Dog Lived (and So Will I)

by Rhyne, Teresa J.

  When I arrived at the little house of wigs on a busy commercial street, I asked about the dog. The owner, Diedre, hesitated only a moment before saying she didn’t have a dog. I looked around the room for any sign of a dog while also assuring her that I wouldn’t mind in the least if she did have a dog hanging out. My dog comes to my office all the time, I said. But no, she did not have a dog. She seemed quite sure of this.

  Did I imagine the dog? Was it a neighbor dog? It didn’t matter much, except, perhaps, for the sake of my sanity; this was the place I needed to be to get a wig that would fit properly, look natural, and come with instructions from someone who actually knew what they were doing. The dog barking in the distance, real or not, was enough to get me to the shop with a large selection of wigs and to a woman who knew how to select, fit, and style a wig.

  Chris and Laureen, my friend and paralegal, met me at the wig shop. Though I was still overwhelmed, their enthusiasm and excitement over the options eased my worries. Diedre sat me in a chair and carefully placed on my head each perfectly combed, styled, and cared-for wig that Laureen and Chris selected. Some choices were good, others were ridiculous, but the three of them cheered me on, and Chris and Laureen even tried on a few wigs themselves while making comments and suggestions—some were even helpful.

  “I don’t know if I want to stay blond,” I said, surprising even myself.

  “Really?” Chris said.

  “Well, yeah. It’s not like I’m trying to hide that I’m in chemo or wearing a wig, so maybe I’ll just have a little fun with it.”

  “I like it. It’s like I get a different girlfriend for a while,” Chris said.

  “Go brunette. You can see how the rest of us live,” Laureen said.

  “You can always get two,” Diedre said, smiling.

  I went from having no answers to my wig dilemma to too many options.

  But I had an idea.

  I immediately went home and posted photos of me wearing several of the wigs on my blog. Then I set up a poll and let my friends and family (and, as it turned out, quite a few strangers) decide what look I should choose. Seamus might not have been able to help me with this part of my cancer odyssey, but my friends could.

  Chapter 19

  COCKTAILS FOR ONE

  Seamus wore a “Beagles for Boobies” shirt to my birthday party. His shirt and my matching sweatshirt were gifts from my mother.

  Since my birthday fell between surgery and the start of chemotherapy, Chris and some friends decided a “Post-Operation/Pre-Chemo” birthday bash was in order. The party was quickly dubbed the “POP-C Party” and, alternatively, the “Boobie Bash.”

  Destiny came as a special guest to corral Seamus and make sure at least some of the food remained available for the human guests. (Seamus still snuck more than his fair share.) As for the refreshments, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many variations of pink food and drink. It wasn’t even October, Breast Cancer Awareness month, and yet my friends were able to find pink vodka, pink ribbon wines, pink cakes and cookies, pink ribbon tablecloths, plates, and cups, and even pink martini glasses. What they couldn’t buy, they made. One friend even made what she called “boobie pops”—small cake balls on a stick with pink frosting and a darker pink jellybean “nipple.”

  My mom and stepdad sent flowers, and Chris’s parents sent a basket of very useful items including a gorgeous periwinkle soft cotton wrap that Trudi assured me would be perfect to use during the chemo infusions. A group of friends surprised me with a lithograph from an artist I loved and whose show I had to miss because of the surgery (and the obvious fact that I needed to spend money on health care, not artwork). The colorful lithograph was of a hound dog, standing on a lush green lawn, empty liquor bottles surrounding him. The title was “Booze Hound.” It made me laugh for so many reasons. I was thrilled to see that the artist, Robert Deyber, had signed a program from the show wishing me well in my treatments.

  I was able to forget, for just that one night, what lay ahead.

  Soon after, though, I began to count down the days before I’d have to start chemotherapy. I was not sleeping well. I fell into a habit of waking at two each morning. I’d get out of bed, grab a book off my nightstand, and head to the recliner in our library. When Seamus started waking with me and following me to the other room, I thought it was cute. When he crawled onto my lap and slept there with me, I knew my nervousness was palpable.

