Almost exactly six years ago, I traveled to Pittsburgh to meet with two wonderful women, Cooper and Emily, who founded a website for which I was working. One of the other editors for the site was at the meeting as well, and like me, she received a bag of gifts upon her arrival--a nice surprise. There were lots of cool things, but I remember two in particular.
One was a pair of silver ballet slippers, custom decorated with handwritten words about me, so that every time I looked down at my feet, I would be reminded that I was funny and creative and brilliant. Despite the fact that I have a hard time picking out shoes for myself, these shoes that were surreptitiously bought and created for me fit perfectly. I called them my princess shoes and wore them constantly until they started to show signs of wear. I now reserve them for state occasions, royal weddings, that sort of thing.
The second thing I remember was a book co-written by Emily and two friends of hers, called "Living with the End in Mind." Even though I realized that the book was a labor of love for Emily (one of her co-authors was a beloved friend who died of breast cancer), I have to admit it felt a little weird to receive it. I felt like Pollyanna, who was hoping to receive a doll for Christmas, only to get a pair of crutches instead. As Pollyanna did with her crutches, I tucked my book away in case it should be needed. Unlike Pollyanna, I was not as cheerful when I discovered it was.
However, it's a great book. At least I think so, because I can only bear to read it for about twelve seconds at a time. But every time I pick it up, I randomly flip it open to a page that is helpful right at that very minute. And now I wish I had read it earlier when it didn't seem so fraught. But no matter. It is a good book, it reminds me of the person who gave it to me, and it is giving me what I need as I need it.
In a somewhat bizarre twist, both I and the other friend who were given the book were diagnosed with cancer within a few years of receiving it. So I would like to propose that Emily's next book be titled, "How to Manage Your Lottery Winnings and Still Have Time for a Daily Massage." I promise, I'll be first in line at the book signing.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Thursday, March 27, 2014
The Universe Delivers
Sometimes the universe delivers exactly what you need to hear. Or, more likely, it was always there, but you managed to wiggle the knob on the old radio in your head just so the station comes in, maybe a little staticky, but well enough to hear.
Yesterday I heard two references to grief that were so spot on. The first, an author discussing her book and talking about "the cue-ball break of grief, where everyone goes into their own pocket," was so true, because grief, no matter if shared, is still so private and must be dealt with in one's own way. And this, from Anne Lamott: "The only cure for grief is grieving."
For reasons passing understanding, yesterday I realized that I have cancer, and that it might kill me. I know it might not, and that most of you would prefer that I hang on to that. But it might, it really might. There's a decent chance that this is not a drill, though it's too early to tell. And so what I am grieving right now is not my life or my general good health, both of which I still have, but the ability to take those things for granted.
Up until now, even after my doctor appointment a month ago, I have kept the cancer in a box. I have had lots of work to do, and other obligations, and I have just dealt with them and been grateful for them. But yesterday all hell broke loose.
I called the social worker at the Eye Center, who is a lovely woman and who did not try to jolly me out of the realization that I might die far earlier than I would prefer. On the other hand, I'm not ready to pick out my shroud yet, and she was a little too willing to browse the aisles at Shrouds R Us with me. So that conversation lasted a couple minutes longer than I needed.
My husband called me from work as he often does, to check in and to make sure I haven't gone too batty from sitting at a keyboard alone all day, like Jack Nicholson in the Shining. He heard something weird in my voice, darling fella that he is, and I told him that I was scared and that I need to be able to acknowledge that with him because he is my person. That I did not want to freak him out or make him think I was conceding defeat, but that I need to acknowledge reality and take care of some of what the funeral people call "pre-planning." I asked if he thought I should get a plot for just myself or if we should pick out a doublewide, generously allowing as how his next wife might not want him shacking up with me after death. He quietly said, "There's not going to be a next wife." (Total lie, BTW, he's such a catch the ladies will be lining up on the porch with casseroles before I'm cold. He's not going to have a chance against that, but that will be his problem.) "Doublewide it is," I said grimly.
