Thirteen of the Best Years of My Life

Indy and I, but much, much younger.

Today is Indiana's 13th Birthday.  It's such a special day for us.  For those unfamiliar with her story, go here, and you'll see why every birthday with her is a gift.  We never expected to reach her 9th birthday, let alone her 13th.  She is such a special girl, such a fighter.  She has made me the person I am today.  Everything I know about parenting, I've learned from her. 

When I started looking through pictures yesterday for today's post, I started to feel very wistful.  Looking through my favorite puppy pictures, I almost started to cry.  We were both so different back then.  I like to think I was still a good Mom (though definitely not an educated Mom).  I was young and foolish and wanted to raise a happy dog.  I wasn't thinking about illness or cancer.  I was thinking that we both had our whole lives ahead of us; lives full of walks, and playing, and togetherness.  When that was almost taken away from me in 2006, I became a wholly different person.  A more educated one, to be sure, but a more cautious one as well.  I know understood the frailty of life.  I felt guilty that I hadn't understood better before.  In some ways, I wish I could go back to being the carefree person I was back in 1998.  I was still in college, and life seemed so open and free.  Indiana was young and healthy.  She could run and do anything she wanted.  I want that back for her more than anything.  But life doesn't work that way.  Dogs age (we all age), and we can't go back. 

So when I started to feel teary-eyed, looking through pictures of a more innocent time, I had to remind myself that today is a day of celebration.  A day to look forward and celebrate life, not a day to think, "What if" or "I wish."  Today is a day to celebrate the life that Indiana and I have been given, and to make sure, like I do every day, that today is the best darn day for her ever! 

With that in mind, I've gone through and found 13 of my favorite pictures of Indy throughout her life.  I hope you enjoy them and the stories that go along with them as much as I do!

This is Indy the first day we brought her home in 1998.  Oddly, I don't remember the exact date.  It was in June, that much I know.  She is standing here with my Grandma's dog Skippy, and I can't believe how tiny she is.  Tiny and fuzzy and soooooo naughty.  But smart.  That dog went to the bathroom in the house once and was totally house-trained within three days.  Wowza.  She's been freaking whip-smart ever since. 

This is Indy in the fall of 1998, at my college home in Champaign, Illinois.  I love this picture, because not only does she look really pretty, but I look at it and see her naughty streak.  You see, that yard was filled with sticks.  And Indiana's mission in life was to bring each and every stick from that yard into the house.  And then chew them to bits, either on my bed or in the living room.  And because I was in college, I pretty much never vacuumed up those bits, so our house was covered in a fine layer of chewed-up wood.  I remember one day when Indiana tried to bring a stick bigger than herself into the house, via the pet door.  I didn't think she'd be able to do it, because, well, physics and math and stuff, but after a few tries, she got that stick into the house.  And proceeded to chew it to bits on my bed.

We're still living in Champaign in the picture.  She's in the living room, but sadly, I must have vacuumed, because you can't see any wood bits lying around.  Hrmph.  I love this picture, because she's super happy, having just finished licking out a crock of butter.  That was back in the day when I didn't think about things like "Oils can give your dog diarrhea," only "Licking this container will make my dog really happy."  And it did.  And I don't particularly remember any diarrhea, so it must have turned out fine.

Okay.  We're onto a new house now.  We moved to South Wilmington, Illinois (the armpit of the Midwest) in 2000, so this picture is somewhere around 10 years old.  I love it because Indiana looks absolutely, madly insane.  She has always loved to sleep upside down, and it was really funny to walk into the room and see this. And frightening.  Also kind of frightening.

Also in South Wilmington.  Love that green carpeting.  I love this picture too, because, again, she looks so darn happy.  She has a bowl full of cancer-kibble (I fed crappy food back then), she has her Dad, and she's good to go.  Holy cats, does Jim look young in this picture.

Starved Rock State Park!  One of our favorite places to visit with the girls.  We always call it "Stairs Park," because, well, there are about a million stairs there, and Isis loves every single one of them.  When the girls were younger, we always tried to get to Starved Rock at least once or twice a year, because it was such a fun day for us.  The girls were really happy to be someplace new, and it was such an adventure.  Some of our happiest days have been spent there.

