This week has been brutal.

On Saturday, my fur baby Simba suddenly lost co-ordination and balance. He couldn’t walk. Couldn’t stand. His eyes were rolling. His breathing accelerated. He started panting.

In a flurry of panic, we rushed him to the vet, wondering how this sunshine baby of ours went from happy and healthy one moment to so terribly ill the next.

Was it poisoning?

Was it a disease that had been building up and suddenly hit in force?

Cats, after all, are notorious for masking their illness until its too late.

As we dissected his behavior over the past few hours and days, trying to figure out if he ate something he shouldn’t, or if he was showing signs of distress that we missed, I could repeat only one prayer over and over in my mind: “Please, God. Please.”

Too panicked to even form a coherent prayer.

The next few days were a blur of vet visits for tests and drip fluids and medications twice a day. On making sure Simba was as comfortable as he could be. On monitoring him closely to look for any signs of improvement, to see how — and if — he was responding to medication.

The vet ruled out poisoning. His bloodwork was normal. Her best guess: a middle or inner ear infection, which impacted his vestibular system, which is responsible for his sense of balance.

That first day, though, we didn’t have a diagnosis. We had no idea what was wrong with Simba, or how long his symptoms would last, or if he had suffered any permanent damage to his central nervous system.

I did the only thing I could do, the only thing that was in my control was to pray.

I opened my art journal. Created sacred space. Called in my guardians. Sent up a prayer for Simba’s full recovery. And painted.

Layers and layers of paints, of prayers written across the page in gold ink, of mark making as an offering.

I didn’t allow for any doubts or panic to arise while I painted. I focused on just one ask: that Simba make a complete recovery.

And I focused on my sunshine baby, healthy and happy and curious and loving and cuddly.

Each layer a prayer. Until one of the marks that I made with the edge of a flat paintbrush looked like series of tiny hearts.

That was a sign.

And I knew I had to have those little hearts be part of the final painting.

The way those little hearts are mirrored on both pages, that they made them intact into the final piece, echoed in both the cat’s little belly and on his wings, felt to me like a wink from the angels, a message that they are surrounding him, keeping him safe.

Each little mark, each stroke, each color choice on this piece is a painted prayer. The colors, the whimsicality, the playfulness, they’re a reflection of Simba’s playful, loving spirit.

It took me three days to finish this tiny painting.

Three days of pouring out my love and prayers for his recovery.

And every day, there was a little ray of hope.

His nystagmus (eyes moving back and forth) improved

He managed to stand, though he was so very wobbly on his feet

His innate curiosity about his surroundings returned

His appetite slowly opened up

He started to walk, though he still lists to the right and his depth perception is off.

He’s purring again. And making biscuits.

He isn’t out of the woods quite yet. There’s still a ways to go. But there is hope.

We return to the vet on Saturday — Simba’s currently on oral medications at home — so she can examine his progress and adjust his medications as needed.

Until then, I am holding on to hope.

Every time I feel the fear rise, I look at this painted prayer, at the hearts that appeared on the page, and I know the angels are near, that they are watching over my little sunshine baby.

If you’d like to support Simba through his recovery, you can send a little tip to help with his medications and treats by clicking on the button below. {Please write “Simba” in the notes.}

Treats for Simba

You can also send a little prayer or blessing for him, or send him some Reiki healing. ❤️