Grover Cleveland

Grover Cleveland

with us

September 11 to November 8, 2010

Forever part of our family

To my Grovey:

Nothing could have prepared your Dad and I for walking into your room this week and finding you dead. I'm sorry your Dad had to go through that; I wish it had been me who found you first. I could hear the pain in your Dad's scream as he came to the realization of what happened to you. It didn't really hit me until I walked into the bathroom and saw you laying there peacefully, but lifelessly. Even then, how can you process something like that? I had seen you less than twelve hours before. You were walking around upstairs, taunting Gus through the baby gate, just like normal. How is it that you could now be dead? How does a cat go from completely normal to dead, just like that?

When you came into our lives less than two months ago, it was a hard day. It was the one-year anniversary of when we had last seen our Mr. Squiggles. I don't think you can ever know what your emergence into our lives that day did for us; you saved us. What was going to be an awful day turned into a day filled with love. We were so focused on saving you and enveloping you into our family that we hardly had time to focus on our pain. You were so skinny and sick-looking, covered in mats and missing hair. You needed us, but we needed you too.

The instant we decided to bring you home, you were a part of our family, our son. You were so loving and grateful to be in a warm, safe place with all the food you could eat. I remember I would lay on the bed with you, and you would inspect my face up close, then rub your mouth against my cheeks: the wettest kitty kisses ever. It was kind of gross, but really, Dad and I loved it.

We loved that you would stick your paws under the door, waiting for Gus or Sam to see it, so you guys could taunt each other. We loved that anticipation on your face, like you couldn't wait to start your game. We loved walking into your room and seeing you sleeping on the comforter next to the window. Sometimes you wouldn't even run to greet us, because your sleeping spot was way cooler. We loved seeing you play with Juliet, your round ball toy/scratcher. I loved seeing you fall asleep draped across her. How silly.

We loved your long tail, which was the longest I've ever seen in a cat. We loved how in the early days before you were strong, that your tail would drag on the floor. We loved that you loved to eat, that you finally had access to enough food. We loved the high-pitched trill you had for a meow, unlike any other meow we've ever heard! It was the strangest sound, and it made us laugh every time. We loved that you hated crocheted afghans and wouldn't lay on them, and would even go out of your way not to walk on them either. We loved that you slept on the back of the chair next to the door, waiting for it to open and perhaps allow the entrance of one of the cats you were so obsessed with.

I'm sorry that you had diarrhea. We gave you slippery elm, hoping that it would get better for you. Some days it did, some days it didn't. I'm sorry your liver was sick too. I hope there wasn't anything else we could have done to make it better; you took your medicine like such a good boy though. I'm sorry we didn't get more pictures with you. I'm sorry you never got a chance to live downstairs with the rest of the family. I'm sorry you never got to go outside. I'm sorry you never met Indiana. I'm sorry we never took video of the adorable noises you made. I'm sorry I didn't spend more time with you. I'm sorry I never got a chance to truly know the real you. I thought there would be more time.

Your Dad and I did the best we could, but I hope you know that in our hearts, you were our son, and we will always love you. Some have suggested that you were sick before we got you, and that your short time with us was so you could end your life as part of a loving family. Perhaps you were meant to "usher" Mr. Squiggles back into our lives, and after he returned, your time here was done. All I know is that your time with us was too short. I have feared every moment for the last two days that I may have missed something that could have saved you. I pray that I didn't let you down somehow.

For one glorious month, our family was finally complete. It was so crazy with 5 cats and 2 dogs, but it felt whole. Now our family is incomplete again, and there is nothing we can do to change it. It feels empty upstairs without you, and I can still see you everywhere I look. We keep the door to the bathroom closed, because we can still see your dead body lying there too. 5 cats seemed so chaotic, but now 4 just seems like too few.

Dad and I are sorry that we sent you off for necropsy, but as your death was so sudden and unexpected, we needed to make sure your brothers couldn't have caught something from you. Please understand that we would never have done it just for our own gain. I know the animal hospice place will take good care of you, and hopefully you will be back home to us soon, where you belong.

We are so sad that we never got to celebrate Christmas with you, but we will still make you an ornament for the tree, just like everyone else. I don't know if I can bear to make a stocking for you though; would you forgive me for that? Dad and I also plan on making a nice memorial to you. We haven't decided on what yet, but we will make sure it suits you. We will cry for you, and we will miss you. You will always be a part of our family, and you will always, always be our son.

Gus is Hazardous To My Health, Part One

Sorry I've been absent so much lately. I know I usually neglect my blog, but this time I have a great excuse: surgery!



Last month, I got bitten on my right middle finger by Gus. It wasn't really his fault. He had met Grover for the first time and was scared and stressed out. I tried to pick him up to comfort him, which was a HUGE mistake. He nommed on my finger, hard. I remember thinking, "Wow, I wonder if he hit bone? That hurts!"



Anyway, I'm not one to go to the doctor unless I absolutely have to. I figured I could tough this thing out. But, the thing was, in a few days I was driving to Iowa to sing in one of my best friend's wedding. After hearing horror stories about cat bites (everyone seems to have one), I actually called my doctor, whose nurse practitioner called in an order for the antibiotic Augmentin. I didn't want to be waking up in a hotel in Iowa with a raging fever. I'd have been totally screwed. S0 I was really proud of myself for taking the very adult step of asking for antibiotics. Heh.



Well, that finger hurt like h-e-double-hockey-sticks for a good week. After that, it finally healed up but was still red and swollen. I said to myself, "Aw, it's just a soft tissue injury; those take some time to heal. It's totally fine."



Let's fast forward a month post-injury. Said finger just looks kind of gross, with a big red bump on it. (Like alien babies are going to pop out at any time. Seriously, it looked weird.) My friend Amanda, who is a vet tech, looked at it and said, "Jen, that doesn't look right. You seriously need to go to the doctor." I said, "Nah, it's totally fine, it's just still healing." Amanda: "No, really, I think it's infected." Me: "...really? Crap. Ok, I'll call Monday."



So Monday morning, I did what any responsible adult would do, and called my doctor one month too late. I got in right away with the nurse practitioner, and I left for my 10:30 am appointment expecting an unpleasant lancing session on the abscess followed by a round of oral antibiotics. Oh, sweet, naive Jenny. (Pats self on head.)



The nurse practitioner, Liz, got me set up for a lancing, but opted for my doctor, Dr. Moss, to perform the actual procedure. It really should have been my first clue when both doctors looked at it and gave me their concerned doctor face. But it was still totally fine, really.



The lancing didn't hurt at all, just the stupid numbing injections beforehand. What up with that? I wanted to watch Dr. Moss cut into the abscess to see all of the cool pus come out, but only blood came out. Hmmm... Dr. Moss already had said he was sending me to an orthopedic doctor, so I knew this might be worse than I thought. I was told I had an appointment at 1:15. That day. Ugh.

