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?
Monday, October 18, 2010
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.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
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.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
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
Monday, August 9, 2010
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.
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