From what I recall, the second-to-last time I cried was in the spring of 2010. I was walking on the treadmill because I was severely overweight and out of shape, and I had been prescribed 300 minutes of cardio a week. Earlier that year, my psychiatrist and I found the right cocktail that stopped the depression that had been drowning since Kate and I moved to the DMV area. I was finally myself again. I had figured out how to transfer .mov and .avi files to my iPod, so I was watching a lot of pirated TV (on a teeny tiny screen). Today, I was watching an éclair of a sci-fi show called Warehouse 13, and the episode was about how one of the main characters always felt alone at the holidays, and at the end of the episode, the rest of the cast threw him a surprise Christmas party, and I broke out in tears. The show was fun, but it wasn’t good. I talked to my psychiatrist about it, and we determined that I wasn’t that moved by the show, but it was a product of reacting to the exercise endorphins and the new drug regimen.

Since then, I well up a little at shows and movies when emotional scenes like that happen, but I don’t cry like that anymore, not even when I was ambushed with divorce papers. (I went into a zombie-like state of depression for a few days, but no tears.) Sunday and Monday of this week, I ugly-cried.

My old apartment was 850 square feet (between 250 and 300 square meters) with two bedrooms, a living room, and a bathroom. It had a backyard full of grass. There was a cat named Henry who was pretty active but cuddly (not to me, but he did show me some affection between clearing off the top of my dresser). My roommate was Dr. Doolittle, who lived to spoil animals.

A month ago, Newcastle was moved from there to a 435-square-foot studio with one room and a bathroom, and no roommate or cousin. He had Dad, but that was it. He hid under the bed for the first week, coming out to eat and occasionally socialize. Chalk that down to cats not liking change, especially after three years in the old apartment and five years with roommate and cousin. The second week, he suddenly came out and was very social. He explored (not that there was much to explore), and he ate a lot. He has stairs to my bed, but usually he made a lot of noise when he was finished eating or going to the bathroom, and I’d bring him up to cuddle.

But last week he went back under the bed and he only came out occasionally to eat a couple of bites. He didn’t socialize. He didn’t stay out at all. I was worried about it, and I need him to adjust to living alone, but I gave him his space. And then on Sunday, he yelled at me, and I brought him to the mattress with me and pet him for a couple of seconds before he slunk back onto the floor and under the bed.

I’d seen this before, when Andrew, aka Gray Cat, who was eighteen, turning nineteen in a month, went into what I called the Rage Cave, i.e. the little holes some cat trees have. He didn’t even come out to eat. Kate and I brought him to the vet to put him to sleep, but the vet wanted to try a different painkiller. It was a miracle. Andrew was a kitten again. (For the fourteen years I knew him, Andrew always acted like a kitten.) When I moved out, I made Kate promise to tell me when the cats had to go. She did not keep her promise. Andrew and Magik would be twenty-four this year, so I’m assuming that they’ve moved on a while ago. Thanks to Kate, I never had a good chance to mourn them.

Anyway, recognizing this behavior, I called my vet. They’re closed Sunday. I called Newcastle’s old vet and cardiologist and asked to speak to someone who could help. The vet tech who answered the phone said she could. After I gave the long story about Newcastle’s behavior and his health concerns, she said, “You should bring him to your primary vet.” And hung up. Luckily, I have a secondary vet, and they answered the phone, and they treated me with attention and empathy. We scheduled an appointment for a “Quality-of-Life Wellness Check” on Monday, and I called in sick to work.

After hanging up, I broke out in tears. I knew I would have to put him to sleep. I thought about how much he meant to me, and how I didn’t know how I was supposed to go on without him. Thousands of memories ran through my head. And to make matters worse, I wouldn’t have a chance for a last cuddle because he was in his own Rage Cave.

Two hours later, Newcastle emerged from the bed, ate a bunch of food, and meowed at me. I brought him to the bed, where he spent a while walking back and forth while I pet him, then fell asleep on me. The sadness drifted away until Monday, when I remembered what I was going to be doing. I brought him to the vet, crying every few minutes in the Uber and in the waiting room. When the vet and her assistant asked me what was going on, I couldn’t tell them because I was bawling my eyes out.

She did an exam, and she concluded that he was alert, he was in minimal pain, and since he was eating and going to the bathroom, and I was staying on top of his medications, he was (probably) okay. They drew blood and urine to test, and I find the results out today. I’ve gone from ugly sobs to holding my breath until later this morning when I’m anticipating a call from the vet.

Newcastle is twenty years old. He has cardiac failure, kidney disease, a herniated liver, hyperthyroidism, arthritis, and I think he can’t hear anymore. He has more problems than a nerd in an eighties movie. Let’s be realistic: he’s going to leave sooner rather than later. I know this.

But I’m not ready.