Introducing The Princess

On most mornings, when time allows and Jim is on the day shift, I get up at 5:00am with Jim, eat breakfast, feed the dogs, and go back to bed for a while. Sometimes it's the highlight of my day, having the warm bed all to myself. But today I woke up before my alarm, unable to sleep. I felt panicked, with a heavy weight on my chest. I feel the weight of what lies ahead of me, of getting through this in the most positive manner, of not writing my dog off as dead already. I have to learn to look at every day as a gift, and at my dog as, well, a dog. Not a patient. That's kind of the point of all I'm doing. I want her to enjoy every day. I want her to still remain a dog, and not be fussed over every second. Her mental wellbeing is as fragile as her joints at this point, and I have to find the balance of protecting the two. It seems like a huge task, but I've been preparing for it my whole life. I think I'm just afraid of it.

So today is Tuesday, which means it's underwater treadmill day. We do underwater treadmill twice a week. We've been doing it for over 3 years now. We started off at twice a week in the beginning then went down to once a week after about six months. Then about six months ago, when Indy started having trouble getting up, we went back to twice a week. We drive an hour and ten minutes each way to a wonderful place called Chicago Animal Rehab, in Chicago Ridge. The therapists there have become our friends, as have the staff at the facility CARE shares space with. Indiana really loves everyone there, because they treat her like a princess and feed her treats. Indy gets loaded into the treadmill and does 25 minutes, uphill, with the resistance jets on.

Last week didn't go well. When the treadmill started, she took a header into the water, which I think freaked her out. She never got her groove, and kind of refused to walk. So today I'm bringing her life jacket along, hoping it will provide a little extra security and buoyancy for her, if not a handle for us to guide her along if we get desperate.

I think I'll give her a massage and do some joint manipulation before we go too, to see if it loosens her up.

She's been eating well lately, now that we've learned all of her "rules" (which are strict, indeed). Her not eating is always a concern, and it's almost a barometer to how she's feeling. We can get her to eat every meal these days, though sometimes we have to hand feed her with a spoon; The Princess doesn't like to get her snout covered in food. I figure she's earned the right to be picky, and if spoon feeding is what The Princess wants, it's spoon feeding The Princess will get. At your service, Your Highness.

Challenges

Indy isn't doing well. That's hard for me to write. I can see her declining rapidly, and it has nothing to do with the leiomyosarcoma that almost killed her four and a half years ago. Or the adrenal and thyroid conditions that have resulted. Or the heart mass. Or the bundle branch block in her heart. Or the kidney disease. Or the sarcoma growing on her back. No, my tough fighter is being bested by arthritis.

While Indiana can still walk (but gingerly), she is having a tough time standing up. She can still do it by herself most of the time, and when I see her dig in those front legs and pull with all of her might, I want to cry every single time at the sheer determination and will that this dog possesses. I want to chop off my own right arm in offering for her restored health.

Our vet assures us she's not really in pain (she's on three million different pain medicines and supplements, so we were hoping that was the case), but she is getting mentally frustrated. She wants to be able to do so much more, but she's trapped in this body that is weak and difficult to move. So essentially, she'll give up mentally before her body is ready to go. There is no "win" in this situation.

I feel totally consumed by her at this point. Though I've lived my life essentially for her since the first cancer, I feel even more compelled now. We've been told that thrice-daily physical therapy (at home, thank goodness) could be of some benefit to her, and she has recently decided that she does enjoy massage (that hasn't always been the case). We have a few tricks up our sleeves, and none of her "staff" (bless their hearts) are giving up on her. And neither are we.

I know most people won't understand this. 99% of people see a dog walking slowly, riddled with arthritis, and they think, "Why don't you put that dog down?" But every pet who is loved fully will tell you when it's time. And though Indy is telling me the time is coming, it's not here yet. So while she still wants to fight, I still want to fight.

As a result, I don't have a lot of free time for much else. I really should start back at voice lessons (I took a break while I was sick), but lessons are almost a whole day of travel, not to mention practice time and the mental commitment of doing it every week. I don't know if I have it in me. A large part of me wants to put the non-essential parts of life on hold, to make Indy's remaining days of life the best they can be.

I recently had a short conversation with a friend about this very thing, and my friend agreed that society just doesn't accept that you could take time off to nurse your pet. I will be destroyed the day I have to let Indiana go, and society won't understand that either. But here's the thing: when I die, I want to remember that I gave everything I had to these pets who gave me everything--heart and soul. I want to know that I provided them with all of the medical care, love, and comfort that I could. I don't think I'll care whether or not I took voice lessons or missed out on a singing opportunity. When I die, I want to be Mom. Not Singer. So I have to follow my heart. Life will still be there on the other side. I'll do the best I can and call that good enough.

