Dog Lived (and So Will I)

by Rhyne, Teresa J.

  Over one hundred friends and clients came throughout the day to celebrate with me, despite the temperature hitting 118 degrees, one of the hottest days on record in Riverside. Folks came from as far away as the Bay Area, Oregon, and Colorado. Dr. Karam came in from Los Angeles, spreading his good karma and causing quite a ruckus among my female friends when he changed his shirt into one of our Survivor T-shirts, revealing a full back tattoo as well as one around his bicep.

  He also finally got to meet Seamus.

  “He’s so cute,” Dr. Karam said, kneeling to pet Seamus.

  “Diabolically cute, that’s the problem.”

  “But he survived cancer and he helped you, so he gets away with it.”

  “Exactly.”

  Dr. Karam stood up and Seamus ran off in the direction of the barbecue, howling for hamburgers.

  “So, I have a question for you, Amer.”

  “Anything. Ask away.”

  “I know you were new to UCLA when we came there. Was I your first patient?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Pretty close.”

  “It’s okay. Obviously it worked out fine, and I wouldn’t have cared even if I knew then. Seamus was only the third patient of Dr. Dutelle’s, and we loved her. So what number was I?”

  “Third is probably about right.”

  “Ha! So, that’s why you went to all my appointments with me.”

  “Yes, I was learning my way around the campus, too.” He grinned. “And I got to meet some other doctors.”

  “Glad I could help. But I guess I can’t tell everybody else to expect that sort of treatment.”

  “No, maybe not. But I will try.”

  I knew he would.

  Chris’s parents and both sisters, along with his aunt Susan, all came to the party as well. I tried to exercise my new powers of optimism to not stress over the fact that their attendance meant that members of my family—my dad and stepmother and my younger sister and her husband and kids—would meet members of Chris’s family for the first time. But I was nervous. By the time we saw our fathers shake hands, Chris and I had been dating for just over five years and living together for three, but we still held our breath. I nearly hyperventilated when my dad met Chris’s mother, but they smiled and complimented each other on their respective children and how well we’d handled our cancer odyssey together. In other words, they behaved like the civilized adults they were. The universe did not, in fact, implode. I could finally exhale.

  Chris walked across the lawn and handed me a frozen margarita from the machine my friends insisted on renting. “So they’ve met.”

  “They have. And no punches were thrown.” I raised my plastic glass to his.

  “Not even verbally. Seems all is good.”

  I drank in the moment, standing next to Chris, watching my family and friends. I could feel myself healing in the warmth of the full sunlight.

  Seamus ran howling by, Will and Nellie in full pursuit. “All is good,” I said, leaning in to Chris’s embrace. I was deeply happy. “Very, very good.”

  • • •

  My own “any other dog” experience happened last night. I go for my first three-month checkup in three days. I’ve heard that this can be, much like the first post-treatment mammogram, a stressful time, as it brings back memories of the disease and the treatment just about the time one has started to get back to normal. Plus, there is that constant “it might recur” feeling until one hits the magic five-year mark (and, I imagine, even after that). I wasn’t really thinking about it or concerned at all. Until Sunday night.

  I wasn’t feeling good. I was really, really thirsty and having to um, well, uh....pee all the time. Then I got a killer backache. By yesterday, I also had the chills—which were highly reminiscent of my white blood cell crash experience. When I took my temperature, it was 102. Not good. I got online to look up my symptoms on WebMD. And I should add here, I’ve never done that before in my life. I either tough it out or call my dad. But I was a little nervous because I felt a lot like I did the morning of the crash. WebMD was pretty good—I either had bladder or kidney cancer or a bladder or urinary tract infection. Fook!! Then it also had a warning about getting medical attention immediately if the person was X, Y, Z or had a compromised immune system such as a person in chemotherapy. Um, okay, I’m going to start with the lesser of these choices. I’m going to pretend I am any other dog and rule out the easier one first. I had a compromised immune system (during chemo), but I don’t any longer. Do I?

  I drank lots of cranberry juice, slept like there was no tomorrow, stayed home from work today, and got antibiotics. I’m feeling a lot better. I am, I think, just any other dog. With a bladder infection.

  • • •

  I wasn’t sure if I should be excited or not. Chris, though, was ecstatic.

