Cancer and Things

I will admit that this picture has nothing to do with my post.

But it's cute.  And Isis is in it, which is rare.

Indiana is doing really, really well.  I've written about that a few times recently, and it never ceases to amaze me.  She's got so much energy (for a 13-year-old, arthritic dog), and she's eating like a champ.  And taking her pills.  The other day, though, she chewed a big bald spot on her back.  Ugh.  Just when we'd gotten her hair grown in.  So now she has a small skin infection on her back, but the good thing is that the bald spot made our vet take a closer look at Indy's tumor.  We noticed earlier this year that it had grown.  We were pretty disappointed, but we knew that we had the option to debulk the tumor if need be.  But upon closer inspection, my vet discovered that the tumor actually had a hematoma on top--most likely the source of the "growth."  So, sort of yay on that account.  Hematomas are pretty harmless, and other than giving her a homeopathic med for it, we're basically leaving it alone, to reabsorb on its own.  At which time, I hope to find the tumor still at it's original size.  Fingers crossed.

Thursday marks Indiana's cure date for cancer #1.  That's right, you heard me.  Cure.  Cure. 

Cure.

I can hardly believe it myself. 

I promise a blog filled with pictures, insights, stories, and, if I'm doing my job right, a few tears.  After all, cancer #1 made me who I am today, the kind of mother I've grown to be, the person I am evolving into.  That day, June 30, 2006, was one of the worst days of my life.  I relive it every year.  But maybe this year will be easier, knowing we've finally conquered the beast.



Welcome to the Family and Happy Birthday

   Meet Cimba, the newest member of our family.

Last Thursday, I learned that Jim and I were parents again, this time to an (almost) 15-year old bay Arabian named Cimba.  I had met and fallen in love with Cimba several weeks prior, when a friend approached me about becoming his new owner.  I was blindsided by the invitation.  Many of you don't even know that I've been riding for just over two years, part of a life-long dream realized.  Or that I had intended to own a horse someday,  maybe several years in the future, when I was a better horseman, when my life was more simple, when I was ready.  But then this opportunity came up, and sometimes, being sensible simply doesn't make sense.  (It's how I ended up for four cats, people)  I couldn't pass up this opportunity, this lovely, kind horse whom I knew would become one of my best friends.

Lest you think, "Is she crazy?"  I say to you, well, yes, but not about this.  Cimba has lived at my friend's boarding/training facility for over 5 years already, and that's where he'll stay.  (A horse in my backyard?  C'mon, people.)  Plus, my friend, Nikki, is holding my hand through this whole experience.  She's sharing her vast knowledge with me, teaching me with patience and enthusiasm, teaching me about saddles and bits, taking me on shopping trips for tack.  Plus, I'm still taking lessons.  And I have several other friends who own horses, including my friend Jodi, who has already lent me books on owning Arabs.  Cimba and I have a great support system.

Maybe you'd be surprised to learn that Jim is excited to own a horse too.  He was surprisingly supportive when I came home and said, "Nikki says Cimba's looking for a new family, and she thinks we'd be perfect.  Let's get a horse."  But honestly, I shouldn't have been surprised.  Jim has always supported everything I've done.  Why would this be any different?  Plus, he constantly amazes me with his huge heart and willingness to welcome new members to our family.  They're not just my pets, they're our pets.  So Jim is starting riding lessons so that he too can ride and enjoy Cimba.  But once he gets good enough, we'll need two horses.  You heard it here first, folks.

Oh, and Cimba is small, and Jim is tall.  (But not too small, or too tall; he'll totally fit)  Jim was discussing Cimba with our friend Ranea, who basically asked him if he'd fit Cimba.  Jim said, "I hope so.  He's the only horse we've got."  Hah.

Today is Cimba's birthday.  He is fifteen years old.  I'm going over soon to see him and take him for a ride.  Though I give him treats almost every day, I'll take a few extra goodies along today.  Perhaps an apple and some carrots.  Maybe a banana.  Do horses eat bananas?  Hmmm...

