When we were back in the house I fed Seamus, adding a little lean hamburger and cottage cheese to his high-protein dry kibble. Together we curled up on the couch and napped as we waited for Chris to join us.
Chris arrived home two hours later. Even if Seamus hadn’t nimbly jumped up off the couch and ran howling to greet Chris, I suspect Chris’s mood would have woken me right up anyway. Chris flopped down on the couch next to me, pale and strained, while Seamus continued to howl and run around, tossing his squeak toys in the air and asking to play.
Chris petted Seamus to calm him, but he wasn’t looking at the dog. He stared at the floor. After several minutes he looked up.
“So the good news is I won’t be going to my parents’ for Christmas Eve,” he said, running his hand through his hair.
I inhaled slowly. “I take it your therapy was worse than Seamus’s?”
“And more toxic, apparently.”
“That’s not good.”
“No, I think it is. I think it had to happen.”
I tried to focus on listening and supporting him as he described how the three-hour marathon therapy session had gone completely sideways. His relationship with me was not the only decision he’d made that his parents were determined to re-make for him. His career and his weight were among the hurtful topics dissected. Both, it seemed, were unacceptable (the first was too small and the second too large). I managed not to jump ahead with my own fears as I’d done previously, though it was difficult. He’d stood up to his family, and that was good enough. I was learning to take small steps.
“How did it end?”
“Not well. I’m not talking to them ever again. My parents are dead to me.”
I started to protest a hundred different ways—they hadn’t even given me a chance; they had no right to judge him or me; why couldn’t they see how good we were together? But I held back. He needed my support, not my anger and certainly not my baggage. I did not want to be what came between Chris and his family, but I’d learned—Chris needed to handle this on his own.
And, I had to remind myself, this wasn’t about me. This went much deeper than who he was dating.
By the end of the evening, we became enamored of the fact that it would just be the three of us for the weekend. These words don’t usually form in my brain or come out of my mouth, but I was beginning to think, “Maybe this holiday won’t be so bad.” I just had to overlook, momentarily, how it was we came to be alone for the holidays.
On Christmas morning we opened presents by the fire. Seamus received a spectacular number of squeaky toys, which he gleefully began to gut. We lounged around reading with constant squeaking noises as background music for hours. Our only contact with the outside world was phone calls from both of my parents. The day passed peacefully.
When Chris began to prepare dinner, I sat at the kitchen counter with a glass of wine, and Seamus sat as close as he could get to Chris’s feet in case any morsels dropped. As night fell, the three of us sat down to a delicious meal of chateaubriand, potatoes dauphinois, creamed spinach, and Yorkshire pudding. And of course Seamus got his own little plate of everything, though we did draw the line at having him sit up to the table, if only because I would not be as fast as he would have been in grabbing my share. Suffice it to say, no one had a decreased appetite.
I made it through the holidays—not unscathed, but perhaps undamaged. I needed that day to gather my strength.
• • •
By chemo number three on December 30, Seamus’s weight had gone up to thirty-five pounds No, his appetite was not a problem. After three rounds, although I still frequently came home from work to check on him and had mostly eliminated any evening commitments so I could be home, I was beginning to believe Seamus would tolerate chemotherapy just fine. It was, as they had said, not as hard on dogs as humans. Whether that was the dosage or the type of chemotherapy or some biological reason, I didn’t care. I was just happy to know he wasn’t suffering and wasn’t nauseous. Chemo, it was turning out, was something we could handle.
Chris went with me to the fourth treatment. He held Seamus when they did the blood draw this time and then held me while I waited through the infusion time when Seamus was taken into the hospital area without me. This was always the difficult part since there was nothing I could do except nervously bide my time pretending to read magazines or flipping the pages of a book. Having Chris with me eased the wait. Soon enough, once again Seamus came jauntily bouncing into the room, flinging his back right leg behind him with the paw barely touching the ground. Chris had once pointed out to me that Seamus sometimes ran or trotted as though he only had three legs. The back right leg was like a spare tire—there in case of an emergency but not really necessary. He didn’t always do this of course, but enough that we noticed. I smiled when I saw that particular gait come trotting into the room.
When she joined me in the exam room, Dr. Sorority Chick informed me that Seamus would have two weeks off before we’d need to return for the next chemotherapy drug.
“The next one? This will be a different drug?” I asked.
“Yes. This one he takes orally.”
I did not remember hearing there would be more than one drug. I didn’t know there was more than one chemotherapy drug. “But if we know he tolerates the one he’s been taking, why not just finish with that one?”
She gave me that “I’m trying to be patient with you but can’t you just let me do my job and not ask any questions” look that I’d become accustomed to ignoring. “We need to throw everything at it that we can. In order to give him the best chance of survival we give different types of chemo.”
“So there is a chance he will survive?” I had felt this somehow must be the case, but it didn’t ever seem she talked about survival in the sense of beating the disease but rather only surviving for that year.
“Well, whatever amount of time we can get for him.” And there it was again. The limitation.