All of the orthopedists in our area belong to one big conglomerate called OAK, in a massive building in Bradley. It's practically it's own hospital. And super intimidating. I waited for about forever and finally met the surgeon, Dr. Jones, who I swear doesn't like me. He had on his grave face, told me how serious cat bites are, that I should have gone to the hospital right away, shouldn't have waited a month, and shouldn't keep the cat. (Grrrr....) So, after about a one-minute examination of the finger, I was off for an x-ray. Then a wait for an MRI. In the meantime, Dr. Jones tells me the only option is surgery, two days from then. What??? Like, surgery surgery? Yep. Are you stupid? (I already know you are.) Didn't you pay attention when I said surgery? (This is me imagining what my doctor was saying/really thinking.)

So, after the boring and very not scary MRI, I was done for the day, but had to return in the morning for MRI results and pre-op instructions. At that time, I was told again how stupid I am, and that my stupidity had led to a bone infection, which would require them to bring in an infectious disease doctor. And would require six weeks of IV antibiotics. The surgery itself, though really quick, would require scraping the bone, which would in turn require general anesthesia. Like, general general anesthesia? For real? Yes, general anesthesia. You really don't want to be awake for this (And are you stupid? I SAID, general anesthesia!).

But what about my precious vocal cords? General anesthesia generally requires intubation, or more simply put, a plastic tube shoved down your esophagus...past your vocal cords. To Dr. Jones' great credit, he took my concern seriously (after all, I sort of attempt to make a living with those things), and agreed to avoid intubation if possible.

So I left the appointment in mostly a state of shock, because all of this was progressing so fast. Soon came a call from the hospital to pre-register me, and then I found out I had to go to the hospital for pre-admittance testing. That was no biggie, since I'm not afraid of needles and donate blood on a (fairly) regular basis. So then I'm less than 24 hours from my 10:30 am surgery--my first ever--and I am starting to FREAK OUT. Anyone who really knows me knows I am not a calm person. If I can worry about it, I will. So I went home to await my doom.

Coming next: the surgery and the aftermath. With pictures, if you'd like.

P.S. Please forgive any typos. I only have 8 fingers and giant club to work with.

Decision Made.

Jim and I, with the help of our primary vet, Dr. Becker, finally made a decision about Indiana's cancer. We consulted with more doctors than most people even know exist for pets: Two cardiologists, a nephrologist, an anaesthesiologist, and an oncologist.

The cardiologists and nephrologists were (tongue-in-cheek) not helpful, because they told us that Indiana basically is at no higher risk for surgery than any other twelve-and-a-half year old dog, heart- and kidney-wise. So that didn't help rule anything out.

The anaesthesiologist, while one of the nicest vets I've talked to, basically scared the crap out of me. It is, essentially, her job to think of everything and anything that can go wrong during surgery and take measures proactively to stop them. And I did tell her up front that I wanted to know exactly what we were looking at. She did ultimately say that Indiana was a candidate for surgery and she most likely would survive anaesthesia. But there were still some concerns from her perspective, which I understood. Putting a dog with chronic kidney disease, a right bundle branch block (an electrical issue in her heart which causes her heart to send out confusing messages), and a mass in her right atrium will give an anaesthesiologist pause. Moms and Dads too, apparently.

All of those health issues aside, Jim and I know undergoing anaesthesia is hard on any pet, but especially for older ones. Indiana was simply sedated several years ago, and it took her days to recover. Imagine what anaesthesia would do to her. While the possibility is likely remote, there is still a small chance that she could die on the operating table. I could have a live dog one morning, and in a manner of hours, she could be dead. That is a horrifying thought for me and Jim.

So we took the difficult step of asking the oncologist, "What if we don't do anything at all?" Only 5% of soft-tissue sarcomas metastasize systemically, meaning 95% of them pretty much grow in place. Given that Indiana's is on her back, it wouldn't impede breathing or walking. The biggest issue would be that once it grows too large (and who knows what too large is?), the mass would eventually split and ulcerate, leaving a big, gaping wound and opening her up to infection. But some soft-tissue sarcomas grow slowly, and others grow quickly. If we were lucky enough to have a slow-growing tumor, it might never grow big enough in what lifespan she has left to cause a problem. When the oncologist did the biopsy, she removed a lot of tissue, so the mass isn't even palpable right now. That's a good thing. She said we could wait to remove the mass when it grows back to its original size.

After consulting with all of these specialists, I met with Dr. Becker last week. She was amazed that the tumor was so small, given that it was biopsied about a month ago. You really can't even feel it, just a small scab. After talking over everything, we decided to wait. We won't be doing surgery right now. There is a possibility the tumor will never grow at all, or it might grow very slowly. If it ever gets back to its original size, we'll revisit our options at that point. But for now, it doesn't make sense to take her life in our hands to remove something that might not be a problem.

Jim and I feel good about this decision. It feels right. I worried I would feel like we were giving up on her, but I don't. I feel like we're giving her a good quality of life, and leaving her the heck alone. She doesn't even notice the tumor. We may be back in the same place in the future, having to make a choice about surgery, but for now, I know this is the right decision. For me, Jim, and for Indiana.

Looming Decision

The last two weeks have been so Mr. Squiggles-focused, which has been great. Confusing, hectic, shocking...but also great. In the back of my mind though, I do know that Jim and I still have to make a decision regarding Indiana's cancer.

I don't feel like we're any closer to making a decision than we were nearly a month ago when we found out about the cancer. U of I wanted to do the surgery within 2-4 weeks, but I am not prepared to make a decision and don't want to rush into it. There are so many things I still need to know: how long with the surgery take? If we don't do the surgery, what can we expect? Some of the questions are difficult to ask, as it feels like we're giving up on Indiana. If we don't do the surgery, and the cancer becomes a problem, how can I live with that? But if we do the surgery, and she dies on the table, or if she never fully recovers from it, how can I live with that? I feel like we don't win no matter what we do.

I have spent the last four years talking with others dealing with cancer, through our cancer foundation as well as through the online support group I've been active with. I've said a million times, "Any decision made with love is never a bad one." Have I been wrong? Have I been lying? It's so easy to give advice, but much harder to take it. I wonder if that advice has ever given comfort to a parent? Would it give me comfort, if I really, really listened?

Life Returns to Normal?

We are now a week and a half post-Mr. Squiggles' return. In many ways, Jim and I are still in shock. I watch him as often as I can, looking into his eyes, taking in his fur, trying to memorize every inch of him and convince myself that he is really, truly, back home. We became so used to the search that it is hard to remember what life was like before he disappeared.

