This Time, Cancer Didn't Win

Our Princess, finally free of leiomyosarcoma

I had intentions of doing a big celebration-style post for yesterday's celebration-worthy happenings, but when it came down to it, that just didn't seem quite right.  Of course Jim and I celebrated.  We talked about that day, 5 years ago, that changed our lives forever.  We took the dogs out for celebratory hamburgers and ice cream.  Our hearts rejoiced at what we, and our amazing dog, had accomplished. 

But ultimately, I still look back on that day with great reflection.  For those who may not know, on June 30, 2006,  Indiana was diagnosed with leiomyosarcoma, a cancer of the smooth tissues.  She almost died, and, in fact, was expected to die.  It took me three full years before I could write down the story and really talk about it.  Want to read it?  It's sad (I'll give you a spoiler: it ends well).  But, in my humble opinion, it's worth reading.  Read it for Indy.  Five years is incredible, to be sure, but what's so significant about this milestone, is that after five years free of leiomyosarcoma, her cancer is considered cured.  Gone.  Forever.

In some ways, the five years seem like forever ago.  Have we really made it five whole years?  With the exception of our primary vet, no doctor expected her to live that long.  Yet, here she is, five years later, still happy and healthy.  We're constantly told by veterinary staff how incredible she is.  Not just because she's sweet and gentle and never complains.  But because, according to all odds, she should be dead.

Since her (practically) terminal diagnosis 5 years ago, Indiana has been diagnosed with a mass in her heart, hypothyroidism, atypical Cushing's Disease, Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, chronic kidney disease, and, most recently, a cutaneous sarcoma.  The Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever and subsequent kidney disease almost did her in again.  But in true Indiana form, she bounced back.  I won't deny that the kidney disease takes a lot of care.  Our saint of a dog has allowed us to administer subcutaneous fluids every single day, for the last 21 months.  The fluids keep her alive and feeling well.  She understands that, and I find that simply amazing.

Jim and I have learned so much since we almost lost Indy the first time.  We learned, for one, exactly how precious she is to us.  We also learned what we were capable of handling, what we were willing to sacrifice for her.  During particularly financially lean times (it's staggering how expensive veterinary hospitalization is), we've given up all unnecessary spending, including meals out, new clothes, entertainment.  Small things, really, when a life is on the line.  We've learned to keep a large cushion of money in our accounts, knowing that catastrophic illness can occur at any time.  We'll never make a decision for our children based on finances. 

We've learned to be better parents.  We know what to feed our pets, and why.  We know the importance of exercise.  We know, the hard way, the importance of listening, and I mean really listening, to what our pets are telling us. 

Our lifestyle has changed dramatically as well.  While we used to travel 4-5 times a year, we've cut that down to 2-3.  Still a lot, to be sure, but definitely the bare minimum of what our wandering souls can handle.  And now that Indy is old, we stay within a 2-hours flight, in places that have fairly frequent flights, lest we need to return home quickly.  Our hearts yearn to return to places like Hawaii and Paris, to see new things, like China and Africa, but they'll all still be there when Indy is gone. 

Because of Indy's tiny stomach (lost to surgery in 2006), she eats three times a day, at roughly 7am, 2pm, and 9pm.  We've lived the last five years around this schedule.  We are fortunate to have wonderful friends who understand this and are willing to plan excursions around those times, or who have made an unbalanced number of trips to our house for dinner, so we could be home to feed the dogs.  Plus, my amazing parents, who have come over numerous times to feed the girls when our plans couldn't be made around meal times, or who took the girls for the evening, so they could still have their 9 o'clock meal.  And having a dog on sub-q kidney fluids means making sure she gets them every single day.  For nights away, we rely on our wonderful friend Amanda, a vet tech with a heart of gold, willing to drive to my parents house every day to administer fluids for us. 

Though we cut back last year, we took Indiana to physical therapy, over an hour away, twice a week for nearly three years.  Now it's twice a month.  Plus, we have the once a month chiropractic visits as well as the twice-monthly acupuncture appointments.  And the periodic kidney specialist, cardiology, and oncology visits.  Our time is Indiana's time.  As it should be.

I wouldn't trade those sacrifices for the world.  Indiana has been such a blessing to us.  Everything we know we've learned from her.  We've learned how to truly love, opening our hearts to so many other animals.  Not a day goes by during which I don't wish the cancer had never happened.  But without it, I wouldn't be the mother I am today.  I've met incredible people, people dedicated to fighting cancer, not only in their own pets, but in others' as well.  People who will be my friends forever.

I've learned that while we love our animals with a fierceness that is rare, we are not alone.  There are others out there like us, willing to move heaven and Earth to save their pets.  To make every day the best it can be.  And that is truly heartwarming.

To my sweet Princess, all I can say is, thank you.  You've enriched my life more than you'll ever know.  I live every single day trying to live up to your standards.  You think I am everything, you have given all you have to me.  It's the least I can do to give my all to you.  I know you've stayed with us out of love.  You've fought every step of the way for us.  I can't ever repay that, but I'll certainly try. 

Congratulations on beating cancer, my sweet baby.  Cancer doesn't always win.

Never lose hope.