We went around and around with me questioning whether survival in the sense of a cure or remission was a possibility and her dodging and dancing to not have to give what she apparently thought would be false hope.
“Really? So no dogs with mast cell tumors on the anal sac have survived?” I said.
“Of course they have.”
“Okay, so he must have some chance.”
“I’m just trying to be realistic.”
“Yes, so am I.” We glared at each other over the exam table. I’m not even an optimist, let alone a fantasist, and here this sorority chick of a doctor couldn’t even bring herself to tell me, $5,000 and two months later, that Seamus had, oh, I don’t know, a 10 percent chance of survival? It was ludicrous to me. And frustrating.
That night’s tub talk with Chris was all about my combative relationship with this doctor.
“You can be honest. Do you think this is some sort of alpha-female drama being played out where she and I are both determined to be in control?” Apparently, where this doctor was concerned, I could maintain outrage and indignation even soaking in hot water, wine in hand, and sparkling city lights in the horizon.
“Well, that might be a little of it. I think your styles might be clashing. She clearly needs to be in control and just isn’t a very warm or communicative person. And you want a lot of information, and um…..”
“I need to be in control, too.”
“Yeah. That.”
“And I’m not warm or communicative either?”
“Well, we’re working on that.”
“Okay, but I’m the customer here. If I ask a question and want to understand the treatment and what I’m paying for, don’t I have that right? Why does she just act like I’m annoying her? What am I supposed to do, just hand her my dog and my credit card and say ‘do what you want’? I’m not going to do that.”
“We
ll, I imagine some people do.”
I stared at him. Sure, maybe some people do. I looked over at Seamus on the patio chair, stretched out, head resting on his crossed front paws, big brown kohl-lined eyes staring at me. “I guess I’m not some people. I just want to understand the choices and be sure I’m making the right choices. I had no idea we’d be switching up chemo and dealing with a whole new set of possible side effects. I should have been told that before. I haven’t even researched this new chemo.”
“Maybe you should ask for a new doctor. They’ve got a whole facility full of them. Ask for another doctor.”
“I think I will.”
Thus braced, I gave myself a pep talk on the drive in for Seamus’s January 20 appointment. I was going to make Dr. Sorority Chick explain the new chemo to me, what its risks were, and what it would do that the other wouldn’t, and by god if she didn’t respond, I would demand a new doctor.
When I arrived, I was surprised to see a couple I knew from Riverside waiting in the lobby with their bassett hound. They were also volunteers at the Mary S. Roberts Pet Adoption Center, we had the same regular vet, and I saw them and their dogs (they also had two beagles) frequently at events. I’d always thought of them as a happy, content, mild-mannered couple that seemed unruffled by much of anything. Their bassett, Molly, had the same kind of cancer as Seamus. And the same doctor.
“Isn’t she great?” they both cooed.
“Dr. Gilbert?” I said, refraining from calling her Dr. Sorority Chick.
“Yes, she’s been so wonderful with Molly.”
“Um. Well. I’d say she’s been less wonderful with Seamus. Or with me at any rate.”
“Really?” They seemed as astonished to hear this as I was to hear “wonderful” expressed in a three-mile radius of Dr. Sorority Chick.
“Well, basically, I can’t get her to talk to me about anything other than Seamus having only a year to live.”
“Oh, no.” They looked at each other. I’m no good with married-people speak, so I have no idea what the glance expressed. I imagine it was “oh poor Teresa—her dog is dying and she’s losing her mind and blaming the doctor.”
“And I know that she doesn’t want to give false hope, but it seems like some hope would not be out of the question, don’t you think?” I was probably pleading with them—strident and desperate. I’m sure they wanted to change appointments so as not to encounter me again, and indeed, I only ran into them one other time.
“Oh, of course. You have to have hope.” They smiled encouragingly. As in, encouraging me to leave them and their happy bubble alone.
By the time Seamus and I were called back into the exam room, I was completely subdued. Of course it was my fault. I was being too aggressive and demanding. I should just be friendlier with the doctor and let her do her thing without question. I should be like the nice couple.
Seamus weighed in at 36.20 pounds (later, I noted his treatment report said “Body Condition: overweight”). I handed over my credit card and my fat dog and obediently sat and waited, feeling like I had curled up with my tail between my legs.
Chapter 10
CRASHING DOWN AND FIRING UP
I pulled three bottles of pills—steroids, pain medication, and the chemo pill—from the bag I’d been given. I reread the chart setting forth when each pill should be given over the next twelve-day period. As I again read the instructions on each bottle, I set them down in a row, next to the chart on my kitchen counter. The instructions for handling the pills stated that they should not be stored near any open food or drink, the pill should not be broken or cut, and if I was pregnant, nursing, or planning to become pregnant, I should be very, very careful when administering the drug as fetuses and babies are particularly vulnerable to the toxic effects. What about a thirty-six-pound dog?
I reached into the bag for the rubber gloves I’d been instructed to use when handling the chemo, and I set them down next to the pill bottles. Gloves. How much clearer could it be that I was poisoning my dog?
