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