Things I've Learned From My Dog: Anxiety!

To be fair, I've always been a nervous person. Throughout high school, college, and now as an adult, I've spent a decent amount of time thinking, "what if?" Worst case scenarios whiz through my brain at inopportune moments, and are, to be sure, inconvenient at times.

Though I'm the queen of worry, whether it's about an upcoming concert, whether someone might take something I said the wrong way, or whether or not I can cram 12 hours worth of work into the 8 hours I have available, nothing makes me worry quite so much as my furry kids. My worry did not improve when Indiana was diagnosed with cancer. Are you surprised?

After Indiana was diagnosed, to say I was a mess is putting it mildly. Emotional breakdowns not withstanding, I worried every moment of every day about Indiana. Was she feeling ok? Was she reacting to the chemo? Is she breathing? She is breathing, right?

A large part of worry is caused by a lack of control. I can't control the cancer. I don't know what it's going to do. A sensible person will say, "Why worry about something you can't control?" This is totally logical, but honestly, logic flies out the window the minute you get a devastating diagnosis for someone you love. I can't control the cancer, but I sure as heck can worry about it! Score one for me!

At no time does my anxiety grow higher than when I have to travel. The convergence of two tracks of worry: things I can't control (e.g. cancer or kidney disease) and being unable to actually, physically see, with my own two eyes, that indeed, Indiana is still breathing. Indiana's sitters, be it my parents or Jim's, know to expect a daily phone call full of quizzical questions. I may not go so far as to actually ask my Mom if Indiana is still breathing, but I'll ask all sorts of questions she can only answer if Indiana is still breathing. Crazy? Yes. Comforting? Definitely.

When Jim and I travel this week, we've done the best we can to make sure our clan are well cared for. My wonderful in-laws are staying at our house while we're gone to take care of the kids. As always, I won't have to worry that they'll follow our every (obsessive) direction. I know they will. The cat fence (or Stalag 17, as Jim calls it) is finished, so I never have to face the heartbreak of a missing cat ever again. Our wonderful vet tech is coming by to give Indiana her kidney fluids and necessary shots (and, YES!, someone who can give a professional opinion that Indiana is still breathing!). Plus, my parents will be waiting in the wings to help out if anything is needed at home.

So, we're all covered. I shouldn't worry, right? Yet, I will. Bad things happen sometimes, and they are indeed out of my control. All I can do is head off knowing I've done the best I can, and try--though it won't be hard--to have a good time.

Happy Birthday, Indiana!

Today is my sweet Indiana's birthday. She has achieved the thing our vets (and even us, at times) thought impossible--reached the tender age of twelve years old.

Having an aging dog is rough. Don't we all wish we could freeze them at five years old? Stay a happy, healthy age forever? We unfortunately can't do that. It's been hard the past four years, watching Indiana turn into a senior dog. Along with being a cancer survivor, she has become a hypothyroid-, Atypical Cushingoid-, kidney diseased-, arthritic-dog. Each of those diseases has added to the sting of cancer. Shouldn't one major disease exempt her from anything else?

In those dark days, when nothing seems to be going right, when a little part of my heart breaks each time I stick her with a needle to provide kidney-refreshing fluids, when I watch her hobble down the hallway, stiff from arthritis, I remember that she was supposed to have been taken from me at 8 years old. Frozen forever at that young age. I'm not being punished by all these diseases; no, I've been given a blessing. Because I still have a dog who can age.

And while every painful step, every sad look as we walk into the vet's office, and every stick of a needle still breaks my heart, I look into her eyes and see so much life. She has so much fight left in her, and so do I. Every smile in her eyes, every wag of her tail, every excited bark that comes straight from her soul, every meal that she devours with immense gusto...that is what keeps us both going. My girl is a fighter, and every day with her is a gift. Age isn't a curse, it's a blessing.

Goodbye, Stranger

Today's post might seem a little strange to some; I'm memorializing a cat I don't know. In my mind, he's a "he," but perhaps he's a she. I don't even know. I do know that he's small and brown with light orange spots all over. He has long hair and a black collar. We've met many times but never gotten to know one another. I'm pretty sure I annoyed him to no end.

You see, we've seen this kitty a host of times over the past several weeks as we continue to search for Mr. Squiggles. He inhabits the same area Mr. S was last spotted. Every time I would see this little guy, for just a second, I thought he could be my own. Plus, seeing him, a healthy, living, outdoor cat, gave me hope that our own little hunter could survive out there in the big, bad world.