  I thought I’d gotten used to the idea that I would lose my hair, but I kept trying to picture how it might happen—would I wake up one morning and my hair would all be on my pillow? Would I wash it all down the drain in the shower some morning? Or would I be sitting in a client meeting when suddenly my hair would begin to fall into clumps on the conference table? What if it was a new client? They’d be too frightened to come back!

  The doctors and nurses seemed confident nausea wouldn’t be an issue, but I’d always had a weak stomach, so I wasn’t convinced. And the list of other possible side effects was horrific. My fingernails and toenails might come loose and fall off? Skin rashes? Thrush? Swelling of the hands and feet? Severe bone pain? Fluid retention? Mouth sores? Anemia? Nerve pain? Life-threatening infections? Seizures? Neuropathy? Debili-freaking-tating fatigue? My memories of Seamus’s white blood cell crash were fresh and frightening.

  I had to remind myself that these were just possibilities and that they would not all occur. Surely they couldn’t all occur. And yet, the only way to know how I would respond to the chemotherapy—the only way to know which, if any, of these side effects I would experience—was to undergo round one.

  • • •

  So, I’m all set for chemo this Thursday at 10:00 a.m. Tomorrow I go pick up my prescriptions and my wig (I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to name “her”), and tomorrow night I start the antinausea medication. Chris has done the preparatory grocery shopping based on what we’ve surmised—because goodness knows we had to figure it out ourselves. Between the materials UCLA had given us, the book the good and great Dr. Karam gave me, and our many prior conversations with doctors, it does seem that it comes down to this: there isn’t really a chemo diet/nutrition plan. It’s just about controlling the side effects. So really, until we know how I react, we won’t know what diet restrictions I have or what foods/liquids might help. I can drink coffee. I can have a glass of wine now and then. I have to avoid some obvious problem foods like sushi, mushrooms, raspberries (hard to wash), etc. Basically, that’s to avoid getting an infection of any kind since my immune system will be shot. Common sense will suffice.

  People keep asking me if I’m afraid. I really don’t feel afraid. A little anxious, but mostly, I’d just like to get to Friday night. There’s a lot riding on Friday—the day after the treatment is usually the “worst” day and will give me an idea what I’m in for. I’d like to be at the point where I know that. I feel prepared, and that’s really all I can do.

  Thanks again for all your thoughts and support. I’m bringing my laptop to chemo and will blog from there if I can. I’m wondering if they’ll let me take pictures. If they do, you can count on it!

  • • •

  Two days before my first infusion appointment, I sat at my desk at home staring at the medication chart the nurse had given me. The chart was similar to the one Seamus had, only where his had been carefully designed and printed from a computer, mine was a poorly copied calendar with handwritten notes squeezed into the boxes for each day. The chart was a pill regimen meant to reduce or eliminate nausea and pain. These were “good” pills.

  There were pills to take the night before, the morning of, the evening of, and the next two days following the chemo infusion, and there were optional pain medications, one for mild pain and one for severe pain. I had filled all of the prescriptions as well as purchasing all of the over-the-counter drugs that had been suggested—Benadryl, antidiarrheal, stool softene
r, Tylenol—and two thermometers so I could constantly monitor my temperature at work and at home. I wondered if pumpkin pie filling worked for relieving side effects in humans like it did in dogs.

  “Maybe you should put the chart somewhere we can both find it,” Chris said, entering the office.

  “I can’t imagine forgetting it, given the dire consequences,” I said.

  “You never know. Plus, you might not feel like getting up and getting the list, so I should know where it is.”

  “I was thinking I’d leave it by the coffee pot. Then I’m sure I’ll see it.”

  “What if you aren’t drinking coffee then? Remember they said your sense of taste might change.”

  While it was difficult to picture drinking my usual gallons of coffee while nauseous, or worse, vomiting, it was equally hard to imagine getting through this stressful time without coffee. I can’t imagine getting through a morning without coffee.

  We decided instead to leave the chart by my computer in the home office, and I lined the pills up next to the chart once again, going over each one with Chris. “I guess you need to know the instructions, too. In case, you know, I’m a vomiting, shaking, unconscious mess.”