 This picture doesn't really have a story, but I love it because Indiana used to love to lay on the chaise (when she could still jump up there) and survey her kingdom.  Look at her eyes in this picture.  She's totally keeping an eye on something.  That's why she liked the chaise.  It was in the corner, facing out at the rest of the downstairs, so she could keep an eye on everything that was happening.  And that makes one happy herding dog.

Ah.  This picture represents the day that changed everything.  This is the day she came home from the hospital in 2006 after almost dying.  It's not a particularly good picture of Indiana.  (And please excuse the quality)  But I think it perfectly represents what she went through and how she triumphed.  She is shaved in more places than I can count (in this picture, you can see both her neck and her paw are shaved).  There is a cautiousness in her eyes.  Maybe it's the weight of what she's just been through.  We were so scared that day.  Happy and scared.  She was alive, she was home.  But we were still in a scary 10-day window where her sutured stomach could still burst and kill her instantly.  That was horrible to think about, and obviously it didn't happen, but it still haunts me if I think about it too much.  Moving on...

This picture was taken not long after the surgery (probably a few months later), as you can see that her neck is still missing lots of hair.  But I love this picture, because not only do my girls look happy and beautiful, but my Indy is alive!  This picture was taken at Lake Shelbyville, where my parents have a cabin.  We were so happy to make it down to the cabin with the girls and to resume a normal life with Indiana.  This picture was taken post-heart mass, so we still didn't know what Indiana's future held for her.  We were treasuring every moment and every special event with her.  That weekend at the cabin was so fun, and it was great to see Indiana back to hiking (and actually, we're geocaching with the girls in this picture--see the gold box in the forepicture?).  Those were uncertain times, but we were determined to make the most of every minute we had with Indy!

This picture is from Indiana's very first "re-birth" party, in 2007.  Every year, since 2007, we have had a big party to celebrate Indiana's triumph over cancer.  This picture is awesome, because she is so happy.  The guests are running a big human agility course (because we're mean but have amazing friends), and Indiana is barking and following all of them.  Oh, and you can see my nephew Ephraim's butt in this one too.  It's just a big ol' mess of fun.

This picture was also taken in 2007, taken in our back yard.  It is one of the happiest pictures we have, because the girls are having so much darn fun.  You could really get the girls riled up, chasing after each other like crazy gals.  (Well, actually, it was always Indy chasing Isis, because that's how they roll)  Jim would chase after them, and I would laugh and take pictures.  Good times!

God, there are so many other pictures I could post, but I had to pick my favorites.  And my favorites are from when Indiana was active and we were creating happy memories.  She's still happy today, mind you, but it makes me sad that she can't run, or even walk, the way she used to.  This picture though, is from earlier this spring, when we were able to start taking walks again.  Unlike in previous years, Indiana can't walk with Isis.  We walk a few hundred feet with Indiana, and that's an accomplishment.  So on days when Jim is home, Jim takes Isis out, and I stay with Indiana.  She likes to sit in the front yard and watch for Isis and Jim to return.  I love the intensity in her eyes in this picture.  She's just seen Jim, and she's just waiting for him to get closer.  It perfectly exemplifies the intensity of love and commitment this dog has for us.

Not to toot my own horn, but I hear comments all the time from people about what a wonderful job we've done with Indiana, and what great parents we are.  I love hearing that, of course, but my standard response, because it's true, is that it's easy to parent Indy.  She's so special.  Her depth of love for us is immeasurable.  I know she's still alive today because of that love and dedication.  How can I not try to return it?  I will spend every day of her life trying to live up to her expectations, to give her what she deserves.  So it's easy to sacrifice and spend most of my time making her life better.  Because what she gives to us...it can't be replicated.  I don't know why Jim and I were given this special gift, this amazing dog, unlike any other.  She is tough and strong.  Sweet and sympathetic.  Sensitive and loving.  In a word, amazing.  Happy Birthday to the best dog ever put on Earth.  You've made my life richer than I ever deserve.

Rest in Peace, Rukkus

The PCS family lost another one of its own last night.  Rukkus, an almost 10 year cancer survivor, left this world yesterday. 

You can read Rukkus' story here.  If my math is correct, Rukkus was first diagnosed with cancer in 2001.  He beat that cancer and another one again in 2005.  He was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer earlier this year and lost his battle against it.  I really hate saying that.  Yes, he died because of the lung cancer, but saying that doesn't do any justice to what this dog has been through.  Sometimes the body just can't take any more.  One cancer is hard enough, let alone three. 