For over a year, we walked the cornfields, scanned the sides of roads as we drove, drove to the homes of strangers to look at scores of cats, answered question after question about our missing boy, and tried every waking minute of the day to not let our heartache overwhelm us. Because thinking of him was inevitable. We saw him everywhere we went. Though his physical presence was gone, his spiritual presence, and his memory, was still very much in our home. Not a day went by where we didn't think of him. Sometimes we accidentally thought of a happy memory, and that hurt so much, thinking that he would never make new memories with us ever again. We endured this for over a year of our lives. 388 long days. Then one day, miraculously, it all ended.

We're so conditioned to thinking of him as missing, to searching for him, to blocking out the pain. And now we don't have to do those things. He is in our home, walking the hallways, sleeping in the window. He still has the same old habits, and he's starting to get the crabby look in his eye that was his way before. We're rediscovering things about him that we had forgotten. Yesterday, he pounced on a cat toy out of the blue, and I almost cried. I am grateful that he is home and that our long ordeal is over. No more searching, no more wondering. In time, the pain we still feel will fade, and we will still be left with our boy. And we have so many more happy memories to make with our son.

Good Things Do Come To Those Who Wait

Miracles still occur. Monday night, October 4, 2010, after 12 1/2 months of searching, Mr. Squiggles was brought back home to us.

We got a call from a friend, Sue, around 9pm. She had a cat sitting on her front porch who looked like Mr. Squiggles. Sue only lives about 1/2 a mile from us, and we are separated only by cornfields and woods. Jim and I, seasoned veterans in Maine Coon searches, weren't expecting any miracles, but we vowed from the beginning to follow every lead. So off we went, hoping but not expecting.

When we pulled up to Sue's house, she was sitting on her front porch with the cat. Instantly, I didn't know if it was him. This is a bit unusual, because Jim and I usually know right away. But still, there have been a handful of cats who have thrown us for a loop. So I held him, still unsure. He cradled himself in my arms, not wanting to let go. Jim held him as well, and he felt so at ease. It was a chilly night, and this cat was underfed and matted, and Jim and I couldn't be certain it wasn't him, so we decided to take him home.

The only room left in the house to sequester a cat is the finished basement music studio, which thankfully is home to our old couch (the one Mr. Squiggles knew). I sat on the couch, cradling the cat, and the only way I can describe his reaction was...the could finally breathe. I have two other rescue cats at home, and while they are grateful to be here and are affectionate with Jim and I, this cat's reaction was more...familiar. Like he was finally home after a long, hard journey. Which he was.

It took us several days to fully admit that it was him. My parents both looked at the cat. My Mom reacted with tears, sure it was him. I was the most skeptical, afraid that if we misidentified him, what would happen to the real Mr. Squiggles? But this is him. Over the days, I have noticed not only the significant physical similarities, but also the behavioral similarities. The way he eats his chunky cat food (leaving the big chunks and eating only the small ones), the way he uses the litter box (no Feline Pine, thank you very much, but if he has to use it, he perches with all four feet on the edge), the way he tilts his head, the way he walks, the way he reaches out his paw, the way he looks when he's asleep, the look in his eye. He is familiar with our home and isn't afraid of the dogs, who are fine with him as well. (Even Isis) He looks around the house, not as if he's trying to figure it out, but like he's wanting to see what's different and to remind himself of all his old familiar things.

But it's the way he acts with Jim and I that has really convinced me. That feeling of being released from fear and uncertainty is so apparent in his demeanor. He loves to be held and cuddled by us, but in a different way from any cat I've ever had. Like he truly appreciates what it's like to be back with his family. He melts into us when he sleeps with us (tucked behind my back legs, as always), like he knows he's home. I know it too.

The past year has obviously been rough on him. There is evidence that he has been kept captive by someone in the past year, and he has some long-lasting injuries that we can't repair. But we can make them better, and his only health concerns are caused by severe malnutrition, which a month or so of a good, solid diet can cure. He's as picky an eater as ever though, so we know we have our work cut out for us.

As I write this, he is happily laying in his favorite window perch, with the window open and the birds flying in front of him. Sometimes I see the weight of all of his troubles behind his eyes, but I hope, in time, and with lots and lots of love, that those memories will vanish for him, and he'll only be left with the life we were all obviously meant to lead.

Everything in Flux

The worst case scenario has come true. Indiana has cancer. Again.

Jim and I (and of course Indiana) successfully battled leiomyosarcoma--and it's still gone--only for Indiana to survive long enough to get another, completely different, type of cancer. While the first cancer was an extremely acute case that put her life immediately in danger, this cancer is different. Everything is different.

On Thursday, September 30, we were told that Indiana had a Stage 1 Soft-tissue Sarcoma. It's a small, quarter-sized tumor on just to the right of her spine, though not actually attached to any muscle. U of I wants to perform surgery within the next month, and four years ago we would have taken this option eagerly. But this time around, our course isn't so clear.

Indiana has a host of health problems, partly from being 12 years old, and partly from having gone through chemo four years ago (ironic, isn't it?). Though arthritis (from being old) is HER biggest complaint, kidney disease and a heart arrhythmia (from the chemo) are OUR biggest concerns. We worry that anaesthesia could put too much strain on her heart and kill her on the operating table. Or that it could screw up her kidneys even worse.

Typically, I'm not the kind of person who vacillates in making a decision. I'm strong-willed and opinionated. Even if I take some time to make a choice, I probably have a particular way I'm leaning in my mind. But not with this. I am absolutely, 100% torn. If I had to make a decision today (and thank goodness I don't), I would be lost. Because I AM lost. Indiana is telling me she still wants to fight. She feels great, and the light in her eyes gives me hope. But I can't let her die on an operating table, either. But how can I let an evil monster like cancer just grow on her body?

Jim and I have the beginnings of a plan. I've already made an appointment to see Indy's nephrologist (her kidney specialist--an amazing man), and today I'll be calling her cardiologist (also a wonderful guy), and making arrangements to get a second cardiology opinion. I've already spoken with our vet, Dr. Becker, who encouraged us to get as many opinions as possible, but she isn't necessarily pro-surgery, and I respect that. I'm not sure I am either. I am comforted that our plan involves a visit with Dr. Becker in three weeks, where the three of us will make a decision together. Hopefully before then, my heart and my brain will decide what we want to do.

I am so heartbroken about this, I don't even know what to do. In the last four years, I have made every conceivable change in Indy's life--the best food, the best doctors, the best supplements, the best proactive care--and still, she gets cancer again. I am going through three of the five stages of grief all at once--denial, depression, and anger. I don't want to hear, see, or think the word "God," because I am now convinced he doesn't exist. It's stupid, I guess, but I am tempted to avoid Facebook for all of the status posts my believer friends make referencing God. They really do make me a bit sick, because I can't believe he even exists, because if he does, he has absolutely forsaken me.