  “You’ll be fine. You’ll be like Seamus was—all appetite and energy.”

  “I’m not that lucky. Plus, really, the silver lining to chemo had better be weight loss.”

  I awoke at five on the morning of my appointment. Seamus stretched, yawned, and then followed me, waiting for me to get down the stairs before racing ahead of me. The one good habit I’d managed to teach Seamus would turn out to be a very useful thing.

  When I first brought him into my home, Seamus regularly raced ahead of me, cut me off, and thought nothing of running between or under my feet. Before Chris moved in, I had fears of Seamus tripping me on the stairs in his mad dash to the food bowl. I envisioned myself sprawled on the floor, back or neck broken, days passing before anyone came to look for me. And then it would only be because Seamus, having missed breakfast, was howling at the gate. So I trained him not to run down the stairs ahead of me. He had to sit (not so) patiently until I reached the bottom of the stairs and gave him the signal that he could descend. He challenged me regularly, rushing ahead of me when I was three or four steps from the bottom. I’d stop and make him go back upstairs and wait before I’d continue down, and even then, occasionally he’d bolt down after I took just one more step. I’d stop and make him go back upstairs and we’d do it again. Finally, he’d wait, sitting at the very edge of the top step, dancing back and forth on his back end, shifting the weight on his front paws—left, right, left, right—and groaning with anxiety, until I stepped down from the last step and turned back to him to say, “Okay.” Then he’d let out a victory howl and launch himself, screaming, AAAAAARRROOOOOOOOO! Hurry the fook up! Get my breakfast, woman! I don’t have time for these fookin’ games! AAAAAARRROOOOOOOOO!!! as he bolted for the laundry room where his bowls were. It was a game to Seamus. I knew that. The only way the training worked was because Seamus knew if I never got to the bottom of the stairs, he’d never get breakfast.

  Now, if I was going to be ill and weak and perhaps have numb or painfully swollen feet, it was a very good thing I’d managed to teach Seamus this particular game.

  Seamus followed me to the laundry room and I scooped kibble into his bowl, giving him a little extra. Chemo morning seemed to call for leniency and empathy for all creatures. I poured myself a large cup of coffee and drank it downstairs, letting Chris sleep. After breakfast, Seamus cuddled in next to me on the couch.

  “What do you think, buddy? Shall we have toast?” I was supposed to eat something.

  Seamus thumped his tail at the word toast. He also thumped his tail at what, buddy, and shall—since he’d just had his own breakfast and knew he’d be getting mine next.

  Dr. Dutelle had told me Seamus could have carbohydrates now and in fact would need some. Since I kept him on the high-protein, low-carb kibble, I gradually returned to our codependent toast-sharing routine. I made two slices of wheat toast and slathered them with peanut butter.

  Chris came into the den as I handed Seamus the last bit of crust.

  “Did you pop your pills yet?” he said.

  “I’m headed upstairs now to take them. I figured food in my stomach was a good idea. And coffee in my brain…so I can read the pill labels. No OD’ing on Vicodin the first day.”

  “Good plan. I’m going to pack us a lunch while you get ready.”

  Seamus’s tail thumped again. Lunch? Yes, please!

  But I had less enthusiasm. I had to go “get ready.” And how does one get ready to have their body flushed with poison? Should one wear black?

  I showered and dressed, choosing comfortable black pants, a short-sleeved periwinkle blue cotton top, and the huge, soft cotton wrap Trudi had given me. She told me the infusion room was usually cold, but you can get hot flashes from the drugs, so the wrap would easily come on and off without disrupting the tubes coming from my arm. Practical advice. And fashionable—the wrap was gorgeously soft and in my favorite color. I blew-dry and styled my hair, trying unsuccessfully to not think about how many more times I’d do that before there was no hair.

  I went back downstairs, where Chris waited, showered, shaved, and dressed, snuggled up with Seamus on the couch.

  “Okay, pills are popped. I’m ready for the chair.”

  “And lunches are packed. It’s only 7:30. We’re even early.”