  We were getting haircuts.

  As I’d promised my mom when she couldn’t travel to me, Chris and I went to Missouri in August to visit (and, as it turned out, have another Survivor party). Chris, with his by then massive Whi-fro, had endured a humid Midwestern summer visit. I, on the other hand, had the perfect summer cut for such a trip, the same buzz cut my ten-year-old nephew sported in my honor. But Chris stayed true to his promise. He wouldn’t cut his hair until I needed to cut mine.

  By December, I had nearly two inches of wavy brown hair. It didn’t need to be cut so much as shaped. But that was good enough. We were heading to Hawaii, and I did not want Chris to have to vacation with that hair again. At the rate his hair grew, we’d have to buy another airline ticket for it if he didn’t cut it.

  “Do you want to go first?” I said.

  Chris sat one chair away from my stylist Kelly’s chair and extended his hand from me to her chair. “After you. I can’t cut mine until you’ve cut yours. A deal is a deal.”

  “I can’t believe you did that,” Kelly said. “It’s almost crazier than shaving your own head. And, in your case, definitely more difficult.”

  “Eh, it was fun,” Chris said. “And I’ve single-handedly revitalized the hair product industry.”

  Kelly trimmed my hair, mostly in the spots where some original hair had hung on—never leaping from my head through all four rounds of chemo. (Chris called them “little hairs—big attitude.”) She then used a shaping product to give my hair some texture and hold. She ran her hands through my hair and pulled some pieces in different directions. Then she spun my chair around so I could see my new look.

  “Wow. I actually have a hairstyle.”

  “It’s really cute,” Kelly said.

  “You can pull off short hair. I told you that,” Chris said.

  I liked the look. Kelly had given me a funky, sporty style and done away with my chemo-victim look. I’d just have to get used to being a brunette now. “And at last, it’s your turn.” I rose from the chair and offered it up to Chris.

  “I cannot wait!” Chris excitedly moved into position.

  Kelly ran her hands through his tsunami of hair. “I’m going to have to chop at this with scissors before I can use the clippers!”

  “Hack away. You’ll probably need new scissors when you’re done.”

  Massive chunks of salt and pepper hair fell and instantly overpowered and covered my wispy little brown chemo curls on the floor.

  When Kelly finished, a half hour later, Chris looked in the mirror. “And I’m back!”

  “You look great. More Vince Gill, less Jay Leno.”

  • • •

  When we decided to go to Hawaii to celebrate the defeat of cancer and ignore that holiday that shall not be named, friends offered us the use of their condo in Maui.

  “Just let me know the dates you want to use it and we’ll reserve the place,” my friend Ted had said. He was aware of my history with December and his wife, Sandy, a nurse, had fol
lowed my treatment progress on the blog.

  “That’s incredibly kind of you. As for the dates, I only have two requests: I want to be there on the twenty-fifth and I don’t want to be flying on December 23.”

  Ted barely skipped a beat. “No, that really wouldn’t be fair to everyone else on the plane.”

  Chris’s parents then offered to pay for five nights at a hotel on the big island as well. I wasn’t even suspicious that there’d be separate rooms reserved or that Chris would be kidnapped and flown home without me. I was simply grateful and thrilled.

  Now I’d have to see if I could give December another chance at being kind.

  • • •

  On December 23, one year from when the doctor called to tell me the results of my mammogram were “highly suspicious of malignancy,” Chris and I walked Keawakapu Beach in Wailea sipping mai tais and watching the sunset for the third night in a row, with no hurricane in sight. I wore no makeup and left my hair tousled in the salt air. My right breast still had remnants of the “reverse tan” from radiation (the breast was darker than the surrounding skin), but my scar had faded greatly. I wore my pink Survivor T-shirt to commemorate the day and the year we’d been through.

  It simply didn’t matter what I looked like. I no longer needed armor. We’d won the battle. Seamus had brought me some Irish luck after all.

  And of course, walking the beach, seeing other dogs playing and running in the surf, I missed Seamus. But I knew he was safe at Ruff House with his adoring fans and, most importantly, we were both healthy. I figured I’d given up enough for Seamus without giving up a trip to Hawaii, too. (I could almost hear him howling at this thought: Fooooooookers! I love the beach! Come get me! Get me out of here! Noooooooooooooow!!! Also, bring toast! AAAAAARRROOOOOOOOO!!!) I’d already bought him a green aloha print collar.