I really do hope all this is irrelevant for decades, but I so appreciated his willingness to neither give up on my life nor ignore the prospect of my death. I hate it SO MUCH when people say to "stay strong," because what it means is, "I have no idea what to do with your weakness, so please hide it." He doesn't ask that of me, which is one reason he's such a catch. He lets me grieve, so I have the chance to be happy again, for as long as I have. And I hope it's a really long time.
Yesterday I heard two references to grief that were so spot on. The first, an author discussing her book and talking about "the cue-ball break of grief, where everyone goes into their own pocket," was so true, because grief, no matter if shared, is still so private and must be dealt with in one's own way. And this, from Anne Lamott: "The only cure for grief is grieving."
For reasons passing understanding, yesterday I realized that I have cancer, and that it might kill me. I know it might not, and that most of you would prefer that I hang on to that. But it might, it really might. There's a decent chance that this is not a drill, though it's too early to tell. And so what I am grieving right now is not my life or my general good health, both of which I still have, but the ability to take those things for granted.
Up until now, even after my doctor appointment a month ago, I have kept the cancer in a box. I have had lots of work to do, and other obligations, and I have just dealt with them and been grateful for them. But yesterday all hell broke loose.
I called the social worker at the Eye Center, who is a lovely woman and who did not try to jolly me out of the realization that I might die far earlier than I would prefer. On the other hand, I'm not ready to pick out my shroud yet, and she was a little too willing to browse the aisles at Shrouds R Us with me. So that conversation lasted a couple minutes longer than I needed.
My husband called me from work as he often does, to check in and to make sure I haven't gone too batty from sitting at a keyboard alone all day, like Jack Nicholson in the Shining. He heard something weird in my voice, darling fella that he is, and I told him that I was scared and that I need to be able to acknowledge that with him because he is my person. That I did not want to freak him out or make him think I was conceding defeat, but that I need to acknowledge reality and take care of some of what the funeral people call "pre-planning." I asked if he thought I should get a plot for just myself or if we should pick out a doublewide, generously allowing as how his next wife might not want him shacking up with me after death. He quietly said, "There's not going to be a next wife." (Total lie, BTW, he's such a catch the ladies will be lining up on the porch with casseroles before I'm cold. He's not going to have a chance against that, but that will be his problem.) "Doublewide it is," I said grimly.
I really do hope all this is irrelevant for decades, but I so appreciated his willingness to neither give up on my life nor ignore the prospect of my death. I hate it SO MUCH when people say to "stay strong," because what it means is, "I have no idea what to do with your weakness, so please hide it." He doesn't ask that of me, which is one reason he's such a catch. He lets me grieve, so I have the chance to be happy again, for as long as I have. And I hope it's a really long time.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Mr. Kobayashi's Mailbox
So, the part that I left out of the last post is that I almost killed myself after the bad news from Tuesday's doctor appointment.
No, not on purpose. That is NOT how we roll.
How we do roll, however, is down the highway for an hour, with tears streaming down our face the whole time. After a night of fitful sleep, and half an antianxiety pill taken because we had to go to the doctor appointment alone.
Accordingly, I fell asleep at the wheel.
Not, mercifully, on the highway or a main road. Somewhat embarrassingly, I fell asleep at the wheel of my husband's brand new car around the corner from my house. Within easy walking distance.
I remember feeling like I might like to relax for a bit when I got home. I don't remember feeling especially sleepy. I very vividly remember jerking awake as my vehicle drifted to the right, and swerving rapidly to the left. Mercifully (again), I did not make contact with any cars, humans, strollers, or animals.
What I did make contact with, because I swerved a split-second too late, was Mr. Kobayashi's mailbox.
The mailbox, with mail still inside, landed squarely in the middle of Mr. Kobayashi's tidy lawn. I stopped my car, inspected it for damage (of which there was, thankfully, very little), and turned around, pulling into the driveway of the house with an intact mailbox post, but no mailbox. I had no idea whose house it was, but there was a truck in the driveway, so picked up the mailbox in my arms like it was a baby, and knocked.