I poured kibble into Seamus’s bowl along with some beef broth. After he finished his breakfast, I called him to me and petted him for a long time, rubbing his ears, scratching his back, and apologizing in as many ways as I could. Then I donned the rubber gloves, stuffed a quarter of a hot dog with a pill, and, tears in my eyes, handed the hot dog to my beloved beagle. Seamus swallowed it in one bite, wagged his tail, and looked up at me for more. I gave him another piece with another pill hidden. He ate that too, and the third piece.
By evening, he seemed unaffected. That would all soon change.
I often wonder how people who live alone without a pet explain all the weird noises in their house. Generally, Seamus follows me around the house and is close enough that I figure any noise that isn’t me is him, and this helps me sleep at night. And I like his little sounds—the cheap aluminum tags jingling together slowly when he’s moving about and more quickly when he’s scratching his ears with his back leg, the little grunts and harrumphs when he sleeps, the circling and scratching to get all the blankets and pillows arranged just so before he lies down, the incessant sniffing of the air for any whiff of possible toast, his nails tapping across the wood floor as he trots off outside, and the little swoosh of the plastic doggie door behind him. A dog is a presence in a house.
Seamus is not always right by me at home, but if I’m upstairs, he’s upstairs. If I go downstairs, he’s downstairs—of course, the kitchen is downstairs, so that would explain that. He will be in another room apart from me but usually within eyesight of me and definitely within hearing distance.
That’s why I was immediately concerned eleven days after the new chemo was administered, when Seamus did not follow me downstairs for my morning coffee. My morning coffee comes first, but once the pot is brewing, Seamus gets his breakfast. I poured a cup of the high-protein kibble in his bowl. The sound of kibble hitting the tin is like a mating call to a beagle. And still, there was no Seamus. I made toast and poured myself a cup of coffee. The toaster lever going down should have been another trigger—a noise that can usually get Seamus down an entire flight of stairs and through two rooms in what seems like negative time. I’ve been known to hit the toaster lever just to get Seamus downstairs for a walk. It didn’t work this time.
I hurried back upstairs, coffee and toast in hand, and found Seamus still in his bed. He raised his head and sniffed at the air in the direction of my toast. When I held out some crust for him, he sniffed and then took it from me but didn’t sit up. He ate a little, chewing slowly, and when I returned to my bed he eventually followed me, sitting at my side and waiting for more toast. As I finished getting ready for work, Seamus curled himself up on my bed and slept.
This must be the tiredness they were talking about, I thought. His next blood check was three days away, since that’s when his white blood cell count was expected to be lowest. From the looks of Seamus that morning, this chemo was having more of an effect than the others. If the white blood cell counts were the ones that give a body energy, they were waving white flags, weakly. I added up the number of days or half-days of work I’d been out of the office for all of his treatments already and mentally ran through the stack of files on my desk. I had to go into the office. I figured I’d just come home for an early lunch and if he didn’t seem better then, I’d call the vet. When Seamus didn’t follow me down the stairs as I left for work, I hesitated. I went back upstairs and petted him, kissed him on the forehead, and promised I’d be back.
I was home again three hours later. Seamus didn’t greet me outside or even as I walked in the front door.
I raced up the stairs and found him lying in his bed, awake, alive, and looking at me, but not even lifting his head. He was barely keeping his eyelids open.
I called the cancer clinic.
The conversation seemed to take hours. I wanted to hear either “that’s p
erfectly normal, give him a baby aspirin and take him for his blood test as scheduled” or “bring him in immediately.” I wanted to be told what to do. I wanted not to be in charge.
“You should probably have him looked at,” said the receptionist at the veterinarian cancer clinic.
“Should I bring him to you right now?”
“Well, you could bring him to us or to your regular vet.”
“But if this is related to the chemotherapy, shouldn’t I bring him to you?”
“You can. Or you can take him to your regular vet. You were scheduled for a blood test with your regular vet, weren’t you?
“Yes, but that’s three days away. Should I wait that long?”
“Probably not.”
“So I should bring him in to see you now?”
“You don’t have to bring him to us. You can bring him to your regular vet.”
I wanted to scream at her. It seemed clear I needed to bring the dog in, but the way she kept mentioning my “regular vet” was confusing. Did that mean this was not something requiring a specialist? This was not related to the chemo? What would my regular nonemergency vet do with a lethargic chemo-beagle?
“I don’t want to go to my regular vet. I want to bring him to you guys.”
“If that’s your decision you can do that.”
“Well, isn’t that what I should do?”
“You just need to get him some attention. I wouldn’t wait.”
“Are you saying I don’t have time to drive him in to see you?” The drive usually took me about forty-five minutes.
“No. It’s completely up to you. Wherever you would like to take him.”
Frustration was seeping from my pores. Why couldn’t she just give me instructions like “bring your dog in immediately”? And why couldn’t I just say, “I’m bringing my dog to you right now”?
Dog Lived (and So Will I) Page 12