In my mind, and in the mind of all of my PCS friends (I'm sure I can speak for all of you), Rukkus was, and always will be, a cancer survivor.  Ten years is truly miraculous.  His story is such an inspiration to all of those fighting this disease, proof that cancer doesn't always win.  You can be diagnosed with cancer and still live a long, full life. 

Reading about Rukkus' passing this morning brought me to tears.  Not only because another family member is gone, and another Mom is in pain, but, selfishly, because it made me think even more about Indiana.  I think Indiana is the longest-lived dog on PCS now.  We're nearly five years post-diagnosis of cancer #1.  This seems like a lifetime to us, and in the grand scheme of a dog's life, five years is a lot of time.  But it's sad that so few dogs get that much time after cancer.  And it's scary for me.  Does this make Indiana "next?"

I know that's not how it works.  Indiana has outlived so many members of the PCS family.  That makes me beyond grateful but also guilty sometimes.  Why does Indiana survive while so many others are lost?  I know she too brings hope and inspiration to others, but it just goes to show that life, and death, can be so random.  We have little control. 

So today, while my heart breaks for Rukkus' Mom, it makes me even more grateful for Indiana.  And in honor of Rukkus, the great fighter of cancer, I will hold my own cancer survivor a little bit closer.

Goodbye, Sofie

Last month, I wrote about my friend's dog, Sofie.  Sofie was a Saint Bernard fighting lymphoma, but yesterday, Sofie lost her battle.  My heart is heavy with this news.  Sofie's Mom, Terri, has one of the biggest hearts I know.  She has 5 dogs and only adopts older dogs--one of the hardest groups of dogs to adopt out.  While Terri has had several dogs with cancer, Sofie is the first that she's lost to the disease.  Terri has spent years as a moderator for the Delphi Pet Cancer Support Group (PCS), offering love and support to the many people who have made their way to PCS over the years. 

Not surprisingly, Terri has made a lot of friends there, people like myself who have benefited from her kind heart and selfless soul.  She's been there for all of us, but sadly, now it's our turn to be there for her.  She certainly doesn't deserve this pain, and I know all of us in the PCS family would do anything to ease her pain just a little bit.  But, unfortunately, we can't.  Pain like this has to be worked through and accepted.  They say time heals all wounds, but I know it never heals them 100%. 

I hope Terri knows how much love is coming to her from around the world right now, and I hope that love can help to begin to heal her heart.  The world is a little sadder today for the loss of Sofie, but I know a star will be shining brighter in the sky tonight, Sofie shining down on Terri, grateful for the unconditional love and tremendous happiness given to her. 

Rest in peace, sweet Sofie.

Bronson

I got an email last night from a good friend, Julie. She and her husband Greg lost their dog, Bronson, on December 28. Julie's letter was both heartbreaking and heartwarming. Heartbreaking because I know how much Bronson was loved, and how hard they fought to keep him happy and healthy. Heartwarming because...well, for the same reasons.

Julie and Greg are our kindred spirits in the animal department. Their pets are their children. Bronson was diagnosed with cancer several years ago, but thanks to expert medical care, radiation, and the love of his parents, Bronson came through with flying colors. To my knowledge, that cancer was still gone when he left this world.

As with most aging dogs, Bronson eventually developed arthritis, but Greg and Julie faithfully took him to underwater treadmill. Bronson even got a diet makeover to raw food, which he loved. I've heard many stories about him barking in the wee morning hours, demanding to be fed! (Which, of course, he would be!)

Late last year, Bronson developed a large tumor on his hip, which turned out to be bone cancer. All too quickly, the cancer became painful, and Bronson couldn't bear weight on that leg. Greg and Julie knew it was time to let him go.

On December 28, 2010, at 13 years 5 months old, Bronson left this world, cradled in love by his parents. Julie writes that Bronson was with them for 13 years, 1 day, and 6 hours. My heart is breaking for our friends. I know the kind of love they had for their son, and I know the pain they feel now.

I hope that in time, Greg and Julie can find comfort in the fact that they were the best parents any dog could ever ask for. They showed incredible love, commitment, dedication, and sacrifice. The world is a sadder place now that Bronson is gone, but he will always be a brave soul, who though taken by one form of cancer, still battled another and won.