So please forgive me if I am not myself these days (though have I been, since Mr. S went missing?). My heart is torn in a million directions, mostly towards Indiana. Some days are great, some days are not so great. I want to enjoy all of them and be sure that she does too.

Grover Cleveland

Grover Cleveland

with us

September 11 to November 8, 2010

Forever part of our family

To my Grovey:

Nothing could have prepared your Dad and I for walking into your room this week and finding you dead. I'm sorry your Dad had to go through that; I wish it had been me who found you first. I could hear the pain in your Dad's scream as he came to the realization of what happened to you. It didn't really hit me until I walked into the bathroom and saw you laying there peacefully, but lifelessly. Even then, how can you process something like that? I had seen you less than twelve hours before. You were walking around upstairs, taunting Gus through the baby gate, just like normal. How is it that you could now be dead? How does a cat go from completely normal to dead, just like that?

When you came into our lives less than two months ago, it was a hard day. It was the one-year anniversary of when we had last seen our Mr. Squiggles. I don't think you can ever know what your emergence into our lives that day did for us; you saved us. What was going to be an awful day turned into a day filled with love. We were so focused on saving you and enveloping you into our family that we hardly had time to focus on our pain. You were so skinny and sick-looking, covered in mats and missing hair. You needed us, but we needed you too.

The instant we decided to bring you home, you were a part of our family, our son. You were so loving and grateful to be in a warm, safe place with all the food you could eat. I remember I would lay on the bed with you, and you would inspect my face up close, then rub your mouth against my cheeks: the wettest kitty kisses ever. It was kind of gross, but really, Dad and I loved it.

We loved that you would stick your paws under the door, waiting for Gus or Sam to see it, so you guys could taunt each other. We loved that anticipation on your face, like you couldn't wait to start your game. We loved walking into your room and seeing you sleeping on the comforter next to the window. Sometimes you wouldn't even run to greet us, because your sleeping spot was way cooler. We loved seeing you play with Juliet, your round ball toy/scratcher. I loved seeing you fall asleep draped across her. How silly.

We loved your long tail, which was the longest I've ever seen in a cat. We loved how in the early days before you were strong, that your tail would drag on the floor. We loved that you loved to eat, that you finally had access to enough food. We loved the high-pitched trill you had for a meow, unlike any other meow we've ever heard! It was the strangest sound, and it made us laugh every time. We loved that you hated crocheted afghans and wouldn't lay on them, and would even go out of your way not to walk on them either. We loved that you slept on the back of the chair next to the door, waiting for it to open and perhaps allow the entrance of one of the cats you were so obsessed with.

I'm sorry that you had diarrhea. We gave you slippery elm, hoping that it would get better for you. Some days it did, some days it didn't. I'm sorry your liver was sick too. I hope there wasn't anything else we could have done to make it better; you took your medicine like such a good boy though. I'm sorry we didn't get more pictures with you. I'm sorry you never got a chance to live downstairs with the rest of the family. I'm sorry you never got to go outside. I'm sorry you never met Indiana. I'm sorry we never took video of the adorable noises you made. I'm sorry I didn't spend more time with you. I'm sorry I never got a chance to truly know the real you. I thought there would be more time.

Your Dad and I did the best we could, but I hope you know that in our hearts, you were our son, and we will always love you. Some have suggested that you were sick before we got you, and that your short time with us was so you could end your life as part of a loving family. Perhaps you were meant to "usher" Mr. Squiggles back into our lives, and after he returned, your time here was done. All I know is that your time with us was too short. I have feared every moment for the last two days that I may have missed something that could have saved you. I pray that I didn't let you down somehow.

For one glorious month, our family was finally complete. It was so crazy with 5 cats and 2 dogs, but it felt whole. Now our family is incomplete again, and there is nothing we can do to change it. It feels empty upstairs without you, and I can still see you everywhere I look. We keep the door to the bathroom closed, because we can still see your dead body lying there too. 5 cats seemed so chaotic, but now 4 just seems like too few.

Dad and I are sorry that we sent you off for necropsy, but as your death was so sudden and unexpected, we needed to make sure your brothers couldn't have caught something from you. Please understand that we would never have done it just for our own gain. I know the animal hospice place will take good care of you, and hopefully you will be back home to us soon, where you belong.

We are so sad that we never got to celebrate Christmas with you, but we will still make you an ornament for the tree, just like everyone else. I don't know if I can bear to make a stocking for you though; would you forgive me for that? Dad and I also plan on making a nice memorial to you. We haven't decided on what yet, but we will make sure it suits you. We will cry for you, and we will miss you. You will always be a part of our family, and you will always, always be our son.