Saturday night, I found my little mystery friend dead. Out checking traps before bed, I spotted something out of the corner of my eye. I stopped the car and backed up to the animal. My headlights only revealed to me that this figure was a dark, long-haired cat. Mr. Squiggles? I had to get out with my flashlight and check. The first thing revealed to me was the tell-tale dark collar, and I knew in that instant that kitty wasn't my own, but the little guy who had given me so much hope across the weeks.

What happened to him? I couldn't tell. He seemed uninjured, but obviously, dead. Perhaps he was sick, or perhaps we was hit by a car. All I know is he deserved better than to end his life along the side of the road, eyes open, tongue out, collecting frost as the night cooled. I wanted to scoop him up and honor him with a proper burial, but the frightened parent inside of me said, "No. He's wearing a collar. Some other family like you could be tortured wondering where he is. They deserve a chance to find him." Three days later, he is still there. We are giving his family more time, but I still ache to rescue him every time I drive by.

Each time I see him, I am reminded that my own boy is still out there, apart from us. By seeing my mysterious friend, I had hope that Mr. S could survive too. Now, seeing his soul-less body lying there, I am reminded that it's a rough, dangerous world. I fear for my boy, and I miss him beyond words. But I also grieve, in my own way, for this little unknown kitty, who merely by existing, provided a small measure of comfort to a frightened girl.

Goodbye, little stranger. I'll miss seeing you around.

The Stages of Grief

It was recently brought to my attention that I am going through the five stages of grief, brought on by the disappearance of our cat, Mr. Squiggles. We still have hope that he'll be found, but the fact remains that he's been missing for one month today. I haven't seen him in over five weeks.

We often think of grief as something that takes place after a loved one dies, but really, any trauma can bring it on. I'm experiencing it now, but I also went through these stages when Indiana was diagnosed with cancer.

1. Denial

Then: This can't possibly be happening! She can't be dying! How could my dog get cancer?

Now: This can't possibly be happening! My cat can't be missing! How could this happen to us?

2. Anger

Then: Why? Why is this happening? This is so unfair! Indiana doesn't deserve this; we don't deserve this. Damn you, God, why are you doing this?

Now: Why? Why is this happening? This is so unfair! We've done everything we can to be good parents, and this is how we are rewarded? Damn you, God, why are you doing this?

3. Bargaining

Then: Ok. What's it going to take to make things right? I'll give anything to save her. I'll give up my career. I love my career. Take it, just save her.

Now: Fix this! Make it right! I'll give anything to have him back. I'm doing everything I can to find him, spending any amount of time and money. We need and deserve him back!

4. Depression

Then: She might die. How will I survive if she dies? Life is so unfair. What is the point? How do I get through this? I'm walking through life with a dark cloud permanently following me.

Now: We might never get him back. He could be dead. Even if he's not, we might never see him again. How can I survive never seeing him again? Was the last time I saw him the last time? Is that the last touch I'll ever have? The last kiss? How do I get through this? I'm walking through life with a could permanently following me.

5. Acceptance

Then: This is awful and scary, but life has to go on. Every day that she survives makes it more likely that she'll live cancer-free for the rest of her days. I have to move past the fear and pain and realize we can beat the cancer.

Now: I haven't reached this stage yet. I don't think I want to.

Every day that he's missing is that much harder. We still have hope, but it gets more difficult. Others don't understand and think there's no way we'll get him back. They are wrong. I have no time or patience anymore for those who don't get it. I don't want to "accept that you might not get him back" or "think about getting another cat." My cat very likely could still be out there, and I will keep looking for him forever. I don't want another cat, because I want back the one I've lost. My life isn't whole with part of my family missing.

I don't know if it's comforting to realize I'm going through the stages of grief. Does it really matter? Perhaps it does. Three years ago, when Indiana was diagnosed with cancer, I thought my world was crashing in. But my strength got me through that crisis, and every day, it gets a little easier to live with a cancer diagnosis. If I could survive that, I can survive this. It's not been easy, but I remain hopeful and strong. Some days I feel like curling up into a ball and never emerging, and I don't try to fight those days too much. As with any roller coaster ride, the dips will be followed by a rise. I just have to ride it out.

Things I've Learned From My Dog: Heartache

I am no stranger to heartache. Indiana's illness quickly indoctrinated me into that world. My own pain grew into the pain of others, as I met my online cancer friends and experienced their pain and eventual loss. That's been pretty consistent for me, though over time I have learned to better separate my pain from theirs.

