankly, and all of my plans – the location, the position, the voice, and the words – went out the window. I simply held Jasper in my lap (he wasn’t thrilled) and the vet administered a sedative. Within seconds, Jasper was completely relaxed. I was sitting so that Jasper was facing out over the grass towards the ocean and the horizon. The vet asked me to lay Jasper on a towel on the floor. We knelt beside him (he was very much sedated at this point, completely limp). I held his head, cupped in my hand. The vet shaved a patch of fur off of Jasper’s back leg and gave him the final injection. He didn’t a take a breath. He was gone. It was so quick, so quiet and so complete. My partner cried. The dog dozed. The vet cried. I was frozen. All time stopped and my twelve years with Jasper were condensed into a single moment. It broke my heart. Jasper was buried in his favorite garden – between the house and the sea - in a brilliant winter’s dawn the next morning. We lit tiki torches. Jasper had been wrapped in my favorite cashmere sweater (the one I always hated him to knead). He had been placed in a simple cardboard box (open) and was covered with pine bows before we covered him with earth. We put a wreath on his grave and found a beautiful stone slab down from the shore to mark the spot. We must have looked mad, huddled in the cold under a bright red sun just before the approach of winter’s first snowstorm. It has been two months since Jasper died. The pain is terrible. There was nothing I could have done to stop Jasper’s cancer. I am still shocked, however, that the SSC developed so quickly. Some might say I was oblivious or inattentive to Jasper’s illness, but from everything I have read on this website (an enormous source of strength and help during Jasper’s final weeks) I know that SSC is a fairly common and fast-advancing cancer for cats Jasper’s age. By the time the cancer showed itself there was little of practical use for us to do. I would have hated to see Jasper suffer with bleeding or surgery or radiation. It wasn’t in his nature, or mine, to prolong a natural demise. The worst for me was when to know when to let Jasper go. Friends, family and vets all encouraged me to put Jasper to sleep sooner rather than later. I agree with them all, having gone through it, despite the crushing pain. It’s a dreadful decision for anyone to make, and I can only respect each person’s choice. I hope that Jasper’s story helps others, as other stories here have helped me. Jasper is in his garden now, hunting moles and rabbits and mice (maybe even a bird or two this summer).