Indiana's Battle: The Story

Today is Indiana's Birthday--or at least, the day she was reborn free of cancer. Three years ago today, I nearly lost the furry love of my life. This is a post I've been dreading ever since I first thought about starting a blog. It's a very important story to tell, as it's made me who I am today, both as a parent and as a person.

As I start to write this, I can already feel butterflies in my stomach, a heavy feeling in my chest, and tears getting ready for their inevitable moment to shine. In three years, I've only written the story once or twice, and I've never actually talked about it, at least not all of it. It's been a defense mechanism for me, to keep the pain from overtaking me. I don't really want to write it now. I know the tears will flow and my heart will want to burst with pain. It sounds melodramatic, I know, but that day was more traumatic than I can even describe.

So be warned that this isn't an easy post to write, and it isn't an easy story to read. I do think it's important though--both for me to write it and you to read it. It helps you understand who I am, who Indiana is. While the story itself is heartbreaking, it does have a good outcome, and I hope it brings hope to others who feel like they are facing a future without hope. There is ALWAYS hope. So here we go.

In 2006, Indiana had been throwing up on and off for a few weeks. I should have been concerned about this, but I just figured that it happened sometimes with dogs. Perhaps she'd eaten something weird. In retrospect, the vomit was bloody, but at the time I just thought it was dark from food.

One day I was at my parents' house with the dogs. Indiana had been acting off, which worried me. We watched her go to the bathroom in the yard and walked over to see if it looked normal. It did not. Her stools were black and tarry. My Mom and I decided she needed to see the vet. We took her in, and they suspected a gastrointestinal bug. They gave her a steroid shot and some antibiotics and sent us home. The next day, Indiana did feel better, and I was so relieved. This was short-lasting though, as she grew more lethargic the following day.

Jim and I were supposed to go out of town for the party of some friends, but we postponed leaving to take her to the vet. I'll never forgive myself, because we nearly left. Her gums were pale, she wasn't feeling well, and I was still so torn because I had a responsibility to our friends, whom we were helping to organize the party. I had her in my Mom's car and nearly let her go. Ultimately, I just couldn't do it. Jim and I took Indy back to the vet. She had little energy and couldn't even stand for an exam.

I found out later that the vets suspected she was bleeding out from hemangiosarcoma, the most common cause of acute anemia.

Our vets did a blood test, and sent us home for the night, telling us they'd call in the morning but would most likely send us to the University of Illinois Vet Med Hospital. Why we didn't just take her then, I don't know.

The next morning will haunt me forever. I woke up early, around 6:00 a.m. Indiana wasn't with us in bed, which was unusual. I got up to look for her and couldn't find her. Eventually I found her laying under the back deck. I know now my precious baby had gone there to die. Oh, crap, here come the tears. I was able to get Indiana inside, but she had no energy, wouldn't eat, and her gums and tongue were pure white.

I finally got a hold of the vet at 7:30 a.m., and she only said, "I recommend taking her to the U of I right away." She got everything set up for us--calling ahead, making sure they were ready for Indiana.

Unfortunately, Jim couldn't go with us to the hospital. Our friends had left several days before, and we had all of the decorations and food for the party the next day---8 hours away. Thankfully, our friends arranged for their cousin to bring the supplies out to them, so Jim only had to drive a few hours up to the suburbs of Chicago. Still, I hated that he couldn't be with us.

My parents drove Indy and I down to the U of I. It was a horrible hour and fifteen minutes. Bless my Dad, because he drove much faster than usual to get my girl to the hospital. I just sat in the back of the van with her, on her bed, talking to her, loving her, telling her I loved her.

When we got to the U of I, we helped Indiana out of the car, and she promptly collapsed. My heart sank. This was bad. I ran in to get help while my parents stayed with Indiana. My Mom tells me that she said to Indiana, as they layed on the pavement, "Don't you dare die." U of I was great, because they immediately sent out some students with a gurney, so by the time I got back outside, they were already lifting her on. I couldn't go with her, because they needed to stabilize her. It was horrible letting her go, not knowing what would happen.

God, I had to walk away just now. I was crying so hard I couldn't see or breathe. I had to call my wonderful Mom, who listened and helped me feel better. I'm sitting on the back porch, on the swing, with Indiana at my feet. We're watching the cats wrestle. Back to the story.