Now I am experiencing yet another heartache. Our beloved cat, Mr. Squiggles, is missing. We came home from vacation Friday night, and we still haven't seen him. We had a sitter staying with him, and he takes great care of our boys. He feels tremendously guilty about this, but we don't blame him in the slightest. It could have happened while we were home.

But it didn't. I can't stop blaming myself for this. What was he thinking while we were gone? Did he miss us? Was he angry that we left? If he's dead, did he die knowing we weren't with him?

These thoughts haunt me. I should never have gone on vacation. I don't see how I can ever travel again. This was one of my worst fears, and it has come true. I was supposed to protect and care for my boy, and I failed.

Life feels very dark right now. Jim and I are taking care of each other, as we cannot care for ourselves. We still have hope that we'll find him, and we're doing everything we can to make that happen. We will not give up.

But in the quietest moments of the night, we are reminded that he is not here. He is out there, somewhere, missing. I hope and pray that he is alive and well, just not able to make it back right now. I won't give up on him.

It will be a long road for us, especially the longer he is gone. I won't be alone; I have my old friend heartache to keep me company.

I'm a guest at Happy Dog Land

Last month, our cancer foundation had the opportunity to work a dog event hosted by the city of Chicago. While I was there, I was introduced to Billy Rafferty and Jill Cahr, whose book, HAPPY DOG: Caring for Your Dog's Body, Mind, and Spirit, just became available this month. Billy and Jill also have a blog, and they invited me to do a guest blog post about animal cancer.

Please head over to Happy Dog Land to read my guest post as well as all of the information Billy and Jill have to share.

38 Months and Counting

My friend Shanele and I spent part of the day yesterday at the University of Illinois Small Animal Clinic for Indiana's twice-yearly appointment with oncology. I'm always a nervous wreck before these appointments. Even though Indiana is doing well, it seems like I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop. We had a lot of bad news in the beginning, so I know things don't always go smoothly. Still, I know my dog, and I know she doesn't have cancer anymore.

I can't say as though I ever look forward to going, but it's become a pretty regular part of our lives, and I'm used to it. I take comfort in knowing what's going to happen. So of course yesterday, they had to change things. Normally, we start our visit by being led back to the private oncology waiting room, complete with couches for parents and furry kids alike. We chill out for a while until an oncologist comes to see us. They do an exam there in the little waiting room, and Indiana is taken away for blood tests, ultrasound, and x-ray. Otherwise, we all get to wait together.

But yesterday starts with a tech (not one of our regular ones!) taking us to an exam room...not our couches. I mention this, and she only says we can go to the couches later. Hmmm. I don't like change. After a very formal check-in (we've been coming here for over 3 years!), she tells us the doctor will be in soon...and not our usual doctor. Strike two. The visit with the doctor goes fine--she's one we've seen before, though she's a full doctor, not our usual resident. She has me sign forms and ok the costs for the procedures, something we've not had to do since Indiana first got sick. Huh? What's going on here? Why are we in this alternate-universe U of I???

After all that oddness is over, we are finally led back to our precious couches. Oh, sweet, fluffy couches. How I love you. You are so normal. The rest of the visit goes by much like usual. We see a couple of students, rather than a resident, because the department is short-handed right now. Indiana doesn't seem to like the unfamiliar faces. We're used to all of our usual people, who don't seem to be around today. Bah!

Overall, I can't really complain, because everything came back great. There is no sign of the cancer, and Indiana's heart arrhythmia, while still present, hasn't gotten any worse. There are a few age-related changes, which the doctor considers normal. (I'm just happy to still have a dog who's able to grow old!) Indy's BUN is high, though her creatinine is normal, most likely from her raw food diet, or from one of her supplements. I'm not overly concerned about this--I left Dr. Becker a message about it, and we'll see if she wants to run a fasting BUN sometime.

I was a tad irritated, because the release report mentioned something the vet hadn't--Indiana's adrenals are mildly bilaterally enlarged, more so than last time. I'm concerned this indicates a progression of the atypical Cushing's Disease she was diagnosed with about a year and a half ago. We'll see what Dr. Becker has to say about it.

But none of these things really worries me. The cancer isn't back, and Indiana feels better than she has in a long time. After cancer, nothing is insurmountable, and neither of these problems is life-threatening as they stand. Just like everything else, Indiana will kick ass.