  “Obviously cancer has changed us. And not for the better.”

  “Surprisingly.”

  “Let’s just get going. It’s not like I’m going to sit down and rest.”

  Seamus followed us out to the courtyard, and we stopped for photos of me, new cancer warrior, and Seamus, the veteran. I petted Seamus for good luck, kissed the top of his forehead, and then put him in his crate in the backseat of our car.

  We dropped Seamus at Destiny’s home. True to her offer, she was watching Seamus for the morning. Or however long my appointment took.

  • • •

  I was relieved to see that the oncology office had removed the Valentine’s Day décor. The office seemed more professional without pink and red streamers and hearts. And this time, I was in my paper dress and being addressed by the nurse practitioner by 9:15. She deemed my surgery scar healed sufficiently and the blood work I’d had done earlier in the week came back fine.

  “Go ahead and get dressed and we’ll find a chair for you,” she said.

  Although I’d been calling it “the chair” myself, the expression got more ominous the closer I came to having to sit in it hooked up to a bag dripping poison. Chris followed me to the infusion room. We both stood in the doorway and looked around the room, waiting for instructions.

  After a few minutes a nurse showed me to my chair, on the left side of the room, next to an elderly woman reading a book. I sat in the chair, and Chris took a seat on a small chair next to me.

  “We’re mixing up your chemo cocktail now. I’ll be right back,” the nurse said as she departed.

  I looked at Chris. “I’ve never been so disappointed to hear the word cocktail.”

  “No kidding. It’s like an abuse of a perfectly wonderful word.”

  The infusion room was small. The chairs (large and reminiscent of the massage lounge chairs usually found in places named “Happy Nails”) were positioned up against each wall of the room. Which meant, like it or not, the patients, ten of us (nine women and one man), were all staring at one another in silence.

  I wondered, what is the etiquette? What do you say? “I’m new here”? Or, “Come here often?” Or, “What are you in for?” It was hard to know. I think the etiquette should have been covered in my chemo training. The dogs with Seamus didn’t seem to have this problem. In that oncology waiting center, the patients sniffed
butts indiscriminately as a greeting. Such knowledge was not going to help me here, although having the nonchalance of a dog would certainly have.

  Most patients merely glanced at us and returned to their magazines. A few were sleeping. All had IV drips on poles next to their chairs.

  Chris began to unpack all that we’d brought with us—some books, my journal, my laptop, Chris’s laptop, the large bag of foods Chris had prepared, two liters of Gatorade, several magazines. Because the chemo drip is done slowly so as to observe any negative reactions, we were told, the first day of chemo was going to be a long one. We had prepared for that. Maybe we’d over-prepared. We looked like we’d come to stay.

  In addition to taking the steroids and other medication the night before and morning of my appointment, I’d also packed up enough work and other items to keep me busy for the day. One would not want to be bored while poison is pumped through one’s veins. As I understood it, I likely wouldn’t be sick until the next day. That meant I could still work during the infusion. The comfy recliner even had a little table at the side for my computer. The nurse approached the side of my chair and asked to see my left arm. The chemo is delivered in the arm opposite from the side the surgery was done. Right breast, left arm.

  I extended my arm, moving back the soft cotton wrap.

  “Oh, you’re lucky. Great veins. You didn’t need a port?” the nurse said.

  “No. They didn’t even ask me about it. But yes, I’ve been told I have great veins. At my age, I guess that’s a compliment.”

  Chris perked up. “Those veins bleed a lot. I’ve been told to let you know that.”

  “That’s good to know, but it won’t be a problem here,” she said, rubbing alcohol on the back of my hand.

  The needle easily, quickly slipped into a large vein. I winced. Not because it hurt, but because it had begun. I watched as she taped down the catheter on the backside of my hand. She hung the chemo cocktail—clear liquid in an opaque, sturdy plastic bag—from a hook at the top of the IV pole and bent down to push some buttons on the monitor attached to the pole. Chris held my right hand tightly, and I rested my left on the arm of the chair. We watched as the liquid began to seep through the tubing and made its way to my hand and into my vein.