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

Gus is 2-ish

Today is our Gus' birthday. He is two...ish. Since he was a rescue, we just estimated his birthday as August 1 but recognize that we could have hit it right on the nose, be several weeks off, or likely, somewhere in between. And because we bought him an awesome cat house for his birthday and didn't want to wait a day to give it to him, we decided to celebrate July 31 as his 2nd-ish birthday. But the party comes today.

Gus really is the brightest spot in our lives. He has brought us joy since day one, but ever since Mr. Squiggles went missing, Gus has really kept us going. Regardless of what he's doing, he makes us laugh or smile. Sleeping? Adorable. Playing with catnip mouse? Laughing my head off. Sleeping on my lap? My heart is going to stop. Standing around doing nothing? Still freaking adorable. (And I think he has the most adorable man-parts ever. Is that weird?)

I am grateful every day for my little man, and I have to say, he's extra special in my heart because he too knew and loved Mr. Squiggles, and perhaps knew him better than anyone else in the world. I am envious that they could communicate in a way I cannot, and I wish I could talk to Gus and ask him what he's thinking. What was Mr. Squiggles like? What did he really think? Did we annoy him, or did he love us? Or both?

But alas, I don't speak cat, and besides, Gus is curled up asleep on my lap, looking devastatingly adorable, as usual.

I Will Survive

Today marks the 4 year anniversary of Indiana's rebirth. Four years ago, Indiana was diagnosed with cancer and nearly died. A year ago today, I shared Indiana's story for the first time. It was really the first time I had let myself even think or process the story, because it caused me so much pain. Writing it out was so cathartic to me, and this year, finally, I can look back on that day and not feel such an ache in my heart.

Today, Indiana is a happy, relatively healthy, 12 year old cancer survivor. While she has some long-term effects from both the cancer and the chemo, her greatest complaints are the ailments of an old dog. Considering we were told she would die at 8, we feel fortunate every day to even have an old dog. Though Indiana is hugely spoiled (and it doesn't go to her head, thank you very much), we think she deserves every bit of it. Through surgery, chemo, physical therapy, chiropractic, acupuncture, and numerous vet visits, Indiana has issued nary a complaint (unless you try to trim her toenails; that's a whole 'nother matter). Everyone who meets her agrees that she's special. She touches everyone she meets, and she inspires me every day. Every day, I strive to live up to her standards and be the kind of parent she deserves.

So today, for the first time, I truly celebrate her accomplishment and her triumph. I banish all thoughts of the pain we suffered that day, and the past four years, and I am grateful to have a dog who is free of cancer. Congratulations, my brave, sweet girl. You make me proud every day, and you inspire me in so many ways. Thank you for making my world brighter. Our world is a better place with you in it!

Best. Daddy. Ever.

My furry babies are lucky to have the best Dad in the world. In fact, they have a whole slew of wonderful father figures. Both Grandpas are good to them too. (And both Grandmas, to be perfectly equitable.)

Jim would do anything for our pets, and I know this is sort of a rare trait for a male to have. I'm really fortunate, because I've never, ever had to fight him on anything when it comes to our kids. We've always seen eye-to-eye on every big decision, and there have been plenty of those. Expensive, risky, potentially life-saving cancer surgery? Of course. Camping out in a hotel out of town while Indiana has an overnight stay (or four overnight stays) in the hospital? Why wouldn't we? Flying in a search and rescue dog on the off chance he might provide a clue as to where our missing cat went? Absolutely.

Then there are the little things. (And they're really not so little, in my mind) He's thrilled to feed the babies a raw diet, and he usually puts the meals together so I, a vegetarian, don't have to touch the meat. (Actually, he's feeding the babies breakfast right now so I can spend time blogging.)

Jim goes out of his way to talk to the kids, usually in cute voices. He's currently "talking" for Gus in a baby voice, giving me a play-by-play of Gus' activities. And he just walked in to re-enact a physical showdown by the boys. Nothing warms your heart more than a man getting mushy over a kitten.

He has spent numerous days building special projects for the kids, like the playhouse and the indoor basement therapy pool, and he's perfectly happy with the loads of toys and play structures scattered around the inside of the house. The project he's currently mulling around in his head is a play structure for the cats...that rests on the wall of the Great Room...and allows them to climb up the wall...