The denial part is my inability to really process this. I KNOW my dog has cancer, but I haven't really allowed myself to absorb that idea or really think about what it means, because to do so means to allow my soul and my spirit to be crushed yet again. It's been damaged so many times in this past year, I'm not sure it can handle it again. So that's why I'm depressed too. I was depressed before this diagnosis, and the cancer is really the icing on the cake.

I hate that I couldn't prevent Indy from getting cancer again, and I hate that I don't know how to help her. I am so lost, and so sad, yet I know I have to keep going, to fight for my precious baby. I have to remove myself from much of the "real" world, because honestly, I don't have enough left inside me to be able to fight this cancer and be a regular person. I hope all of my friends and associates will understand. I don't really have much of a choice. At least that is clear to me.

Can Lightning Strike Twice?

Yesterday was our twice-annual visit to the oncologist with Indiana. I used to dread it (and still do), but as time has worn on, I don't fear it as much as I did. I know she's licked the cancer. It's been over four years.

Test after test came back good yesterday. Bloodwork: stable. Ultrasound: clear. Chest x-rays: clear. During body mapping for lumps and bumps (of which she has 20--yikes!), two lumps seemed a bit suspicious. So, our oncologist sent the slides off to pathology to be safe. One seemed certain to be fine; the slide didn't look suspicious to our vet's eye. Unfortunately, the slide we were most concerned about came back completely normal, and the one we had written off in our minds, surprisingly, came back as "probable sarcoma."

At first, I wasn't even sure I had heard her right, except I knew I had. My mind went a million different places at once, but mostly, I was pissed. Four years of beating leiomyosarcoma, a miracle in my mind, and my dog might have a *different* type of cancer? Completely unrelated to the first? Abhorrent.

We have her scheduled for a biopsy on Wednesday. Luckily, the vets will be performing it under local anaesthesia, given Indiana's advanced age and complicated medical history, as well as the fact that she's as good as gold. I know she'll do just fine. But then the waiting begins. Three to five looooooong, torturous days, taking us over the weekend. I know the results could still come back benign, and that's what I'm praying for. But I also have to think ahead and prepare a potential plan of attack should the worst come true. With Indiana's health problems, chemo is most likely not an option, so I'll be scouring the veterinary (mostly holistic) community for the best options for her. Something that gives her a good quality of life but allows her to fight this disease.

I never thought I would be back here again, and frankly, I'm really mad about it. I alternate between depression and anger, but anger will get me a lot further, will allow me to be the best Mom I can be. So, I'm still researching and reading books, as I always have, but this time it's for a different purpose. Suddenly my role as an armchair lay cancer expert takes on a new meaning. While researching for others is important, nothing is more important than my own girl, and I will find something to help her. But I'm hoping I don't have to.

A Letter To My Son

Hey, Buddy,

Today marks one year since I last saw you. I can't believe it's been 365 days since I last saw your handsome face, ran my fingers across your silky fur, took in the smell that was completely you. Sometimes I marvel that Dad and I have survived the pain of losing you. We are stronger than I realize. The pain does seem as bad today as it did a year ago, and it amazes me that the human psyche can withstand that.

I'm sorry that we went on vacation last year. I wish I knew what happened to you. If we hadn't gone to Paris, would you still be with us today? No doubt, if we had fenced in the yard with cat fencing sooner, we could have avoided all of this. I live with that guilt every day of my life. I hope you have forgiven me, but I haven't forgiven myself. I would give anything to have you back.

Sometimes I worry that I am starting to forget you. Forget the little things you used to like, or didn't like. Forget the details of your face, your favorite sleeping spots, your favorite outdoor haunts. I am so young, what if those memories keep fading one by one until someday, I don't remember you at all? Is that possible? It doesn't seem like it. But I fear that more than anything. Partly, Dad and I avoid talking about you at all, because while we think about you every single day, talking about you makes it hurt even more. I feel guilty about that too. I should talk about you every day, because I WANT to, I really do, but usually it makes the cracks in my heart open a little deeper each time, and I can barely stand it. But I talk about you more and more often these days, and I think that will get better in time. I want to talk about you with Dad to preserve those memories, and thankfully, I have video of you as well, so I can remember the way you moved and the funny things you did.

I wonder sometimes if Gus misses you. I don't think he does. I know you don't take this personally. Gus is Gus. I find that even though Gus is so near and dear to my heart, he is even more precious to me now that you are gone. Because he KNEW you. You and he could talk in your kitty language, so he knew you in a way I cannot. So that makes him such a treasure, because he carries of part of you with him always, locked away in that little brain of his.

So now the tears have begun, something I feared would happen while writing this. I miss you with all of my heart, and I mourn you every day, but I have cried and cried the last year, not only over you, but over your sister and over your Aunt as well. How can one person cry so much?

I think of you every single day. Our house is a constant reminder of you, because I can still see you everywhere. All of our pictures of you are still up--how could I take them down? I have left your bowls right where you left them, unwashed. I can't bear to move them, because they hold a physical part of you, and if you come back, they'll be waiting for you, right where you'll know where to find them. I see you when I leave the house, too. I see you in the yard, but mostly, I see you in all of the places we have searched for you. Every road, every house, every cornfield. By now, that's most of western Kankakee as well as scattered bits around town too. Dad and I are haunted nearly everywhere we go. I still look for you too, just hoping someday to get lucky and see you emerging from a field or walking along the street.

I hope Dad and I have done everything possible to get you back. If you're still out there, I hope you know what even though we despair for you, we have never quit looking. The ad still runs in the paper, and we still follow leads. In fact, Boommaw and Boompaw followed one for us today. Of course, it wasn't you, as I knew in my heart it wouldn't be, but oh, did I hope! This seemed so coincidental, and the cat was even missing the tooth that you had chipped. I allowed myself to hope just a little. But when I saw this other cat, I knew he wasn't you. Still, Dad and I decided to take him home. I hope you don't mind. We'll have quite a collection of Maine Coons if we keep this up, but no number of cats can fill the hole you left in my heart. I only hope by giving this new guy a home (which he desperately needs), I am honoring you. If you were out there, wandering lost, I would want someone to take you in and make you happy and healthy, even if it meant you weren't with me.

I can't tell you enough how much I miss you, Buddy. I am so sad most of the time. It's hard to feel complete when such a huge part of you is missing. I promised to protect you, and I failed. I can't ever make that up to you, and I will live with that guilt as long as I live. My only defense it that I have learned my lesson and corrected my mistakes so something like this never happens again. I regret with all my heart that I had to learn the hard way (yet again), and that you were the one to suffer for it.

Wherever you are, I hope you are safe and happy. I can't bear to think that you're scared. But most of all, I want you to know that I love you with all my heart and have never stopped looking for you. You are my son, my very first special kitty, and I will not give up trying to find you.

