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.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
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?
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?
Thursday, October 14, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, October 8, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, October 4, 2010
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