I am so fortunate to have a husband who has the same values as I, and I know my kids benefit from that as well. I'm also lucky that he understands and is experiencing the same emotional turmoil as I am over the loss of Mr. Squiggles. I have a literal shoulder to cry on, and that shoulder cries right back. Really, our family couldn't ask for a better Daddy. Happy Father's Day to the best darn Papa in the whole world.

It's The Little Things

Every day, each of my four furry babies does something that I love, something that makes me smile. I live for these things.

Indiana always greets us first thing in the morning with a smile and a wag of her tail. If we're lucky, and if she's feeling particularly spry, she'll jump up on the bed with us when she hears the alarm go off.

She has a way of looking at you, when you're goofing around with her, that we call the "sideways glance." It's a look out of the corner of her eye that says, "You're nuts," but really she's saying, "I love that you're trying to make me laugh."

She loves getting in the car for a trip, even though it's usually to the vet's. She usually flies down the car stairs when we get to our destination, because she just loves going places.

She smiles and walks as fast as her arthritic legs can take her when she sees another dog. She LOVES dogs.

She always falls asleep between us every night, and if I'm really lucky, she'll lay her head on my leg, the best feeling in the world.

Isis is our "special" dog, which automatically makes me love her.

She can't hear well, but when she sees that you've woken up for the day, or that you've come home from being away, she'll get the biggest grin on her face, wag her tail, and generally go nuts with happiness.

She has her own way of getting into bed (no people in it, thank you very much): jump up, flop down on your side, and let out a huge groan.

She gives us "crazy kisses:" the biggest, fastest, most manic kisses you've ever seen. But she also can be discriminating. Sometime we'll just get a sniff and a dismissal.

Gus is the baby and therefore our special little man. With his disability, it's hard not to get a chuckle just watching him walk.

He has a special meow that he uses to look for us. Or his dog. Or birds. Or something, we don't always know what. But this meow slays me every time. I think it's a drug to me.

He chatters at birds and squirrels, while twitching his tail.

He lives to snuggle with his dog, Indiana. He does this dutifully every night and falls asleep for a while on her feet until eventually curling up on my ankles.

His mouth is so darn cute when he's gnawing on his raw food, and darn it, I think his little man-bits are the cutest things ever.

Sam came to us during a difficult time in our lives, so we're really grateful for him.

He is the whiniest cat I've ever met. It's like he has the worst life ever, even though we know for a fact that he does not.

He attacks bread in plastic bags. While this is also really annoying, I secretly love it because it's quirky.

He is huge and gorgeous with the best paws on the planet. Though he often uses them for evil, he never uses them to hurt us, even though he easily could.

He is slowly starting to sleep with us at night, which pleases us beyond belief.

I couldn't live with myself without mentioning our other family member, Mr. Squiggles. The thing I miss about him the most is when he would lay on my chest and gently place his paw (also huge and awesome, like Sammy's) on my lips or cheek, like he just wanted to be as close to me as possible. I dream about this quirk of his day or night, and even though I miss him fiercely, thinking of him touching my face makes me smile too.

These little things are the things that make my day worth living.

Indiana's Battle: The Story

Today is Indiana's Birthday--or at least, the day she was reborn free of cancer. Three years ago today, I nearly lost the furry love of my life. This is a post I've been dreading ever since I first thought about starting a blog. It's a very important story to tell, as it's made me who I am today, both as a parent and as a person.

As I start to write this, I can already feel butterflies in my stomach, a heavy feeling in my chest, and tears getting ready for their inevitable moment to shine. In three years, I've only written the story once or twice, and I've never actually talked about it, at least not all of it. It's been a defense mechanism for me, to keep the pain from overtaking me. I don't really want to write it now. I know the tears will flow and my heart will want to burst with pain. It sounds melodramatic, I know, but that day was more traumatic than I can even describe.

So be warned that this isn't an easy post to write, and it isn't an easy story to read. I do think it's important though--both for me to write it and you to read it. It helps you understand who I am, who Indiana is. While the story itself is heartbreaking, it does have a good outcome, and I hope it brings hope to others who feel like they are facing a future without hope. There is ALWAYS hope. So here we go.

In 2006, Indiana had been throwing up on and off for a few weeks. I should have been concerned about this, but I just figured that it happened sometimes with dogs. Perhaps she'd eaten something weird. In retrospect, the vomit was bloody, but at the time I just thought it was dark from food.