It took him a while to get to the door, almost long enough for me to give up, except I didn't give up because I had an armload full of mailbox and no idea what to do with it. So I stood there until the door opened.
Which it eventually did, to reveal an older Japanese man who spoke English, but obviously not as a first language.
I do not know why Mr. Kobayashi came to this country, or when, or what he expected when he did. But I am certain it was not for an incoherent middle-aged woman to ring his doorbell, weeping hysterically, and bearing his deceased mailbox like a temple sacrifice.
At the moment in question, neither of us had an excellent command of the English language, so he kept asking if I was okay, and I kept saying yes (um, obvious lie, but the truth was too complicated). I kept apologizing and said I would get him a new mailbox. He said he would attach it to the post. He asked again if I was okay. I said yes again. We exchanged names and phone numbers like it was a normal traffic accident, with, you know, a normal driver.
The car, miraculously, had only a crack in the casing of the side mirror and some white paint on the door handle. I drove it home and called my husband to ask if, on the way home from work, he would mind picking up a standard white mailbox for me. And then, I explained why I needed it.
To the man's credit, he did not once ask about the condition of his vehicle. (Although, being a good engineer, he did want more specs on the mailbox.)
The next morning, I somewhat sheepishly carried the new mailbox over to Mr. Kobayashi's house. He opened the door a little quicker this time, obviously cheered by the fact that I no longer appeared to be a recently furloughed patient from the state hospital. He bowed repeatedly, smiling and saying, "I'm glad you're okay!" He accepted the new mailbox as if it were a surprise gift that turned out to be exactly what he had wanted all along.
Now, this is the time of year when my people are thinking more than usual about forgiveness--asking for it and giving it. This story involves two men who had every right to be angry with me, because I broke their stuff, and could have broken it much worse. But neither one of them so much as betrayed a moment's irritation. Only concern for my well-being. I didn't even have to ask for forgiveness. It was just there.
And perhaps this is the best part of the story, aside from the fact that I didn't plow into a tree or another car: just when angry, grouchy, pinched-up little me could use an earthly model for how to forgive, I actually get two.
No, not on purpose. That is NOT how we roll.
How we do roll, however, is down the highway for an hour, with tears streaming down our face the whole time. After a night of fitful sleep, and half an antianxiety pill taken because we had to go to the doctor appointment alone.
Accordingly, I fell asleep at the wheel.
Not, mercifully, on the highway or a main road. Somewhat embarrassingly, I fell asleep at the wheel of my husband's brand new car around the corner from my house. Within easy walking distance.
I remember feeling like I might like to relax for a bit when I got home. I don't remember feeling especially sleepy. I very vividly remember jerking awake as my vehicle drifted to the right, and swerving rapidly to the left. Mercifully (again), I did not make contact with any cars, humans, strollers, or animals.
What I did make contact with, because I swerved a split-second too late, was Mr. Kobayashi's mailbox.
The mailbox, with mail still inside, landed squarely in the middle of Mr. Kobayashi's tidy lawn. I stopped my car, inspected it for damage (of which there was, thankfully, very little), and turned around, pulling into the driveway of the house with an intact mailbox post, but no mailbox. I had no idea whose house it was, but there was a truck in the driveway, so picked up the mailbox in my arms like it was a baby, and knocked.
It took him a while to get to the door, almost long enough for me to give up, except I didn't give up because I had an armload full of mailbox and no idea what to do with it. So I stood there until the door opened.
Which it eventually did, to reveal an older Japanese man who spoke English, but obviously not as a first language.
I do not know why Mr. Kobayashi came to this country, or when, or what he expected when he did. But I am certain it was not for an incoherent middle-aged woman to ring his doorbell, weeping hysterically, and bearing his deceased mailbox like a temple sacrifice.