Gus is Hazardous To My Health, Part One

Sorry I've been absent so much lately. I know I usually neglect my blog, but this time I have a great excuse: surgery!



Last month, I got bitten on my right middle finger by Gus. It wasn't really his fault. He had met Grover for the first time and was scared and stressed out. I tried to pick him up to comfort him, which was a HUGE mistake. He nommed on my finger, hard. I remember thinking, "Wow, I wonder if he hit bone? That hurts!"



Anyway, I'm not one to go to the doctor unless I absolutely have to. I figured I could tough this thing out. But, the thing was, in a few days I was driving to Iowa to sing in one of my best friend's wedding. After hearing horror stories about cat bites (everyone seems to have one), I actually called my doctor, whose nurse practitioner called in an order for the antibiotic Augmentin. I didn't want to be waking up in a hotel in Iowa with a raging fever. I'd have been totally screwed. S0 I was really proud of myself for taking the very adult step of asking for antibiotics. Heh.



Well, that finger hurt like h-e-double-hockey-sticks for a good week. After that, it finally healed up but was still red and swollen. I said to myself, "Aw, it's just a soft tissue injury; those take some time to heal. It's totally fine."



Let's fast forward a month post-injury. Said finger just looks kind of gross, with a big red bump on it. (Like alien babies are going to pop out at any time. Seriously, it looked weird.) My friend Amanda, who is a vet tech, looked at it and said, "Jen, that doesn't look right. You seriously need to go to the doctor." I said, "Nah, it's totally fine, it's just still healing." Amanda: "No, really, I think it's infected." Me: "...really? Crap. Ok, I'll call Monday."



So Monday morning, I did what any responsible adult would do, and called my doctor one month too late. I got in right away with the nurse practitioner, and I left for my 10:30 am appointment expecting an unpleasant lancing session on the abscess followed by a round of oral antibiotics. Oh, sweet, naive Jenny. (Pats self on head.)



The nurse practitioner, Liz, got me set up for a lancing, but opted for my doctor, Dr. Moss, to perform the actual procedure. It really should have been my first clue when both doctors looked at it and gave me their concerned doctor face. But it was still totally fine, really.



The lancing didn't hurt at all, just the stupid numbing injections beforehand. What up with that? I wanted to watch Dr. Moss cut into the abscess to see all of the cool pus come out, but only blood came out. Hmmm... Dr. Moss already had said he was sending me to an orthopedic doctor, so I knew this might be worse than I thought. I was told I had an appointment at 1:15. That day. Ugh.

All of the orthopedists in our area belong to one big conglomerate called OAK, in a massive building in Bradley. It's practically it's own hospital. And super intimidating. I waited for about forever and finally met the surgeon, Dr. Jones, who I swear doesn't like me. He had on his grave face, told me how serious cat bites are, that I should have gone to the hospital right away, shouldn't have waited a month, and shouldn't keep the cat. (Grrrr....) So, after about a one-minute examination of the finger, I was off for an x-ray. Then a wait for an MRI. In the meantime, Dr. Jones tells me the only option is surgery, two days from then. What??? Like, surgery surgery? Yep. Are you stupid? (I already know you are.) Didn't you pay attention when I said surgery? (This is me imagining what my doctor was saying/really thinking.)

So, after the boring and very not scary MRI, I was done for the day, but had to return in the morning for MRI results and pre-op instructions. At that time, I was told again how stupid I am, and that my stupidity had led to a bone infection, which would require them to bring in an infectious disease doctor. And would require six weeks of IV antibiotics. The surgery itself, though really quick, would require scraping the bone, which would in turn require general anesthesia. Like, general general anesthesia? For real? Yes, general anesthesia. You really don't want to be awake for this (And are you stupid? I SAID, general anesthesia!).

But what about my precious vocal cords? General anesthesia generally requires intubation, or more simply put, a plastic tube shoved down your esophagus...past your vocal cords. To Dr. Jones' great credit, he took my concern seriously (after all, I sort of attempt to make a living with those things), and agreed to avoid intubation if possible.

So I left the appointment in mostly a state of shock, because all of this was progressing so fast. Soon came a call from the hospital to pre-register me, and then I found out I had to go to the hospital for pre-admittance testing. That was no biggie, since I'm not afraid of needles and donate blood on a (fairly) regular basis. So then I'm less than 24 hours from my 10:30 am surgery--my first ever--and I am starting to FREAK OUT. Anyone who really knows me knows I am not a calm person. If I can worry about it, I will. So I went home to await my doom.

Coming next: the surgery and the aftermath. With pictures, if you'd like.

P.S. Please forgive any typos. I only have 8 fingers and giant club to work with.

Decision Made.

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.

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?

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.