One day I was at my parents' house with the dogs. Indiana had been acting off, which worried me. We watched her go to the bathroom in the yard and walked over to see if it looked normal. It did not. Her stools were black and tarry. My Mom and I decided she needed to see the vet. We took her in, and they suspected a gastrointestinal bug. They gave her a steroid shot and some antibiotics and sent us home. The next day, Indiana did feel better, and I was so relieved. This was short-lasting though, as she grew more lethargic the following day.

Jim and I were supposed to go out of town for the party of some friends, but we postponed leaving to take her to the vet. I'll never forgive myself, because we nearly left. Her gums were pale, she wasn't feeling well, and I was still so torn because I had a responsibility to our friends, whom we were helping to organize the party. I had her in my Mom's car and nearly let her go. Ultimately, I just couldn't do it. Jim and I took Indy back to the vet. She had little energy and couldn't even stand for an exam.

I found out later that the vets suspected she was bleeding out from hemangiosarcoma, the most common cause of acute anemia.

Our vets did a blood test, and sent us home for the night, telling us they'd call in the morning but would most likely send us to the University of Illinois Vet Med Hospital. Why we didn't just take her then, I don't know.

The next morning will haunt me forever. I woke up early, around 6:00 a.m. Indiana wasn't with us in bed, which was unusual. I got up to look for her and couldn't find her. Eventually I found her laying under the back deck. I know now my precious baby had gone there to die. Oh, crap, here come the tears. I was able to get Indiana inside, but she had no energy, wouldn't eat, and her gums and tongue were pure white.

I finally got a hold of the vet at 7:30 a.m., and she only said, "I recommend taking her to the U of I right away." She got everything set up for us--calling ahead, making sure they were ready for Indiana.

Unfortunately, Jim couldn't go with us to the hospital. Our friends had left several days before, and we had all of the decorations and food for the party the next day---8 hours away. Thankfully, our friends arranged for their cousin to bring the supplies out to them, so Jim only had to drive a few hours up to the suburbs of Chicago. Still, I hated that he couldn't be with us.

My parents drove Indy and I down to the U of I. It was a horrible hour and fifteen minutes. Bless my Dad, because he drove much faster than usual to get my girl to the hospital. I just sat in the back of the van with her, on her bed, talking to her, loving her, telling her I loved her.

When we got to the U of I, we helped Indiana out of the car, and she promptly collapsed. My heart sank. This was bad. I ran in to get help while my parents stayed with Indiana. My Mom tells me that she said to Indiana, as they layed on the pavement, "Don't you dare die." U of I was great, because they immediately sent out some students with a gurney, so by the time I got back outside, they were already lifting her on. I couldn't go with her, because they needed to stabilize her. It was horrible letting her go, not knowing what would happen.

God, I had to walk away just now. I was crying so hard I couldn't see or breathe. I had to call my wonderful Mom, who listened and helped me feel better. I'm sitting on the back porch, on the swing, with Indiana at my feet. We're watching the cats wrestle. Back to the story.

After the students took Indiana, we were immediately led into a private waiting room, which I later learned was where they take grieving families so they can have privacy. This room would be our home for the next 12 and a half hours. A doctor, one of the most beautiful, wonderful human beings on the planet, Dr. Karine Eusanio, came in to give us a quick update and get approval for tests and treatments. She told us she couldn't stay with us long, as Indiana needed to be stabilized. She was very touch and go.

We were, over the course of many hours, told that Indiana was bleeding from a mass in her stomach. The blood packed cell volume of a normal dog is somewhere in the 40s--Indiana's was at 7 or 8, meaning she was incredibly anemic.

Jim had thankfully arrived by this point. He had no clue how serious Indiana's situation was. He didn't take the news well, but we needed each other, and clung to each other to survive. Thank God my parents were still there with us.

The doctors sort of recommended an endoscopy to biopsy the mass in Indiana's stomach. This surgery of course came with risks, all of which were amplified on my dying dog. We were told if the tumor was cancerous, they wouldn't pursue any further treatment.