  Chris and I sat on the beach with our arms around each other and toes sunk into the sand. We watched quietly as the sky turned yellow, orange, pink, and magenta. The sun lowered on the horizon and the palm trees were silhouetted black in the sky.

  This time they didn’t resemble cancer at all.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  One book alone can only begin to express the immense gratitude I feel for those who saved Seamus’s life and mine. The knowledge and kindness of Nancy Mount of Details Dog Grooming and the compassion and consummate skill of Dr. Autumn Dutelle each saved Seamus’s life (and quite possibly my mental health). Dr. Wayne Davis and the talented and devoted staff at Small Animal Hospital (particularly Angel Redfearn, Mardell Denney, and Dr. Laura Schrader), then and now, keep Seamus happy and healthy, as they have with all my dogs before. Thank you all. (And Seamus says, AAAAAARRROOOOOOOOO!)

  Everyone facing cancer should be lucky enough to be a patient of Dr. Amer Karam’s, who single-handedly may well change the reputation of surgeons everywhere. His kindness, humor, and, most importantly, those skilled hands will never be forgotten. Dr. Good Karma— words could never express our gratitude (so we’ll keep sending wine). Dr. John Glaspy and the entire UCLA Medical Center are so good we no longer mind the 120-mile round-trip drive (though it will be nice when it’s no longer necessary). Thank you all for your compassionate care. Dr. Janet Hocko at Vantage Oncology and her entire talented staff made my radiation experience nearly enjoyable—and that’s saying a lot. Thank you, always. And while I was, perhaps, hard on a doctor or two in this memoir, it bears mentioning that the nurses and techs Seamus and I both encountered along the way were, to a person (okay, except Lurch…but you knew that), friendly, caring, and professional. Those and all nurses and techs (particularly in oncology) deserve many, many thanks for the difficult work they do, and I give mine here. And to my radiation “class” (mornings, spring/summer 2009 at Vantage Oncology), thank you for your companionship—you each made those mornings more bearable, and though some of you are now gone, I remember you all fondly. A special thank you goes to my blue-gown buddy, Melanie Pope.

  To my parents, Jim McElhannon and Vivian Terbeek, who gave me my first dog (the much-loved Tippy), my sense of humor, my first library card, and a quirky childhood that left me no choice but to be a writer, thank you. To my stepparents, Ted Terbeek and Nancy McElhannon, thank you always for your support; stepparenting is a tough job (perhaps more so in our family, but that’s a whole other book), and you both do it well. To my brother Jay, thanks for letting me crash your trip to Ireland—who knew it would start all this? Many thanks also to my sister and brother-in-law Shawna and Eli Robertson—it’s great to be able to get medical help and home repairs from the same household, and goodness knows I’ve needed both these past few years. To my stepsister Laura Ballantine and my stepbrother Michael Wakefield (look, I’ve already explained the family is complicated!), thank you very much for your friendship and support when it really counted. And I must of course thank my cousins in Ireland—especially Seamus, the genius observer.

  To Chris’s family—Jim, Trudi, Kati, and Courtney—thank you for your support and acceptance…and for Chris. I’m happy to be a part of your family (though I really want to make an “interloper” joke here!). And in fond memory of Chris’s aunt, Susan Michel Santos, who succumbed to breast cancer while I was writing this book but will always be remembered for her strength and ready smile and, of course, her “bling.”

  Enormous thanks to my friends, some mentioned in this book by name and some not, who kept me laughing, who hugged me even though I don’t hug, who lined up to date Chris if I didn’t make it (you’re givers, you really are), who brought food and drink (both while I was in chemo and while I was writing this memoir), helped me figure out that tequila cuts through chemo better than wine, tried on my wigs, read the blog, watched Seamus, sent cards and flowers, and who worried about me (then and now, I’m sure), and then re-lived it all while I wrote this book: Corby Rhodes, Stacey Aldstadt, Valerie Zucker, Tom and Kris DeGrezia (and Mimi and Loren, too), Laureen Pittman, Michelle Pierce, Becky Whatley, Zee Beard, Sue Mitchell, Jane Carney, Amy Harrison, John Goodman, Gary Berg, Rich Gold, Barbara Ryan, Tera Harden, Brian Pearcy, Brein and Roryann Clements, Mitchell Edwards, Michelle Pepke, John and Carrie Schutz, and Bob and Helga Wolf. And to my hairstylist and friend Kelly Koerber, thank you for sticking with me through thick and thin (okay, right…that’s not even funny). A special thanks to creative genius Mike Easley, of Vital Excess, who took the cover photo and brought to life many clever marketing ideas for this book and so many other things in my life. A world of thanks also to my therapist, Joanne Simmons—I shudder to think where I’d be without your guidance.