Though the last few weeks have been crazy (owning a horse, even when you don't have to clean their stalls or feed them, is still a lot of work--fun, but time-consuming), I am beyond excited about what is to come.  Owning a horse is a dream come true for me, a realization of an obsession and love that started in childhood.  Taking this leap has helped focus my mind more than I ever thought--it's been a big leap not only in terms of responsibility, but also in terms of figuring out who I am.  So to my list of who Jen is, I've added horse owner.  And that has made a surprising difference.  It's altered the list of me, though in a good way, in a way I needed. 

I wish a very happy 15th birthday to Cimba, the newest member of our family.  Thanks for helping to make my dreams come true.  I'm excited for all the adventures we'll have during our time together.  I can't wait to see who we both become.

Mea Culpa and Bon Voyage

Gus and Indy

I've been horrible about posting this week.  I got busy, spent too much time away from home.  Did you miss me?

If so, I have bad news for you: as of tomorrow, I'm taking a 4-day blog break.  That means no adorable pictures and funny stories of my animals until Thursday, June 23.  Don't miss me too much, 'kay?

Quality Time

This is Q*bert

(Sigh)  I meant to get this post up yesterday, but I got busy.  Then when I wrote it up this morning, Blogger lost it.  Maybe it's not meant to be?  Oh well.  Take two.

What I wanted to tell you about the first time, was about Sunday, where Jim and I slogged around in our garden, prepping it for plants, for 4 hours.  I hate garden prep.  I hate weeding.  I kind of hate watering.  I dislike picking (especially beans--ugh).  I like eating fresh produce.  So, I take the good with the bad.  I normally prep my garden by myself, so it was great having Jim around this year to help.  And we had another really good helper--Q*bert.

Q is now obsessed with the outdoors.  It's his first summer with us, so we didn't know what his routine would be like.  As it turns out, he spends every waking (and sleeping) moment outside.  He comes in to eat.  If we call to him, he'll come running, so we can still spend time with him when we'd like.  It's pretty fun to call his name and see where he comes running from.  Usually, it's from the garden or from under a bush by the fence.

So while we were gardening on Sunday, Q was with us, chasing bugs and possibly a few rodents, rubbing against us as we kneeled to pull weeds, attacking my gloved hands, and even stopping to poo in the soil before being distracted by a spider and running after it instead. 

Having Q*bert with us in the garden made an unpleasant task that much more pleasant.  I was reminded of how lucky we are to have so many furry children and of how much they all enrich our lives.  It would be a sad, lonely life indeed without them.

Oh, Boy

This is Mr. S.  I can't resist those eyes.

Mr. Squiggles has been back with us for over 8 months now.  It seems like just yesterday that we got him back.  But 8 months is a long time.  I still stare at him a million times a day, not believing that he's here with us.  I can't get enough of his big, adorable eyes.  Of his fluffy fur, growing longer, darker, and thicker every day.  Of his tiny mouth, rubbing against anything he can find, to claim it for his own. 

He's almost back to his pre-missing weight, after having lost nearly half of his body weight during his adventure.  His teeth still need to be repaired, his biggest souvenir from whatever ordeal he endured.  His left eye, once bright and vibrant like the other, is cloudy now, another casualty of being gone.  That one, we can't fix. 

For the first seven months or so, Mr. S was nearly inseparable from us.  If we were on the couch, he was on the couch.  And not just on the couch, but on our laps.  For hours.  And hours.  And we couldn't bear to lift him off.  Plus, he couldn't get enough of our touch.  He wanted to be constantly adored, and we were happy to oblige.

But in the last few weeks, we've noticed something: the old Mr. Squiggles is coming back.  The old Mr. S was occasionally aloof, choosing when and where he sat on us.  Attention was only desired if it was initiated by him.  Petting him at the "wrong" time got you a dirty look.  And that's how he 's starting to act again. 

Maybe some of you look at this and say, "How sad."  But for us, we're nearly overjoyed.  Because with each day, with each new (or really, old) habit, we're getting more of the original Mr. Squiggles back.  We can't take away what happened, but as I see more and more of the old Mr. Squiggles returning, I can hope that maybe, someday, it'll be almost like he never left.