After the students took Indiana, we were immediately led into a private waiting room, which I later learned was where they take grieving families so they can have privacy. This room would be our home for the next 12 and a half hours. A doctor, one of the most beautiful, wonderful human beings on the planet, Dr. Karine Eusanio, came in to give us a quick update and get approval for tests and treatments. She told us she couldn't stay with us long, as Indiana needed to be stabilized. She was very touch and go.

We were, over the course of many hours, told that Indiana was bleeding from a mass in her stomach. The blood packed cell volume of a normal dog is somewhere in the 40s--Indiana's was at 7 or 8, meaning she was incredibly anemic.

Jim had thankfully arrived by this point. He had no clue how serious Indiana's situation was. He didn't take the news well, but we needed each other, and clung to each other to survive. Thank God my parents were still there with us.

The doctors sort of recommended an endoscopy to biopsy the mass in Indiana's stomach. This surgery of course came with risks, all of which were amplified on my dying dog. We were told if the tumor was cancerous, they wouldn't pursue any further treatment.

The endoscopy was performed, and the surgeon, Dr. Thomas Graves, told us the tumor appeared benign. He was the first person to give us real hope all day. One of the oncology surgeons, whose name will never appear on the pages of this blog, said she disagreed with Dr. Graves, that the tumor was probably cancerous. Dr. Graves and Dr. Eusanio (and who knows who else) gave us our options at this point. We had two. Do surgery, or let her die. Without surgery, she would be dead before the day ended. Surgery would stop the bleeding, but they were convinced she'd die on the table because of her blood loss. The aforementioned, never-to-be-named oncology surgeon wouldn't do the surgery, because she was convinced it was cancer. Why save a dog, just so she'd have cancer? (Have I mentioned yet how much I hate her?) She never even met with us. If not doing the surgery meant Indiana would die, then we felt we had no option but to do the surgery.

Dr. Eusanio, who had at this point become our angel, understood us, and what was in our hearts, and knew we wanted the surgery done. I think she felt as well that Indiana wouldn't survive, but she wanted us to have the chance to try. They found a surgical resident (Dr. Tobin Eshelman, our other angel) who would do the surgery. He explained the surgery to us, as well as the risks, both surgical and post-op. He didn't know exactly what he'd find when he opened her up. I know everyone there thought we were grasping at straws to save this dog. They all felt bad for us, I think, but they were sure she'd die. Drs. Eshelman and Eusanio were honest about how grim our situation was.

When all of the paperwork was signed, and I had put down a hefty down-payment on the treatment (take every dollar I have--just save her!), the doctors told us they wanted us to come back to the ICU and say goodbye to Indiana. Not just until after the surgery. A real goodbye. Her chances of waking up were very slim, and that moment was looking like our last time to ever see her.

This is the part of the story that rips my heart into pieces. Jim and I walked into the ICU to see our dog for the first time all day. She looked horrible beyond words. She could barely lift her head or move at all. The doctors had her lying on the ground in front of her cage. There were doctors everywhere, watching closely for any changes, but giving us as much privacy as possible. We laid down on the ground next to our precious baby. I hungrily kissed her and smelled her, wanting to make those memories last forever, just in case. We talked to her and told her over and over how much we loved her. We told her that she was the best dog any parents could ever hope for, and that we were so lucky to have her in our lives. My Mom and Dad were able to come in for a few minutes to say goodbye as well. After they left, we only had a few more minutes before the doctors needed to work on another dog--parents aren't really supposed to be in the ICU at all, so we needed to leave soon. I hugged and kissed my precious baby, told her I loved her, and looked at her for what could have been the very last time.

The minute I walked out of that room, my heart broke into a thousand pieces. I was so heartbroken and angry. It wasn't fair that this was happening. I wanted Indiana well. This was all just a bad dream, wasn't it? Surely I would wake up soon. My heart ached for her, and my arms longed to hold her. I had taken a small piece of fuzz off of her fur when I saw her, and now that piece of fuzzy fur was my lifeline to her. Would it be the last part of her I would ever hold? The doctors promised that if she died on the table, they would allow us to come in and see her one last time.