You are forever in my heart--

All my love---Mom

Dog Makes Everything Better

Sometimes my animals astonish me, and last night was no exception. A random, innocent gesture (calling Gus a nickname I used to use for Mr. Squiggles, but had forgotten) eventually led to a full-scale meltdown later in the evening, as Jim and I were laying in bed with Indiana. I try not to think about Mr. S too much, because I can't cry every day, as I would otherwise want to. Add all of our other losses to that, and I repress a lot of grief. That has to come out every once in a while, and last night, the nickname was the straw that broke the camel's back.

I hate crying in front of Indiana (it makes her upset), but I just couldn't help myself. Jim was so sweet and understanding, encouraging me to let it all out, and knowing he was crying and hurting too made it all that much worse. In the midst of all the tears, Indiana got up from the foot of the bed, walked between us, and laid down. We used to call this "Mama-Papa Puppy Time," because she used to do it nearly every night with us. She'd start between us, with us kissing her, petting her, talking to her, and after 5-10 minutes, she'd grow tired of the affection and would get up and lay back down at the foot of the bed. Indy hasn't given us Mama-Papa Puppy Time (or MPPT, as we call it) in ages. So when she did it last night, we were astonished.

This amazing dog read our emotions and was trying to comfort us. Boy, did it work.

So as I dried my tears and tried to put on a happy face for this sympathetic dog, I found I actually did feel better. And Jim was right when he told me that we have so many things still left to love in our lives. One of the very best was laying right between us.

After Something Gets Too Many Holes, It Eventually Cannot Be Repaired

As if my family hadn't experienced enough loss in the past 10 months (Mr. Squiggles, Jim's Great Aunt, my Aunt Carole), my Uncle's dog, Sara, went missing a week ago. She and her sister, Amanda, dug a hole and escaped under the fence. Amanda was found. Sara was not.

Putting aside the fact that I love Sara, my heart is breaking for so many reasons. For one, it kills me to know what my Uncle is going through. He just lost his wife, my Aunt, seven months ago (has it been that long already?), and to lose one of their children...

And two, I've been providing advice on finding lost animals to both my Uncle and my Mom, who has been instrumental in trying to find Sara. This is bringing back all sorts of bad memories from the early days after Mr. Squiggles went missing. I remember the heartache, the fear, the confusion, the guilt, guilt, and more guilt, and the overwhelming urge to plunge headfirst into a lake and never come back up. I hate that my Uncle is going through this, and selfishly, I hate that I have too.

I don't know why bad things happen, and I don't understand a higher being who would heap so much suffering onto one family. I only hope with all hope that Sara will be brought home, and that, through some miracle, Mr. Squiggles will be too.

Gus is 2-ish

Today is our Gus' birthday. He is two...ish. Since he was a rescue, we just estimated his birthday as August 1 but recognize that we could have hit it right on the nose, be several weeks off, or likely, somewhere in between. And because we bought him an awesome cat house for his birthday and didn't want to wait a day to give it to him, we decided to celebrate July 31 as his 2nd-ish birthday. But the party comes today.

Gus really is the brightest spot in our lives. He has brought us joy since day one, but ever since Mr. Squiggles went missing, Gus has really kept us going. Regardless of what he's doing, he makes us laugh or smile. Sleeping? Adorable. Playing with catnip mouse? Laughing my head off. Sleeping on my lap? My heart is going to stop. Standing around doing nothing? Still freaking adorable. (And I think he has the most adorable man-parts ever. Is that weird?)

I am grateful every day for my little man, and I have to say, he's extra special in my heart because he too knew and loved Mr. Squiggles, and perhaps knew him better than anyone else in the world. I am envious that they could communicate in a way I cannot, and I wish I could talk to Gus and ask him what he's thinking. What was Mr. Squiggles like? What did he really think? Did we annoy him, or did he love us? Or both?

But alas, I don't speak cat, and besides, Gus is curled up asleep on my lap, looking devastatingly adorable, as usual.

In Absentia

I'm back! Oh, poor neglected blog, whom I vowed to post to at least once a week. I got sidetracked by Indiana's big celebration initially (as well as a lack of an internet connection), and I even neglected Great Good Heart's Facebook page--gasp! Then, Indiana wasn't feeling well for a while (that's for another post), and then some other depressing things happened (yet another post), but I want to be a better blogger, and therefore have upped my expectations to twice a week. Hah. That'll be punishment for a month-long abandonment. Take that.

Anyway, on July 11, we had a big party for Indiana, to celebrate four years of cancer-free life. This is the fourth party we've had, and I think it may have been the best so far. This year's theme (of course there's a THEME) was a "Bon Voyage, Cancer" cruise ship theme, complete with too much food (Caribbean themed), lots of cruise-appropriate games (scavenger hunt, trivia competition), and of course, the ubiquitous art auction. I have attached them below for your viewing pleasure.

An extra big thanks to the lovely Tammy McLeod for putting these photos together for us. (And a little bit of trivia for the day--Tammy is the reigning U.S. Sudoku Champion)

What is art without dogs playing poker?

Note Indy's cigar--shame on her.

This looks less like she's screaming

and more like she's mocking us.

Renoir, in honor of this being my

Father-in-Law's favorite painting.


Is there a more perfect painting
to mock? Plus, we've seen it live.

This isn't sacrilegious, I swear.

This one is my personal fave. It's like

the chick is wondering what the heck

she's doing with a dog.

Anyway, the party was a big success, and we're immensely grateful to all of our friends and family who love us enough to come out and be good sports about the whole thing. Indiana enjoyed herself a lot, which is really one of the most important things to us. We don't know how much more time we have with her, but we do know that every moment, every day, is a gift. Here's to 5 years!

I Will Survive

Today marks the 4 year anniversary of Indiana's rebirth. Four years ago, Indiana was diagnosed with cancer and nearly died. A year ago today, I shared Indiana's story for the first time. It was really the first time I had let myself even think or process the story, because it caused me so much pain. Writing it out was so cathartic to me, and this year, finally, I can look back on that day and not feel such an ache in my heart.

Today, Indiana is a happy, relatively healthy, 12 year old cancer survivor. While she has some long-term effects from both the cancer and the chemo, her greatest complaints are the ailments of an old dog. Considering we were told she would die at 8, we feel fortunate every day to even have an old dog. Though Indiana is hugely spoiled (and it doesn't go to her head, thank you very much), we think she deserves every bit of it. Through surgery, chemo, physical therapy, chiropractic, acupuncture, and numerous vet visits, Indiana has issued nary a complaint (unless you try to trim her toenails; that's a whole 'nother matter). Everyone who meets her agrees that she's special. She touches everyone she meets, and she inspires me every day. Every day, I strive to live up to her standards and be the kind of parent she deserves.

So today, for the first time, I truly celebrate her accomplishment and her triumph. I banish all thoughts of the pain we suffered that day, and the past four years, and I am grateful to have a dog who is free of cancer. Congratulations, my brave, sweet girl. You make me proud every day, and you inspire me in so many ways. Thank you for making my world brighter. Our world is a better place with you in it!