At the moment in question, neither of us had an excellent command of the English language, so he kept asking if I was okay, and I kept saying yes (um, obvious lie, but the truth was too complicated). I kept apologizing and said I would get him a new mailbox. He said he would attach it to the post. He asked again if I was okay. I said yes again. We exchanged names and phone numbers like it was a normal traffic accident, with, you know, a normal driver.
The car, miraculously, had only a crack in the casing of the side mirror and some white paint on the door handle. I drove it home and called my husband to ask if, on the way home from work, he would mind picking up a standard white mailbox for me. And then, I explained why I needed it.
To the man's credit, he did not once ask about the condition of his vehicle. (Although, being a good engineer, he did want more specs on the mailbox.)
The next morning, I somewhat sheepishly carried the new mailbox over to Mr. Kobayashi's house. He opened the door a little quicker this time, obviously cheered by the fact that I no longer appeared to be a recently furloughed patient from the state hospital. He bowed repeatedly, smiling and saying, "I'm glad you're okay!" He accepted the new mailbox as if it were a surprise gift that turned out to be exactly what he had wanted all along.
Now, this is the time of year when my people are thinking more than usual about forgiveness--asking for it and giving it. This story involves two men who had every right to be angry with me, because I broke their stuff, and could have broken it much worse. But neither one of them so much as betrayed a moment's irritation. Only concern for my well-being. I didn't even have to ask for forgiveness. It was just there.
And perhaps this is the best part of the story, aside from the fact that I didn't plow into a tree or another car: just when angry, grouchy, pinched-up little me could use an earthly model for how to forgive, I actually get two.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
In Which Eye Get Disturbing News
Went back to Dr. M. for my quarterly eye check yesterday. I was a little anxious, but not terribly so. I'd been feeling pretty good. I had been having some funky symptoms several weeks back, but they had abated. The news so far had all been good, so I was less worried about my checkup than I'd ever been before.
So I was really not expecting anything other than favorable news. Or at least neutral.
You can see where this is going, right?
The good news is my eye pressure is normal after a spike in the fall. The bad news is that the tumor looks a weensy bit bigger than it was last time, when it had continued to shrink so beautifully. The increase is small enough that the doctor thinks it could even be a measurement error. He says the visual characteristics of the tumor suggest that it is not active. I asked if any of this affected my prognosis and he said no.
Nonetheless: bigger.
The next step is a recheck in six weeks, an injection directly into my eyeball, and possible laser therapy. I'll keep you posted.
So I was really not expecting anything other than favorable news. Or at least neutral.
You can see where this is going, right?
The good news is my eye pressure is normal after a spike in the fall. The bad news is that the tumor looks a weensy bit bigger than it was last time, when it had continued to shrink so beautifully. The increase is small enough that the doctor thinks it could even be a measurement error. He says the visual characteristics of the tumor suggest that it is not active. I asked if any of this affected my prognosis and he said no.
Nonetheless: bigger.
The next step is a recheck in six weeks, an injection directly into my eyeball, and possible laser therapy. I'll keep you posted.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
What I Did On My Summer Vacation, and What's Next
It occurs to me that if you're going to write a blog about your cancer, you should probably update it periodically so that people don't think you died.
I haven't died.
The good news is that I've mostly been busy with good stuff. Lots of work, and traveling with my family from one end of the state to the other this summer. We spent an evening in Asheville with one of my fellow "one-eyed jacks" from my hospital stay and his wife. I won't say that having cancer was worth it just to have met them, but they are pretty awesome. I'd say they're easily worth a torn ACL or a bad kidney stone.
I also spent a day in July with Dr. M., during which he proclaimed the shrinkage of my tumor "Fabulous--on a scale of one to ten, it's nine-plus." The best part was how pleased with himself he looked, like a little leaguer who always thought he could hit a home run, but just found out for sure.
I've got another appointment in three weeks. I'm a little worried, because the eye's been a little funky. Not terribly so, not enough to try to get the appointment moved up. But enough to e-mail the doctor and say, "You know what would be really helpful in the week leading up to this appointment? Anti-anxiety meds." By the time I realized that would be helpful last time, I was already IN the appointment, waiting to see the doctor, and his staff kept helpfully saying, "No, I'm sorry, I can't get you anything, you'll have to wait to see the doctor." It was almost as if they didn't realize that the interminable wait to see the doctor was the reason my fingernails were firmly embedded in the acoustic ceiling tiles in the first place.