The endoscopy was performed, and the surgeon, Dr. Thomas Graves, told us the tumor appeared benign. He was the first person to give us real hope all day. One of the oncology surgeons, whose name will never appear on the pages of this blog, said she disagreed with Dr. Graves, that the tumor was probably cancerous. Dr. Graves and Dr. Eusanio (and who knows who else) gave us our options at this point. We had two. Do surgery, or let her die. Without surgery, she would be dead before the day ended. Surgery would stop the bleeding, but they were convinced she'd die on the table because of her blood loss. The aforementioned, never-to-be-named oncology surgeon wouldn't do the surgery, because she was convinced it was cancer. Why save a dog, just so she'd have cancer? (Have I mentioned yet how much I hate her?) She never even met with us. If not doing the surgery meant Indiana would die, then we felt we had no option but to do the surgery.

Dr. Eusanio, who had at this point become our angel, understood us, and what was in our hearts, and knew we wanted the surgery done. I think she felt as well that Indiana wouldn't survive, but she wanted us to have the chance to try. They found a surgical resident (Dr. Tobin Eshelman, our other angel) who would do the surgery. He explained the surgery to us, as well as the risks, both surgical and post-op. He didn't know exactly what he'd find when he opened her up. I know everyone there thought we were grasping at straws to save this dog. They all felt bad for us, I think, but they were sure she'd die. Drs. Eshelman and Eusanio were honest about how grim our situation was.

When all of the paperwork was signed, and I had put down a hefty down-payment on the treatment (take every dollar I have--just save her!), the doctors told us they wanted us to come back to the ICU and say goodbye to Indiana. Not just until after the surgery. A real goodbye. Her chances of waking up were very slim, and that moment was looking like our last time to ever see her.

This is the part of the story that rips my heart into pieces. Jim and I walked into the ICU to see our dog for the first time all day. She looked horrible beyond words. She could barely lift her head or move at all. The doctors had her lying on the ground in front of her cage. There were doctors everywhere, watching closely for any changes, but giving us as much privacy as possible. We laid down on the ground next to our precious baby. I hungrily kissed her and smelled her, wanting to make those memories last forever, just in case. We talked to her and told her over and over how much we loved her. We told her that she was the best dog any parents could ever hope for, and that we were so lucky to have her in our lives. My Mom and Dad were able to come in for a few minutes to say goodbye as well. After they left, we only had a few more minutes before the doctors needed to work on another dog--parents aren't really supposed to be in the ICU at all, so we needed to leave soon. I hugged and kissed my precious baby, told her I loved her, and looked at her for what could have been the very last time.

The minute I walked out of that room, my heart broke into a thousand pieces. I was so heartbroken and angry. It wasn't fair that this was happening. I wanted Indiana well. This was all just a bad dream, wasn't it? Surely I would wake up soon. My heart ached for her, and my arms longed to hold her. I had taken a small piece of fuzz off of her fur when I saw her, and now that piece of fuzzy fur was my lifeline to her. Would it be the last part of her I would ever hold? The doctors promised that if she died on the table, they would allow us to come in and see her one last time.

The next four hours or so were the longest of my life. The hospital got quieter and quieter, as patients and then staff left for the day. I couldn't eat, read, sleep, or do anything. I listened intently for footsteps, praying every time that they weren't heading our way--it was still too soon. In my heartache and desperation, I made a pact with God. If only he would save her, I would give him something else special to me. Not another family member, but something still dear to me--my dream of being a singer. I was very early in my career at the time, and I was following a life-long dream, just a little later than most. I told God that I would give it up though, if it meant saving Indiana. Singing was who I was, but I was also nothing without my baby. Take it, I thought. Take it and save her. Just give me a sign it's what you want.

Just after 9:00 p.m., we saw Dr. Eusanio in the hallway. She told us that Indiana had come through the surgery, amazingly, and was being brought into recovery. Everyone was amazed that she had made it this far. It seemed that one big hurdle had been jumped. We waited another hour and a half for the surgeon to finish his last surgery. At 11:00 p.m., after Dr. Eshelman promised to call us if anything changed, we left the hospital and checked into a hotel. God Bless the Holiday Inn Express.