  A special shout-out to my Maui girls—Jane Gideon and Lori Lacefield—who have traveled this writing road with me since we first met at the Maui Writers Conference more than a decade ago. It’s good to have friends willing to join me putting in the hard work of writing in Maui, Paso Robles, La Jolla, Ocean Isle Beach, France, Breckenridge, and San Francisco. You constantly encourage and inspire me—and you’re a lot of fun to vacation with, too. Cheers, ladies.

  And speaking of writing, I’m lucky enough (see how I’m getting the hang of this optimist thing?) to have two writers groups who went through countless drafts of this manuscript (mostly the first chapter, 642 times, because that’s how writers groups work). Many thanks and undying gratitude to my LA group: Trai Cartwright, David Del Bourgo, Julia Elrick, Eileen Austen, Lorna Freeman, and Chris Kern (yes, him!). And the same to my 951 Writers: Barbara Abel, Barbara Shackelton, Michelle Ouellette, Kristin Tillquist, Dulce Pena, Patti Cotton McNeily, Susan Knock, and Chris Kern (again!). Special thanks to Nancy Hinchliff, who I met on SheWrites online and gave me excellent critique notes the whole way through this manuscript—I hope to meet you in person one day. I also had the good fortune of meeting fellow dog lover and writer Sara J. Henry through our blogs (and then in person at the LA Times Festival of Books) and cannot thank her enough for her encouragement, advice, and sage notes on this manuscript. Every writer
should have a mentor like Sara. I cannot thank my writer friends without also specially thanking my writing instructor, Tod Goldberg, who not only got me back to writing after a long, long hiatus (also known as my marriages), but also is responsible for Chris and me meeting (it’s okay, Tod—that’s a good thing).

  And speaking of traveling (well, two paragraphs up; there’s no editor for acknowledgments), a writer does not get to retreat to places like those mentioned above without having some pretty fantastic friends with awesome vacation homes. Many thanks to Susan Medel and Norm Martin for making my La Jolla retreats possible, and to Bill and Willy Richman and Ted and Sandy Williamson (Maui), fellow Maui alum Tim Smith (Breckenridge), and Rachel and Raphael Pommier (France). You’re all welcome to stay in Riverside anytime.

  And speaking of editing (only one paragraph up!), even I can clearly see the good fortune I had in landing Sarah Jane Freymann of the Sarah Jane Freymann Literary Agency as my agent. Her tireless work, gentle pressure, and good advice (without her, there’d be no love story in this book…and hence, probably no book) was invaluable. And it was Sarah Jane who got me to editor Shana Drehs at Sourcebooks. Shana has been such fun to work with that no part of the editing process has felt like work. (This is helped greatly by my having been in Maui sipping a mai tai when the edits started.) This has been a joy. Many thanks, Shana, for your deft and subtle hand in guiding this memoir and your enthusiasm in bringing this book to life. Thank you also to the Sourcebooks team—you are a fantastic group of devoted professionals (and dog lovers, which really helps).

  Seamus would like to thank his best buds Will and Nellie Ouellette (Boxer/Great Dane/maybe pitbull mixes of great beauty…especially that bo-hunk Will…and brains…especially that faux-nemesis Nellie). Can he come over and play again soon? And we both want to thank the many fine folks—staff, board, and volunteers—at the Mary S. Roberts Pet Adoption Center in Riverside, California. On behalf of all of the animals, thank you for all that you do. Seamus gives an extra tail wag and AAAAAARRROOOOOOOOO to Denise Perry, the executive director and substitute mom, and Destiny Glass and Shawna Dowd, who’ve brilliantly cared for him in their homes and hearts.