I almost didn't write this post. Because writing it means admitting how scared I've been — and how much I've had to lean on the kindness of strangers this week in a way I never imagined I would.
But this community has shown up for me and for Fitzy in a way that I need to acknowledge, and there's a part of his story — our story — that I haven't fully told here yet. So here it is.
He Is Not Just a Cat
Fitzy — F. Scott Fitzgerald, to give him his full dignified name — is my Ragdoll. He is nine years old, small for an Ragdoll and almost comically beautiful. He follows me from room to room like a puppy. He has opinions about where I sit and when he wants to rub his face on mine, he makes it quite clear as he positions his body between my face and any device screen. He makes an appearance in my content so often that he has his own little following, because once people meet Fitzy, they don't forget him.
But what most people don't see is what Fitzy has carried with him — what he's carried me through.
For six years, I was the sole caregiver for a dear friend with early-onset Alzheimer's. I have MS myself, and I won't pretend that those years were anything other than what they were: exhausting, heartbreaking, and at times almost impossible to bear. Caregiving at that level changes you. You discover strength to do things you never could have imagined. You develop a deep well of patience, compassion and resilience you did not know you had. It also takes things from you; financial savings, social connections and sleep. And through all of it — every hard day, every long night — Fitzy was there.
Every night when I could finally rest he would crawl onto my chest, tuck his head under my chin, and purr. Just purr. Like he was telling me: you're still here. I've got you.
My friend passed away nine months ago. And somehow, in the grief that followed six years of anticipatory grief, Fitzy kept finding ways to heal the parts of me I thought were just going to stay broken. He is my therapy. He is my heart. He is, in the truest sense of the word, my family.
Wednesday Night Everything Changed
It started quietly, the way scary things often do. Fitzy skipped his dinner Wednesday evening. He didn't eat Thursday morning. By Thursday afternoon he was hiding — tucked away in a corner, which is not Fitzy. Fitzy does not hide. Fitzy is present.
I knew something was wrong.
I got him to the emergency vet Thursday evening. X-rays showed a blockage in his small intestine. They gave him fluids, monitored him overnight, and ran an ultrasound Friday morning to get a clearer picture. The radiologist confirmed it: a foreign object obstruction. Surgery was scheduled for Friday afternoon.
I won't pretend Friday wasn't one of the longest days of my life. I sat with my phone in my hand for hours, waiting. When the vet finally called Friday evening, she told me Fitzy had done beautifully with anesthesia, that they'd only needed to make one incision, and that what they found was a hairball — a large one, lodged in his small intestine. Rare, she told me. But it happens.
He did well. He is resting. I am hoping to bring him home today.
The Part That's Hard to Say Out Loud
The estimate for Fitzy's care is sitting at over $8,000.
People who know me know I don't ask for help. I am the person who gives help. I am the person who showed up for six years without a safety net of my own. Asking for anything in return has never come naturally to me.
But I started a GoFundMe for Fitzy, because I would do anything for him. Anything. And I am asking — genuinely, vulnerably asking — if you can help, or if you can share.
This community has already raised $1,375 toward his care in less than 24 hours, and I am more grateful than I know how to say. Every dollar, every share, every kind comment has meant something this week. More than something.
If you'd like to contribute, or simply share the link so more people can find it, I would be forever grateful. Fitzy would too- though knowing Fitzy, he’ll express his gratitude by allowing you to exist in his general vicinity — which, from him, is high praise indeed.
Thank you for being here — for the soap, the candles, the sourdough, the hygge, and now this. I'll keep you updated as Fitzy heals. He has a lot of purring left to do.
With so much gratitude,
Beryl & Fitzy 🤍