Best. Daddy. Ever.

My furry babies are lucky to have the best Dad in the world. In fact, they have a whole slew of wonderful father figures. Both Grandpas are good to them too. (And both Grandmas, to be perfectly equitable.)

Jim would do anything for our pets, and I know this is sort of a rare trait for a male to have. I'm really fortunate, because I've never, ever had to fight him on anything when it comes to our kids. We've always seen eye-to-eye on every big decision, and there have been plenty of those. Expensive, risky, potentially life-saving cancer surgery? Of course. Camping out in a hotel out of town while Indiana has an overnight stay (or four overnight stays) in the hospital? Why wouldn't we? Flying in a search and rescue dog on the off chance he might provide a clue as to where our missing cat went? Absolutely.

Then there are the little things. (And they're really not so little, in my mind) He's thrilled to feed the babies a raw diet, and he usually puts the meals together so I, a vegetarian, don't have to touch the meat. (Actually, he's feeding the babies breakfast right now so I can spend time blogging.)

Jim goes out of his way to talk to the kids, usually in cute voices. He's currently "talking" for Gus in a baby voice, giving me a play-by-play of Gus' activities. And he just walked in to re-enact a physical showdown by the boys. Nothing warms your heart more than a man getting mushy over a kitten.

He has spent numerous days building special projects for the kids, like the playhouse and the indoor basement therapy pool, and he's perfectly happy with the loads of toys and play structures scattered around the inside of the house. The project he's currently mulling around in his head is a play structure for the cats...that rests on the wall of the Great Room...and allows them to climb up the wall...

I am so fortunate to have a husband who has the same values as I, and I know my kids benefit from that as well. I'm also lucky that he understands and is experiencing the same emotional turmoil as I am over the loss of Mr. Squiggles. I have a literal shoulder to cry on, and that shoulder cries right back. Really, our family couldn't ask for a better Daddy. Happy Father's Day to the best darn Papa in the whole world.

It's The Little Things

Every day, each of my four furry babies does something that I love, something that makes me smile. I live for these things.

Indiana always greets us first thing in the morning with a smile and a wag of her tail. If we're lucky, and if she's feeling particularly spry, she'll jump up on the bed with us when she hears the alarm go off.

She has a way of looking at you, when you're goofing around with her, that we call the "sideways glance." It's a look out of the corner of her eye that says, "You're nuts," but really she's saying, "I love that you're trying to make me laugh."

She loves getting in the car for a trip, even though it's usually to the vet's. She usually flies down the car stairs when we get to our destination, because she just loves going places.

She smiles and walks as fast as her arthritic legs can take her when she sees another dog. She LOVES dogs.

She always falls asleep between us every night, and if I'm really lucky, she'll lay her head on my leg, the best feeling in the world.

Isis is our "special" dog, which automatically makes me love her.

She can't hear well, but when she sees that you've woken up for the day, or that you've come home from being away, she'll get the biggest grin on her face, wag her tail, and generally go nuts with happiness.

She has her own way of getting into bed (no people in it, thank you very much): jump up, flop down on your side, and let out a huge groan.

She gives us "crazy kisses:" the biggest, fastest, most manic kisses you've ever seen. But she also can be discriminating. Sometime we'll just get a sniff and a dismissal.

Gus is the baby and therefore our special little man. With his disability, it's hard not to get a chuckle just watching him walk.

He has a special meow that he uses to look for us. Or his dog. Or birds. Or something, we don't always know what. But this meow slays me every time. I think it's a drug to me.

He chatters at birds and squirrels, while twitching his tail.

He lives to snuggle with his dog, Indiana. He does this dutifully every night and falls asleep for a while on her feet until eventually curling up on my ankles.

His mouth is so darn cute when he's gnawing on his raw food, and darn it, I think his little man-bits are the cutest things ever.

Sam came to us during a difficult time in our lives, so we're really grateful for him.

He is the whiniest cat I've ever met. It's like he has the worst life ever, even though we know for a fact that he does not.

He attacks bread in plastic bags. While this is also really annoying, I secretly love it because it's quirky.

He is huge and gorgeous with the best paws on the planet. Though he often uses them for evil, he never uses them to hurt us, even though he easily could.

He is slowly starting to sleep with us at night, which pleases us beyond belief.

I couldn't live with myself without mentioning our other family member, Mr. Squiggles. The thing I miss about him the most is when he would lay on my chest and gently place his paw (also huge and awesome, like Sammy's) on my lips or cheek, like he just wanted to be as close to me as possible. I dream about this quirk of his day or night, and even though I miss him fiercely, thinking of him touching my face makes me smile too.

These little things are the things that make my day worth living.

Day By Day

As many of you know, my family has experienced a number of heartbreaks over the past nine months. Life started going downhill in September with the disappearance of our cat (my son), Mr. Squiggles. A few short weeks later, Jim's great aunt Betty passed away, and Indiana became grievously ill and was diagnosed with kidney disease. While still reeling from these experiences, my beloved aunt, a mother figure in my life, passed away a few days after Christmas. Add in a few other problems I won't mention here, and most days I feel in over my head.

Not a day goes by that I don't think about Mr. Squiggles or my Aunt Carole, both of whom were taken from me far too soon. Mr. Squiggles remains an open book--is he still alive? is he lost?--but Carole's loss has so much finality. Both are difficult to deal with, just in different ways.

When I think of Mr. Squiggles, which is any time I look around my home, drive by sights we've searched for him, or, really, any moment I am awake, I am filled not only with grief, but also with guilt. Charged with protecting him, I obviously let him down. Nearly nine months have passed, and we've still not been able to bring him home. What have I missed? What did I do wrong?

I think about Carole all the time too. Though I spent most of my life separated from her by most of a country, the past three years she lived 20 minutes away, something I had dreamed of my whole life. She spent all of the special days with us--birthdays, parties, holidays, or we would just get together as a family, just because. It seems like half the things I own were given to me by her, so everywhere I look, I am surrounded by her. This is a comfort and a curse. I feel her loss the most deeply when our family of 6 is gathered, and we number only 5.

Though these losses haunt me daily, I know I have much to be thankful for. Scarred by Indiana's cancer four years ago, she has survived, and I have too. I thought I would never heal, and though I still worry about her (more than I should most of the time--but that's another post), she is still stable, happy, and for a dog who has been through so much, healthy.

Every day I struggle to get out of bed, to complete all my tasks, and do all my jobs. I mess up a lot and ignore my friends more than I should. Many things seem trivial when you've faced so much death, but really, isn't life all about those trivial things? I have many things to figure out in my life, but I'm young, and I have an amazing family to support me. I try not to push myself to figure too many things out at once. There will be time for these things. Instead, as much as I am able, I take things one day at a time. Though there are always going to be good days and bad, I know that, overall, every day will be a little bit easier. My losses will never go away, but time truly does heal all wounds. At least well enough to let us live our lives, and be happy.