That Happy Post I Promised You

Beyond adorable, right?  They do this almost every day.

Okay, so I promised some of you a happy post today, given the gravity of both Monday and Tuesday's posts (and then I got lazy and didn't post yesterday but instead went shopping with my Mom and Dad--ooops).  I wanted to do something really clever and funny, because it's been a while, but I got nuthin', so you're just going to have to settle for happy.

I hate to even say it, because I'm kind of superstitious that way, but Indiana has been doing really well.  I don't mean plain ol' well, I mean super-duper, I-haven't-seen-her-like-this-in-years well.  I'm really, really happy about it to say the least.  She's getting around really well, and she's even able to get up off the rug-less areas of the hardwood floors on her own most of the time.  She's eating like no tomorrow, even chowing down on a previously-hated brand of raw food this morning.  She's also "eating like dogs," as I call it--eating directly out of the bowl, under the power of her own snout, rather than having to be spoon fed.  It's like, "Ugh, Mom, the spoon isn't fast enough.  I'm hungry, dammit!"

And the best part?  She has the most incredible energy radiating off of her!  I know that sounds all new-age and granola-crunchy (I was an environmental science major in college, after all), but if you were around her, you'd know exactly what I mean.  There is a constant smile on her face and a brightness in her eyes.  She's perky and alert, she's going outside on her own, walking around, sleeping on the lawn.  And when we go out in public, mostly to vet appointments, she can't get into the building quick enough, and she walks with purpose and is mostly interested in meeting and interacting with other dogs.

I took Indy to her monthly applied kinesiology/chiropractic appointment last night (which works by the practitioner essentially "reading" the electrical impulses running through the neurological system), and in the middle of her session, he stops and says, "Is she doing well?  She seems really strong."  Why, yes. Yes, she is doing well.  He asked what we were doing differently.  Truth be told, we're doing less now than ever before (due to the frequently-previously-written-about protests by our stubborn dog).  She only gets a few pills at each meal now, as opposed to the nearly two dozen that she was getting months ago.  We've stopped most of her physical therapy, because it was making her angry.  So, essentially, we're allowing her just to be a regular dog.  Not a dog with one type of cancer, or two, or kidney disease (though she still gets daily sub-q fluids), or any of the other illness that plague her.  We're letting her live her life, make her own choices, and respecting them.

It warms my heart that listening to her is paying off.  She knows her body, and she knows what it needs (dogs are pretty instinctual about that, especially as they age).  Jim and I are here to attend to her needs, not ours.  It's taken a while to get comfortable with doing less, but now, we're truly seeing the benefits.  I worry sometimes that by focusing on quality of life, we'll be forgoing quantity (which is okay too, by the way).  But some days, I look at that happy face, at those vibrant eyes, and I think maybe, just maybe, we're going to get both.

Thinking About Grief, and Loss

I feel like I kind of owe you a repost of cute wiggly penguin butts.

I wrote about grief yesterday, about a friend who said goodbye to her dog over the weekend.  But even before that, grief was on my mind.  Maybe it's the changing of the seasons.  Maybe it's all of the soul searching I've been doing over the last year and a half. 

As most readers of my blog know, I've faced grief in the past, after almost losing Indiana in 2006 and again in 2009.  Then Mr. Squiggles literally was lost in 2009, and my Aunt Carole died in 2009 as well.  (All within three months--Damn, 2009 was a horrible year) 

With Indiana, I was dealing with anticipatory grief--your loved one is still with you, you just don't know for how much longer.  This is common for cancer parents.  We're told by our vets and the (evil) internet that our time with them is limited--maybe six months, maybe a year.  As it turns out, Indiana is the Energizer Bunny.  We're looking at nearly five years of survival for cancer #1 (at the end of this month--yay!).  It took me a long time (longer than it should have, really) to start looking at Indiana as living rather than as dying.  I think this is a concept you can't quite grasp until you've had a pet diagnosed with a potentially terminal illness.  It's so easy to get wrapped up in the illness, and we forget that our pet is with us, today, and maybe tomorrow, and maybe even the day after that.  Though it took me a while, I finally have days where I forget that Indiana even has cancer.