The next four hours or so were the longest of my life. The hospital got quieter and quieter, as patients and then staff left for the day. I couldn't eat, read, sleep, or do anything. I listened intently for footsteps, praying every time that they weren't heading our way--it was still too soon. In my heartache and desperation, I made a pact with God. If only he would save her, I would give him something else special to me. Not another family member, but something still dear to me--my dream of being a singer. I was very early in my career at the time, and I was following a life-long dream, just a little later than most. I told God that I would give it up though, if it meant saving Indiana. Singing was who I was, but I was also nothing without my baby. Take it, I thought. Take it and save her. Just give me a sign it's what you want.

Just after 9:00 p.m., we saw Dr. Eusanio in the hallway. She told us that Indiana had come through the surgery, amazingly, and was being brought into recovery. Everyone was amazed that she had made it this far. It seemed that one big hurdle had been jumped. We waited another hour and a half for the surgeon to finish his last surgery. At 11:00 p.m., after Dr. Eshelman promised to call us if anything changed, we left the hospital and checked into a hotel. God Bless the Holiday Inn Express.

Nighttime passed without incident. We were anxious to get back to Indiana. To be honest, I remember little about the days that followed. They've all blurred together a bit for me. Indiana became over-hydrated from her IVs, and began having heart problems. That was scary, but she eventually pulled through. My parents came down every day to visit us--both Indiana as well as Jim and I. They would bring us lunch, and we'd sit in the park across from the hospital. I didn't want to go far from her, plus the park was where we had spent many evenings with Indiana while we were in college. I know we wouldn't have survived that week without my parents. We stayed in a hotel the first night but spent a few nights with our friends Tim and Beth. (Thank you both, if you ever read this--you'll never know how important seeing you was to us--it was such a needed break from the hospital).

Jim had to go back to work after a few days, so my Mom got a hotel for us and stayed with me. I had vowed not to go back home until Indiana was with me. I carried that piece of fuzzy hair in my pocket at all times, even when it became a matted mess. I also carried her leash and her favorite stuffed toy, Mr. Oppossum. I even took Mr. O into restaurants and stores. He was my link to her and my good luck charm. My sweet parents, who were babysitting Isis this whole time, brought another toy of Indiana's and placed some of Isis's hair on it. That way the toy could stay with Indiana, and she could smell home and her sister.

Indiana got better and better each day. We had been warned that she might be in the hospital up to two weeks, but after 5 nights in the hospital, they were ready to send her home. We weren't out of the woods yet, as her stomach staples could still leak. If that happened, there would be nothing they could do, and she would die. Still, she had overcome so much.

The day we brought her home was amazing! My Mom and I drove back home in the morning to get the house ready. Out went all of the old bones and chewies (Indiana was now missing an important part of her stomach and could easily get an intestinal blockage). The mattress went on the floor, so Indiana could just walk onto it and still sleep with us at night. That afternoon, my parents, Jim, and I, drove down and brought our baby home! It was bittersweet, as she had survived, yet she wasn't out of the woods yet. She also didn't seem all that excited to be home. I know now it was because of the stress of the surgery.

My precious girl recovered from serious gastric surgery--part of her stomach was removed along with the pyloric sphincter. She had a nearly 18 inch incision on her stomach and chest and more staples than I could count. Her two week window of stomach leakage came and went, and she continued to recover. My happy, beautiful dog came back to me again. So what if she was missing hair on her neck, all four legs, various patches on her sides, her stomach, and her butt. She was beautiful because she was Indiana, and she was alive.

I hope by reading this, you take away several things. First, miracles can and do happen. We were given a miracle that day. Second, always follow your heart. If we had listened to the doctors, our baby would be dead. Doctors don't always know best, but your heart does. Third, never give up hope, even when it seems like there is none. There is ALWAYS hope.

That day changed my life forever. Some for the bad, but mostly for the good. I am a far better parent today. I learned much the hard way, and that's why I'm working so hard to help others. I don't want anyone else to have to learn the way I did.

I am forever indebted to Dr. Eusanio and Dr. Eshelman. They gave me my baby back and helped us when others wouldn't. Both doctors are now gone from the U of I, and I know wherever they are today, the patients are better off because of them. I will remember them until the day I die.

Thank you to those of you who've made it this far in the story. Thanks for letting me tell it, really for the first time. It has done my heart good. My gorgeous girl still sits by my feet, keeping watch over the cats and the back yard. My dog is alive, well, and happy, and all is well with the world.