I Think "Spoiled" Is Such An Unfair Word

One might say that the pets in the Schneider household are spoiled. I personally think that's a bit harsh though. What's spoiled?

I mean, ok, besides the furniture, our cats have about three beds in every room to choose from. One of them is my former laundry basket. I say former because Samson fell in love with it, and I bought a new one so he could have the old one. And it has a towel inside so he has a soft place to sleep.

Then there's the kitty apartment, Casa de Amy, birthday palace, The Great Wall of China, the two window perches, and loads and loads of blankets on various flat surfaces (including one on each dining table in the house). Don't get me started on the three cardboard scratching toys or the piles of cat toys strewn about the house.

Then we have the dogs. While Indy and Isis generally choose to sleep either on the bed or on the floor, Indiana does in fact have two "dog" beds. (Isis will never touch one--she's weird that way). One is a super-duper-expensive memory foam affair that we bought her for Christmas. She eschews that one for the super-duper-old one that is actually one dog bed stuffed inside another to fill up the dog-shaped hole in it.

The dogs too have their insane pile of toys. One toy box used to be enough, but Boommaw and Boompaw bought a new basket for them, which is of course now full, so Boommaw and Boompaw bought them a cute duck-shaped laundry basket for overflow toys, which was promptly taken over instead by Gus for a rasslin' ring. Sam uses it to murder rodents. Great fun.

The animal insanity isn't just contained indoors, oh no. Within the 550 feet of escape-proof cat fencing you'll find a custom built playhouse, complete with stairs, ramps, and a sleeping loft for the cats. Of course. Who doesn't have one of those?

While chewing this blog topic around in my head, I consulted Jim for the crazier things we have around the house. He very astutely reminded me that spoiling isn't just about things, but it's also about the way we treat our animals. Bah. Don't spoil my fun! I'm doing a light-hearted blog post for once, for heaven's sake. Don't expect me to get all deep.

The thing I love about spoiling our pets vs. spoiling our children is that we can spoil the critters 'til the cows come home and it won't make a bit of difference to their behavior. They either appreciate it or they don't, but they don't demand more from us. Our pets have all of these crazy houses and loads of toys, but essentially because they make us as parents happy. It makes me happy to give my cats a 4 foot long Great Wall of China and affix pictures of "Chairman Meow" to it. It makes me feel like a good Mom to buy Indiana the best possible bed, even if she never uses it.

Life isn't about stuff, I know. We're fortunate to be able to afford it, but our pets don't need it. It makes me happy to be surrounded by cat and dog paraphernalia though, and nothing brings a smile to my face like a cat ACTUALLY USING SOMETHING YOU BUY THEM. And life is all about happiness, for our pets AND for us.

'A Traveling We Will Go

A few weeks ago, Jim and I went out of town for 5 days, the first time we've traveled since Mr. Squiggles went missing while on vacation in Paris. After Indiana was diagnosed with kidney disease back in October, we thought our days of vacationing were over. Daily kidney fluids and shots multiple times a week were too much to foist on my parents, our usual dog-sitters. Plus, a fiasco with our (now-ex) cat sitter a few months ago left us without someone to watch our cats. Getting away for more than a night seemed impossible.

But, alas, Jim and I were both born with a ferocious desire to experience the world, and going too long without traveling makes us cranky and unsettled. Back B.C. (Before Cancer, as we refer to life now), we went on 4-5 trips a year. After Cancer, we thought we'd never travel again, but the travel bug bit us, and we eventually settled into a routine of 2 big trips and a couple of weekend getaways a year. So when disease struck again, it was natural to vow to stop traveling, but also completely unrealistic.

Jim had the opportunity to represent the United States at the World Sudoku Championship in Philadelphia, the third time he's earned this honor. The competition is really important to him, so of course we'd find a way for him to go. But selfishly, I wanted to go along too. I knew I'd be a nervous wreck staying at home, wondering how it was going, whether he was doing well, whether he was frustrated. We knew we had to find a way to make it work. We'd see.

Everything needed to fall into place simultaneously. We needed sitters for the animals, we needed someone to do Indiana's kidney fluids, and I needed to make sure I could get the weekend off from work (but still make it back in time for a Sunday afternoon concert--yes, I am crazy.) A flash of genius made us ask Jim's parents, who are very busy but retired, to come stay with all four pets at our house. Being the wonderful people they are, they agreed. Yay! One big hurdle overcome. Next up was fluids. Our only option, really, was the vet tech at our vet's office, Amanda. She's amazing and kind, and we were hoping she'd be willing to help us out. Allelujia! She was! Last on the list was work, and since my choir director is one of the nicest, most understanding people on the planet, he was fine with my plan to fit both travel and work into one weekend. Gosh! I have the best people in my life!

Jim and I were astonished that everything fit together so easily for us. Perhaps it was meant to be? Were our fates changing? Meticulous planning let us leave for the trip knowing our kids were in good hands, and we had finished our escape-proof cat fencing about a month prior, so we knew our feline babies were safe from harm. We left for the trip confident that all would be well, and though we checked on our clan every day, I was amazingly able to relax and not worry every moment. We returned home from a fantastic weekend with great memories, new friends, and proof that good things actually do happen sometimes. We can leave for a vacation, and our world won't always fall apart.

Our 10th wedding anniversary is approaching in August, and we had always planned on returning to Hawaii to celebrate. (Our wedding was Hawaiian-themed and we spent our honeymoon in Oahu). While our successful trip to Philadelphia taught us that it's probably safe to go away, we still aren't comfortable being an 8+ hour flight away from home. Should (God forbid) something happening with Indiana, we're more comfortable sticking to the continental United States, where we could fly home lickity-split. So the plan is Disney World, but we'll stay at the Polynesian Resort to satisfy our Hawaiian craving.

We still have things to figure out--cat sitter and fluid-giver, but we're confident we can make it work. And when we go, we'll know that the babies are in good hands. I'll still call home every day though--let's not get ridiculous.

Happy Anniversary?

It seems like this time of year is filled with painful anniversaries. Many of the friends I have made through a pet cancer support group lost pets in the spring, and of course anniversaries, or more precisely, holidays, have been on my mind this year.

Yesterday was Mother's Day, and I was really dreading it in many ways. While my own Mom is still alive, young, and healthy, as is my Mother-in-Law, my aunt Carole passed away just 4 months ago. She was a huge figure in my life, like a mother to me. To have her missing on a day when we honor the mother figures in our lives was going to be difficult. I know this because several important days, including Carole's birthday, have already passed this year. I approach each one with a sense of dread, and of loss. I still carry a lot of pain and anger from the loss of Carole. Even the smallest things can hit me and remind me of my loss--something as simple as a Psalm at church, or an item at the store I know she'd like.

