I thought we had 5 more years. The number my brain so selfishly set before I thought I'd need to prepare for your loss.

Now, I feel a vice wrapped around the very essence of my core. A squeeze in my heart. The walls of my chest being crushed.

I watched you last week. Your behavior changing ever so slightly. Between the chaos of everything else, I worried.

"Stop it," I told myself. "2020 is just making you paranoid. She's fine."

Then, instead of begging to lick my bowl after I ate breakfast, you simply sniffed it and went to lay down.

Sometimes you're picky if I add honey.

"Tomorrow," I thought to myself. "Tomorrow will have fruit. You'll want it then."

But the voice in the back of my mind pointed out that there was still food left over from that morning. The chunks untouched. Just a few days ago, that would never happen.

Then the end of my week finally came. I was distracted by my own worries. My body struggle against a sinus infection. My mind processing big changes.

But I noticed that you barely licked your food. You disappeared after instead of coming to sit with me on the couch.

A few minutes later, I heard you crying for water. Relief.

Then, you came back out to sit near me in the couch. It was enough to temporarily ease my worries.

Then lunch came around. I had errands to run. I was distracted. I felt off. I forgot to feed myself. But... once again... I offered you a new plate of food. You ignored it, begging for water.

I knew it was time to schedule an appointment at the vet. "What if it's diabetes and she has a seizure from her blood sugar dropping? What if it spikes? I'll watch her."

Then, I got hit with the peak of my sinus infection. I felt terrible. I couldn't sleep. I came to the guest bedroom, hoping for some reprieve.

I felt you there. Lying beside me. I felt happy. Just for that brief moment. And I slept.

I continued to sleep my day away. Unsure of the world around me, but still conscious enough to know you still hadn't eaten.

The worry becoming more crippling.

"Can she make it to Tuesday? To the vet?"

On Sunday, I knew I couldn't pretend. You were sleeping, hiding, in a new place. You screamed for water, yet you never wanted to eat. Not even when I offered you some chicken.

You tried so hard to make me feel better. You choked down some of the turkey I offered you... only to throw it back up shortly after.

I knew then. You couldn't wait for Tuesday. I couldn't let you suffer because it was a holiday weekend.

So, off you went. You had to go inside alone. I know how much you hate that, preferring to hide inside my shirt. Pressing yourself tightly into my body.

Alone. For hours. Being poked. Prodded. Scanned.

They finally came back.

Cancer.

No. Not those words. Anything but those words.

"There's a large mass in her abdomen."

The rarest kind.

"Inoperable."

"Blocking her stomach...but not completely."

"Comfort of life."

"It's likely already spreading to her other organs."

My world suddenly crashing all around me. How do I breathe? Do I agree to let you go? No. I won't let you die alone. And I won't let you suffer.

They send home pain medication. They give you weeks left. Part of me hopes for more. The other part? It hopes you comfortably pass in your sleep. Painless.

You still won't eat. You are loving the pets. We'll keep coming to your safe, dark place to love you. There is never a question about that.

I'll keep giving you the pain medication. I'll keep you safe until you can't be present without the pain anymore.

You are my child. My first of my adult life. I love you with every part of my essence. So much so that it hurts just to be.

I sit on the couch, my legs stretched long, but you're not there to balance on them. Keep me warm.

This morning, the tears fell before I even left the bed. You weren't there to coax me out of bed. I thought I'd only be met with silence. Yet, you heard me. And you still ran to greet me, asking for water and pets.

I obliged with a teary smile. The squeeze in my chest choking me.

But there you were. Painting these last moments with your unique personality. Reminding me how much we love each other. You blink happily at me. Finding a way to touch me as you head back to your comfortable dark space.

How long do I let you keep up this charade that it's all ok? Do I have to make the choice to put you out of pain or do I let you find this end on your own?

You're back again. You heard dad get up. You greeted him, too. I see the painful hope painted across his face. My heart aches.

As long as my pain is greater than yours, I won't force your life to end. As long as you keep telling me you're OK, I'll do my best to be the same.

But I know the end is nearing. I know our time together can't exist on this plane for much longer.

But my love...our love... will never fade. You will always be the light of each day. You will always be the whisper in my ear. The warmth on my side. The purr against my flesh.

Nothing will replace that. The ghost of memories already seeping their way into everything I do... I'm trying not to be haunted by them... especially while you're still here.

I can't decide if it's better this way or worse. Like slowly phasing out an addiction. Ripping parts of me away with each unconscious realization that you used to be there.

Your brother is confused. He lays near you, wondering when you'll come back out. He wants to play. To clean you. To lay with you. But, I think part of him understands. He sniffs you over and over. Questioning me with his eyes.

You're more alert today, after some rest and pain medication. You ran when I opened a can of food, but, still. You won't eat. I can no longer tell if your cries are of pain or just out of habit. Were they ever out of pain or has it just been a slow discomfort?

We love you, baby girl. More than we could ever express. And, though these words are to help me through this final pain, I hope that somehow, someway, you feel their truth. That you understand the love we have for you. Forever and always.

And when your time comes, we hope that you fly high.

We love you, Ashlee. With all of who we are.