This is going to be my first solo eye appointment since my diagnosis. My poor husband's got to work sometime. And while he could theoretically take a vacation day to accompany me, he's taking one six days later for my CT scan. I don't want him to have to tell the kids we can't go away for spring break because Daddy spent all his vacation days in Cancerville.
Nobody likes to spend all their vacation days in Cancerville. There's not even a pool bar.
So, here's hoping I can be a brave buckaroo and that Dr. M. is willing to write me a week's worth of chemical serenity. If not, I'll just have to write out my anxieties. Which means you'll probably be seeing a lot more of me.
I haven't died.
The good news is that I've mostly been busy with good stuff. Lots of work, and traveling with my family from one end of the state to the other this summer. We spent an evening in Asheville with one of my fellow "one-eyed jacks" from my hospital stay and his wife. I won't say that having cancer was worth it just to have met them, but they are pretty awesome. I'd say they're easily worth a torn ACL or a bad kidney stone.
I also spent a day in July with Dr. M., during which he proclaimed the shrinkage of my tumor "Fabulous--on a scale of one to ten, it's nine-plus." The best part was how pleased with himself he looked, like a little leaguer who always thought he could hit a home run, but just found out for sure.
I've got another appointment in three weeks. I'm a little worried, because the eye's been a little funky. Not terribly so, not enough to try to get the appointment moved up. But enough to e-mail the doctor and say, "You know what would be really helpful in the week leading up to this appointment? Anti-anxiety meds." By the time I realized that would be helpful last time, I was already IN the appointment, waiting to see the doctor, and his staff kept helpfully saying, "No, I'm sorry, I can't get you anything, you'll have to wait to see the doctor." It was almost as if they didn't realize that the interminable wait to see the doctor was the reason my fingernails were firmly embedded in the acoustic ceiling tiles in the first place.
This is going to be my first solo eye appointment since my diagnosis. My poor husband's got to work sometime. And while he could theoretically take a vacation day to accompany me, he's taking one six days later for my CT scan. I don't want him to have to tell the kids we can't go away for spring break because Daddy spent all his vacation days in Cancerville.
Nobody likes to spend all their vacation days in Cancerville. There's not even a pool bar.
So, here's hoping I can be a brave buckaroo and that Dr. M. is willing to write me a week's worth of chemical serenity. If not, I'll just have to write out my anxieties. Which means you'll probably be seeing a lot more of me.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
After Forty, Everybody Wakes Up Broken
A few years ago, a friend of mine, listening to me bemoan some ache or pain, said one of the truest things I've ever heard: After forty, everybody wakes up broken.
Not completely broken, of course, and not necessarily physically. And as too many of my friends know, some of the brokenness shows up well before forty. But if you are lucky enough to see your fifth decade dawn, you have got some dents and dings. If you're really lucky, they're all on the outside.
Mine, of course, is the gimpy eye. A couple of months after my surgery I started to notice that in pictures, it doesn't as open as wide as the other one. I started to look more closely in the mirror. Sure enough, it doesn't. If both of my eyes looked that way, I might look sultry. As it is, I look a little drunk. Sometimes I try to make the eyes match by squinting the one or opening the other as wide as I can, but then I just look either deeply suspicious or highly alarmed. So I just let it be. The price of this year, and the next, and what I hope are decades to come, is a gimpy eye. I'll take it.
My husband woke up the day before his forty-fourth birthday in the middle of the night and promptly passed out. Turns out he has a great heart with a lousy electrical system. I still think the cardiologist who saw him moonlights as a mechanic at his brother-in-law's garage. He didn't look like a cardiologist. He looked like someone's mechanic brother-in-law who walked into the hospital and borrowed a white coat on a dare. But he correctly diagnosed that my husband needed a pacemaker, which he now has. My husband is going to write a book about the experience someday, presumably in much the same way I am going to clean the house someday.