Everyone knows the story of Mr. Squiggles--how he disappeared in 2009, and after 12 1/2 months of searching and intense heartache, he finally made his way back to us.  We still don't know what happened, or where he was, or how he found his way to our friend's porch.  I'm still in awe every day that he's back with us.  I had hopes that if he ever returned home, it would make everything okay, and while it's made everything much better, it hasn't erased all of the pain of the previous year.  I still find myself keeping a close eye on the fields around our neighborhood while driving home, searching the ditches without even thinking.  It's second nature, really, and it's a hard habit to break.  I also find myself remembering what we were thinking a year prior.  During a thunderstorm, my mind wanders to, "A year ago, a storm hurt us so much, because we didn't know if our boy was out there in it, if he was afraid, or wet, or cold."  I know he's here now, safe from the storm, never to experience that fear again.  But I also know that his disappearance left a wound in our hearts that will not be quick to heal. 

I also find myself thinking about my Aunt Carole a lot these days.  She died, way too young, of a long-term illness on December 30, 2009.  I was in the room with her, with my closest family, and I watched her die before my eyes.  I will never be the same again.  She was not only my aunt but also a second mother to me.  We fought.  We disagreed.  She made fun of me, and it made me mad.  But we loved each other fiercely.  She had no children, so as she was a second mother to me, I was a surrogate daughter to her.  She spoiled me, bought me too many gifts, made special meals for me that were meat-free (even though she never "got" why I am a vegetarian), and overall, she was a huge part of my life. 

Until the final years of her illness, Carole and my Uncle Lee lived in Tampa,  Florida.  When I got older, I would fly down with my Grandma to spend a week with my aunt and uncle.  It was one of the highlights of my summer. 

I remember so clearly the smell of their home.  Florida smells so differently from Illinois, especially in the summer.  The heat and humidity bring out something in the plants, in the grass, in the ocean.  My aunt lived just off Tampa Bay, so the outside of their house smelled of a combination of grass, salt, and gardenias.  There were loads of gardenias in their courtyard, and stepping into it always smelled like home.  Even now, years later, the smell of gardenias always takes me back to Florida, to my aunt, and to happy memories of visits to their home. 

I found myself thinking about my aunt and Florida (and of gardenias) a lot last week.  I'm not sure why.  Maybe because the beginning of June was when I used to visit.  Their house is now gone, bulldozed for a new McMansion to take its place.  My aunt is gone too.  I can still smell gardenias, but it will never be the same.  Nothing will ever be the same.

Saying Goodbye to a Friend

Rest in peace, sweet Chee.

This weekend, my good friend Keri had to say good-bye to daughter, Chee.  On Saturday, one week shy of her 14th birthday, Keri helped Chee cross over the bridge.  Several years ago, during the dog food crisis that made so many pets sick, Chee suffered a stroke, most likely brought on by tainted food.  Despite a series of strokes and other road blocks, Chee fought each battle with grace, fighting bravely and persevering. 

I had the honor of meeting both Keri and Chee last month when I attended the 4th Annual Paws 4 A Cure Walk, which was founded by Keri and Chee in honor of Chee's brother Nikko.  I knew when meeting Chee that her time left here was limited, as Keri was concerned about her quality of life.  Keri doted on Chee like no Mom I've ever seen before.  Chee could do things I've never seen a dog do, things I think few dogs could master.  Things like using the toilet (honest to God, I've seen it) and blowing her nose (I've seen that too).  Keri was an amazing Mom to Chee, sacrificing for her and dedicating much of her free time to ensuring that Chee had a good quality of life, that she felt loved and cared for. 

Keri made the most selfless, most painful decision a pet-owner ever has to face--the decision to put aside our own needs and wants and do what we feel in our hearts is best for our pets.  Even in the final hours, when Keri wanted nothing more than to keep Chee beside her, she held fast to her decision, knowing in her heart it was the best thing for Chee.  That, my friends, is love in its purest, truest form.

