I wrote once: Resurrection is not a miracle, it’s a journey.
(original post here: https://www.facebook.com/wearethewhiskerssyndicate/posts/433374463526961)
The post was about Libby. Almost four years ago, she greeted me late at night, running down the hill from the side yard of a house where her colony lived, just ten minutes walk from our residence.
Her lips was cut by a drunk, yet she ran toward me with merry and glee, as if nothing bothers her.
It took me a year to restore her, from an incapacitated cat to a loving, patient, graceful twelve years old kitty whose face looked as if she was only two.
What I thought was her rescueversary, was yesterday; Thursday. We were on the run since morning for chores and errands, and I barely missed that crumpled, tiny kitten on the doormat of Colonial Broadway Theater from eighteen hundred something, now functioning as a cultural gallery.
Across from that gallery was a longtime abandoned Colonial house, owned by a dying, old time supermarket chain Sarinah (the H is silent). For decades to end, the building has been abandoned in decay and become the sore to the scenic Braga street, where part of Bandung was preserved in its glory back in the beginning of nineteenth century.
Just recently, that building was renovated to become Sarinah Hotel @ Braga, a wonder of colonial architecture and class.
She is eight weeks old. Her brown tabby coat was dirty and dusty, washed off like the mat underneath. All her whiskers were cut, and she has so many fleas, the baby wipes we used to clean her impromptu, turned red and brown by the blood of her wounds.
But we have twenty two kittens already, and are gasping for funds beyond our little salary.
She peered at us with that certain look that become her trademark. That look without sound, but loud, clear and confident that like many others before us, we will just walk away; with or without reaction.
Halfway down our crazy pile of chores and errands, she soiled my backpack and I know the smell all too well.
Our new baby has Panleukopenia.
But what medicine should we give, because she is only one and a half ounces?
We lay her to sleep that night, after doing what we can, with all our hopes and prayers, though we know we should be ready for some pang of reality.
There was a pool of bloody diarrhea so thick around her in the morning, but we do what we can still. As long as she is still breathing, our fight is still on.
When we got home from the market with chicken, she can no longer move. She was so cold and so still, we thought we’d lost her for sure.
Sheilla kept her in the fluffiest blanket, carrying her and begging her to hold on. I gave her sub cu and antibiotics, maybe all of the last time.
Two hours later she sat on her tummy and peered at us, asking for food.
We gave her manuka honey, spirulina, and nutritious gel, mixed in pedyalite.
Three hours later she crawl to her best of ability, but she drank by herself.
One hour later she ate baby food mixed with pedyalite. One lick after another, but eat she did.
We named her Sarina, after the resurrected dying building.
Half an hour ago, she meowed at me for the very first time, and I willingly obliged with another scoop of baby food and nourishment.
It’s too early for a celebration, it’s too soon for a sigh of relief. Sarina has long way to go, and we will never know the future.
But at least we know she choose to spend her spare life with us, and therefore, we are not giving up on her, just like she did not give up on us.
Help me help Sarina on her journey toward health and happiness. She has the whole life ahead of her