Nighttime passed without incident. We were anxious to get back to Indiana. To be honest, I remember little about the days that followed. They've all blurred together a bit for me. Indiana became over-hydrated from her IVs, and began having heart problems. That was scary, but she eventually pulled through. My parents came down every day to visit us--both Indiana as well as Jim and I. They would bring us lunch, and we'd sit in the park across from the hospital. I didn't want to go far from her, plus the park was where we had spent many evenings with Indiana while we were in college. I know we wouldn't have survived that week without my parents. We stayed in a hotel the first night but spent a few nights with our friends Tim and Beth. (Thank you both, if you ever read this--you'll never know how important seeing you was to us--it was such a needed break from the hospital).

Jim had to go back to work after a few days, so my Mom got a hotel for us and stayed with me. I had vowed not to go back home until Indiana was with me. I carried that piece of fuzzy hair in my pocket at all times, even when it became a matted mess. I also carried her leash and her favorite stuffed toy, Mr. Oppossum. I even took Mr. O into restaurants and stores. He was my link to her and my good luck charm. My sweet parents, who were babysitting Isis this whole time, brought another toy of Indiana's and placed some of Isis's hair on it. That way the toy could stay with Indiana, and she could smell home and her sister.

Indiana got better and better each day. We had been warned that she might be in the hospital up to two weeks, but after 5 nights in the hospital, they were ready to send her home. We weren't out of the woods yet, as her stomach staples could still leak. If that happened, there would be nothing they could do, and she would die. Still, she had overcome so much.

The day we brought her home was amazing! My Mom and I drove back home in the morning to get the house ready. Out went all of the old bones and chewies (Indiana was now missing an important part of her stomach and could easily get an intestinal blockage). The mattress went on the floor, so Indiana could just walk onto it and still sleep with us at night. That afternoon, my parents, Jim, and I, drove down and brought our baby home! It was bittersweet, as she had survived, yet she wasn't out of the woods yet. She also didn't seem all that excited to be home. I know now it was because of the stress of the surgery.

My precious girl recovered from serious gastric surgery--part of her stomach was removed along with the pyloric sphincter. She had a nearly 18 inch incision on her stomach and chest and more staples than I could count. Her two week window of stomach leakage came and went, and she continued to recover. My happy, beautiful dog came back to me again. So what if she was missing hair on her neck, all four legs, various patches on her sides, her stomach, and her butt. She was beautiful because she was Indiana, and she was alive.

I hope by reading this, you take away several things. First, miracles can and do happen. We were given a miracle that day. Second, always follow your heart. If we had listened to the doctors, our baby would be dead. Doctors don't always know best, but your heart does. Third, never give up hope, even when it seems like there is none. There is ALWAYS hope.

That day changed my life forever. Some for the bad, but mostly for the good. I am a far better parent today. I learned much the hard way, and that's why I'm working so hard to help others. I don't want anyone else to have to learn the way I did.

I am forever indebted to Dr. Eusanio and Dr. Eshelman. They gave me my baby back and helped us when others wouldn't. Both doctors are now gone from the U of I, and I know wherever they are today, the patients are better off because of them. I will remember them until the day I die.

Thank you to those of you who've made it this far in the story. Thanks for letting me tell it, really for the first time. It has done my heart good. My gorgeous girl still sits by my feet, keeping watch over the cats and the back yard. My dog is alive, well, and happy, and all is well with the world.

Happy Father's Day!

Happy Father's Day to all of the fathers out there--both to humans and furry children alike!

My kids have the best Daddy in the world!

Papa, Indiana, and Gus

Dad provides the most comfortable lap in the house,

says Mr. Squiggles

A fun day at Allerton Park with Indiana and Isis

Jim's a great Dad. He always greets the kids with excitement, love, and hugs. He's ready for a walk at a moment's notice. He can snuggle with the best of them. He isn't afraid to act silly to make the babies smile. Jim would go to the ends of the earth to help the animals, and he was so amazing when Indiana got sick. He never considers money or inconvenience, only what's best for the kids. We are lucky to have such a wonderful husband and father.

I also have to give love to the Grampas in the animals' lives. Jim's Dad (and Mom) has stayed at our home on numerous occasions to babysit while we're on vacation, and they always come down for Indiana's annual cancer survival party. (More on that shindig next week!) My Dad (and Mom) comes over to feed the kids when we're at work or out of town, he's always up for babysitting, whether for an evening or for a week, and I know he would do anything for my kids. He too was amazing during Indiana's illness. Jim and I wouldn't have survived without my parents that week.

So, to the three men in my babies' lives, I love you all very much! We're lucky you're a part of our lives.