On Saturday, when I knew Keri was at the vet's office with Chee, thousands of miles away, my heart was breaking along with hers.  I was "with" Keri when she lost Nikko four years ago, and I've known her for almost 5 years, and I know her love for her pets and how she would be grieving for Chee.  I cried and cried, as I thought of my dear friend, saying goodbye to her best friend.  I wanted nothing more than to be beside her, to comfort her, or, better yet, to wave a magic wand and make Chee healthy and whole, to stay with Keri forever.

Today, my thoughts are still with my friend, who has a long road ahead of her.  Grief is messy and complicated, and horrid.  But Keri is not alone.  She has dozens of friends around the continent thinking of her, praying for her, and grieving right along with her.  We understand her pain, and we feel it too.

To Keri and Chee, know that I love you both.  Meeting you was an amazing experience.  If every pet owner could be the kind of Mom that Keri was to Chee, the world would be a much, much better place.  Rest in peace, sweet Chee.

I Spoke Too Soon

Remember yesterday?  Where I'm all, "Things are great!  My animals are all healthy and happy, blah, blah, blah."  Well, I noticed last night that Gus had a lump on his tail, and when I touched it (what was I thinking?), he got even more angry and growly than usual.  He's still holding his tail up as usual, and it's moving as it always has, so this "injury" isn't affecting how he uses it.  But I still don't know what happened (is it broken?  is there a cut?  a bug bite?) and I don't know if I should take him to the vet or not.  Today is the worst possible day to discover something like this as (a) I am babysitting for a friend all day and therefore have no opportunity to get into the vet, and (b) it's almost the weekend, meaning the vet's office will be closed should I decide he needs a vet tomorrow. 

Ugh.  This is the way of pet ownership, isn't it?  With 6 pets, I really should be glad that we had so many sunny, smooth days.  Someone was bound to get injured or sick eventually.  Gus is still being his normal self (though, to be completely honest, "normal" Gus and "crabby, sick, injured" Gus both act pretty similarly).  He's eating as normal, running around as normal.  So, probably normal.  I'll keep an eye on him and take him in Monday if need be.  And, knock on wood, no one has anything life-threatening going on, so there's still that.  Knock on wood. 

Content

Could he be more comfortable?

So, last night, the rarest of rares occurred--Indiana got up and slept in bed with me and Jim.  She used to sleep with us all the time, but then I think it became more effort than it was worth to get up there.  (Plus, Jim moves around too much, and steals the covers)  She's been sleeping on the bed a lot lately though, which makes my heart go pit-a-pat every time I see it.  So when she slept between us last night, well, I thought my heart wouldn't be able to handle it.  Then, she layed over on her side, and I could feel her up against my leg.  *Swoon*

Plus, Indy's been eating really well.  And taking her pills.  And her UTI is gone.  And the cats have been (sort of) getting along. 

A happy clan of animals = a happy Mama.  My happiness is most definitely linked to how well my babies are doing, especially Indy.  Maybe because I've spent so much time taking care of her and getting her to a point where she is happy and healthy (which is, by the way, the goal).  I feel like I can sit back and enjoy the fruits of my efforts.  Pretend for the time being that I live a normal existence, in a world without missing cats, catastrophic illness, arthritis, and cancer.  For now, I am just a Mom with 6 animals, who are all healthy and happy, bringing me joy day after day.  And I plan to savour every moment. 

Happy Birthday, Jim!

Doesn't everyone's husband have his picture taken with prehistoric fish?

Today is Jim's birthday.  I wanted to celebrate and do something special, but he's working today, and then I have rehearsal tonight.  Plus, he has this really annoying habit of being really humble.  We had a small luncheon for him on Monday, attended by family and a few friends, who were practically threatened with violence if they brought presents.  But he'd never forbid me from giving him presents, so at least I got to do that.  But I gave them to him all on Monday, leaving none for the actual birthday.  And I forgot to make treats to send to work with him today.  I'm basically the worst wife ever.

At least he can't tell me what to do on my own blog.  So, to my overly humble husband, I wish you the happiest of birthdays.  You are the best, kindest, most understanding husband a girl could ever ask for.  Thanks for always encouraging me to follow my dreams yet never asking for anything in return.  I'd give you the moon today if I could.