And so, here we are. Gimpy eye, funky heart. All we need is Toto and a couple of flying monkeys and it's practically the Wizard of Oz around here.
We joke that we're stuck with each other, because who the hell else would want us? But really, we'd want each other anyway, busted or not. And the beautiful thing my friend didn't tell me, or else didn't know: if your luck is really good, you find someone whose broken places fit with yours like two puzzle pieces. Straight edges look nice. But it's the bumps and dents that help you stick together.
Not completely broken, of course, and not necessarily physically. And as too many of my friends know, some of the brokenness shows up well before forty. But if you are lucky enough to see your fifth decade dawn, you have got some dents and dings. If you're really lucky, they're all on the outside.
Mine, of course, is the gimpy eye. A couple of months after my surgery I started to notice that in pictures, it doesn't as open as wide as the other one. I started to look more closely in the mirror. Sure enough, it doesn't. If both of my eyes looked that way, I might look sultry. As it is, I look a little drunk. Sometimes I try to make the eyes match by squinting the one or opening the other as wide as I can, but then I just look either deeply suspicious or highly alarmed. So I just let it be. The price of this year, and the next, and what I hope are decades to come, is a gimpy eye. I'll take it.
My husband woke up the day before his forty-fourth birthday in the middle of the night and promptly passed out. Turns out he has a great heart with a lousy electrical system. I still think the cardiologist who saw him moonlights as a mechanic at his brother-in-law's garage. He didn't look like a cardiologist. He looked like someone's mechanic brother-in-law who walked into the hospital and borrowed a white coat on a dare. But he correctly diagnosed that my husband needed a pacemaker, which he now has. My husband is going to write a book about the experience someday, presumably in much the same way I am going to clean the house someday.
And so, here we are. Gimpy eye, funky heart. All we need is Toto and a couple of flying monkeys and it's practically the Wizard of Oz around here.
We joke that we're stuck with each other, because who the hell else would want us? But really, we'd want each other anyway, busted or not. And the beautiful thing my friend didn't tell me, or else didn't know: if your luck is really good, you find someone whose broken places fit with yours like two puzzle pieces. Straight edges look nice. But it's the bumps and dents that help you stick together.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
The Secret Reason We Got the Dog
There is a story to tell here, and I will give you the short and long versions:
The Short Version: I went to Durham yesterday for my semi-annual CT scan, and it was clean--no spread of cancer--and I don't have to have another one until right before Halloween. Although I have to get a steroid shot in my EYE in July, and won't that make a jolly blog post!
The Long Version: So, we got this dog. Her name is Juno and she's a beautiful black Lab mix. We don't know what the Lab is mixed with, but it was obviously smaller than a Lab. Our girl is a dainty 60 pounds.
We started looking for a dog with the kids last March in Georgia. We were about a week away from getting one when Greg lost his job. All non-essential spending went out the window, including pets (and we had no idea then how expensive a pet could be). We decided to hold off until Greg got a new job.
In October we moved here to North Carolina, and barely had time to revive our doggie dreams before I was diagnosed with choroidal ocular melanoma less than three weeks after we moved into our house. Obviously I was going to have to go through my five-day radiation treatment in the hospital, and then recovery from surgery, before we could think about a dog. And, of course, then it was the holidays, and things were just too hectic to introduce a dog into the household then.
So it was that on January 6, we found ourselves at the local shelter. We'd looked at the online dating profiles of some of the dogs and had a few in mind, but just as in actual dating, the profiles didn't tell the whole story, and none of our prospects were right for us. But as we had walked up, we'd seen a volunteer walking a black dog she'd proclaimed to be a "real snuggler." We'd smiled politely, intent on meeting the dogs we'd identified online, but now we decided to give the snuggler a second look, and we fell in love.