Mother's Day was doubly difficult because Mr. Squiggles is still missing. I'm a mother missing a child. My family is incomplete. I think of Mr. Squiggles every single day, but slap a label on a Sunday, and it makes it all that much harder.

I had something of an epiphany this weekend. I was so dreading Mother's Day (even though I wanted to make it special for my own Mom), but it's not the first holiday or event this year that I approached with the same dread. Carole's Birthday, Easter, Mr. Squiggles' Birthday. I feared all of these. But you know what? Those days came and went. I made the best of them, maybe even had some fun with my family. I woke up the next day, and life went on.

Life went on. I realized that I too would survive Mother's Day. I might even have fun. And I did. When watching all of the families at church yesterday morning threatened to remind me of Carole, I remembered this new epiphany and strengthened myself with the knowledge that I would survive today. It doesn't take away the pain, but it makes it more bearable.

So to all of my friends and readers out there facing a tough anniversary of holiday, remember this: you too will survive. The day may be tough, but you'll wake up the following day and carry on. I know there are more rough days ahead for me as I face many more firsts without Carole and Mr. Squiggles. And I will dread them. But I'll get myself through by remembering that I've already survived so much, and I don't intend to stop.


Happy Mother's Day to all of my readers out there who are Moms to both humans and pets alike. Happy Mother's Day as well to my own wonderful mothers, both the one I was born to and the one I married in to! I love you both.

Too much to hope for?

Hope is your friend. I think.

Hope is what has gotten me through the last (nearly) four years with Indiana. It is the official tag phrase of our cancer organization, The Great Good Heart Animal Cancer Foundation. "Never Lose Hope." If I had given up hope on Indiana back on June 30, 2006, my life (and hers) would be decidedly different right now.

When our cat, Mr. Squiggles, went missing back in September of 2009, seven long months ago, hope was all we had. In the beginning, though we were devastated and confused, lost and aching with every fiber of our being, we still had hope that he'd return. It was just a matter of time! If we just looked hard enough, walked enough miles through the corn fields, knocked on enough doors, put up enough posters, answered enough false leads, let the ad in the paper run for enough weeks, consulted enough experts, checked Animal Control enough times, spent enough money, cried enough tears.

Eight months later, what is enough? My cat still hasn't been returned to me.

Just over a month ago, we thought we had found out what happened to our boy. For about 18 hours, our world crashed in on us. Our hope was gone. We felt like we couldn't breathe, like the world was so dark, so cold, and nothing could ever be right again. Then our "lead" turned out to be not so true. We had hope again.

Throughout this ordeal, we've said (and others have said to us) that if he's gone--dead--it's better at least to know. So there's no question. As it turns out, no, it's not better to know. The only acceptable resolution is to get our cat back. If he's dead, we don't want to know. Because having that hope, even if it's just a sliver, a tiny, tiny, sliver, it's still hope. And it's all we've got.

Things I've Learned From My Dog: Anxiety!

To be fair, I've always been a nervous person. Throughout high school, college, and now as an adult, I've spent a decent amount of time thinking, "what if?" Worst case scenarios whiz through my brain at inopportune moments, and are, to be sure, inconvenient at times.

Though I'm the queen of worry, whether it's about an upcoming concert, whether someone might take something I said the wrong way, or whether or not I can cram 12 hours worth of work into the 8 hours I have available, nothing makes me worry quite so much as my furry kids. My worry did not improve when Indiana was diagnosed with cancer. Are you surprised?

After Indiana was diagnosed, to say I was a mess is putting it mildly. Emotional breakdowns not withstanding, I worried every moment of every day about Indiana. Was she feeling ok? Was she reacting to the chemo? Is she breathing? She is breathing, right?

A large part of worry is caused by a lack of control. I can't control the cancer. I don't know what it's going to do. A sensible person will say, "Why worry about something you can't control?" This is totally logical, but honestly, logic flies out the window the minute you get a devastating diagnosis for someone you love. I can't control the cancer, but I sure as heck can worry about it! Score one for me!

At no time does my anxiety grow higher than when I have to travel. The convergence of two tracks of worry: things I can't control (e.g. cancer or kidney disease) and being unable to actually, physically see, with my own two eyes, that indeed, Indiana is still breathing. Indiana's sitters, be it my parents or Jim's, know to expect a daily phone call full of quizzical questions. I may not go so far as to actually ask my Mom if Indiana is still breathing, but I'll ask all sorts of questions she can only answer if Indiana is still breathing. Crazy? Yes. Comforting? Definitely.

When Jim and I travel this week, we've done the best we can to make sure our clan are well cared for. My wonderful in-laws are staying at our house while we're gone to take care of the kids. As always, I won't have to worry that they'll follow our every (obsessive) direction. I know they will. The cat fence (or Stalag 17, as Jim calls it) is finished, so I never have to face the heartbreak of a missing cat ever again. Our wonderful vet tech is coming by to give Indiana her kidney fluids and necessary shots (and, YES!, someone who can give a professional opinion that Indiana is still breathing!). Plus, my parents will be waiting in the wings to help out if anything is needed at home.

So, we're all covered. I shouldn't worry, right? Yet, I will. Bad things happen sometimes, and they are indeed out of my control. All I can do is head off knowing I've done the best I can, and try--though it won't be hard--to have a good time.

Happy Birthday, Indiana!

Today is my sweet Indiana's birthday. She has achieved the thing our vets (and even us, at times) thought impossible--reached the tender age of twelve years old.

Having an aging dog is rough. Don't we all wish we could freeze them at five years old? Stay a happy, healthy age forever? We unfortunately can't do that. It's been hard the past four years, watching Indiana turn into a senior dog. Along with being a cancer survivor, she has become a hypothyroid-, Atypical Cushingoid-, kidney diseased-, arthritic-dog. Each of those diseases has added to the sting of cancer. Shouldn't one major disease exempt her from anything else?

In those dark days, when nothing seems to be going right, when a little part of my heart breaks each time I stick her with a needle to provide kidney-refreshing fluids, when I watch her hobble down the hallway, stiff from arthritis, I remember that she was supposed to have been taken from me at 8 years old. Frozen forever at that young age. I'm not being punished by all these diseases; no, I've been given a blessing. Because I still have a dog who can age.

And while every painful step, every sad look as we walk into the vet's office, and every stick of a needle still breaks my heart, I look into her eyes and see so much life. She has so much fight left in her, and so do I. Every smile in her eyes, every wag of her tail, every excited bark that comes straight from her soul, every meal that she devours with immense gusto...that is what keeps us both going. My girl is a fighter, and every day with her is a gift. Age isn't a curse, it's a blessing.