We'd wanted a dog for a lot of reasons. Walking a dog in a new neighborhood is a great way to make friends, for grownups and kids, not to mention good exercise. We were big believers in "pet therapy," and felt a dog would be good company and spur my recovery. Dogs are fun and cute and lovable. And we knew that if we adopted a shelter dog, we'd be saving it from a bad fate, and making room for one more dog in the shelter so that dog could find a home.
And then there was the reason I didn't tell anybody. My cancer reason.
I figured, if anything happened to me, the dog would comfort Greg and the kids. And also maybe help Greg find somebody new, because women stop to talk to guys with dogs. He's a handsome fella, he doesn't really need a dog as a wingman, but it's a litmus test: a woman who is drawn to a black Lab is not the same as a woman who is drawn to a little fluffy dog. And my husband doesn't need a little-fluffy-dog type.
There was another cancer reason, too.
About twenty years ago, my aunt and uncle's faithful dog died suddenly. Three days later, my uncle also died suddenly. There was conjecture that the dog knew somehow, and wanted to be ready at the door to greet him. A few years later, the same thing happened with the grandmother of a friend. I started to hear of other stories.
So, I thought to myself: I really don't want to go, but if I had to, it would be nice to have a dog there waiting. And I picked a young dog, because, hey, I'm not in any hurry.
(The thing with this cancer: it's not like other cancers. It's not like if you get to five years post treatment, you're considered cured. It apparently decides to spread whenever the hell it feels like it. Three years, five years, twelve, whatever. That's why the scans every six months. There's a roughly 80% chance that it won't come back by five years. The stats after that are a little fuzzy. I'm probably going to be okay, but maybe not. And if it comes back, it's pretty much incurable. Maybe that will change with more research, but right now--not good.)
So, as I said, I picked a young dog. I'd like to stick around.
And then I discovered the angry red-and-white growth on her toe.
Ordinarily, I would not have been too alarmed, but I know that black Labs are prone to tumors, especially on their feet. I immediately pictured us together in a pet-friendly hospice, with matching morphine drips. (You may have noticed I am a little prone to jumping to disastrous conclusions.) I thought, well, maybe I picked the right dog after all. Maybe she knew something was wrong with me, and developed a tumor in sympathy. In my head, I began referring to the two of us as "Tumors R Us."
But it turned out her growth wasn't a tumor at all; it was a rather unpleasant abscess caused by something she stepped on, probably a sliver of wood. It felt like a good sign, even if she did have to wear the Cone of Shame for a week while it started to heal. And then I had my scan, and the doctor, who probably remembers my meltdown of a few months back, was barely in the door before she said, "Your scans look great."
Nobody knows what the future brings, of course. I'll have what my friend Chris calls "scanxiety" in the weeks leading up to every scan for the rest of my life. But for right now, I've got an extension for another six months, and I'll take it.
Also, I won't be letting my husband walk the dog by himself. I don't need some neighborhood hussy moving in on my man. Or my pet. I'm still here, and planning to stay.
The Short Version: I went to Durham yesterday for my semi-annual CT scan, and it was clean--no spread of cancer--and I don't have to have another one until right before Halloween. Although I have to get a steroid shot in my EYE in July, and won't that make a jolly blog post!
The Long Version: So, we got this dog. Her name is Juno and she's a beautiful black Lab mix. We don't know what the Lab is mixed with, but it was obviously smaller than a Lab. Our girl is a dainty 60 pounds.
We started looking for a dog with the kids last March in Georgia. We were about a week away from getting one when Greg lost his job. All non-essential spending went out the window, including pets (and we had no idea then how expensive a pet could be). We decided to hold off until Greg got a new job.
In October we moved here to North Carolina, and barely had time to revive our doggie dreams before I was diagnosed with choroidal ocular melanoma less than three weeks after we moved into our house. Obviously I was going to have to go through my five-day radiation treatment in the hospital, and then recovery from surgery, before we could think about a dog. And, of course, then it was the holidays, and things were just too hectic to introduce a dog into the household then.
So it was that on January 6, we found ourselves at the local shelter. We'd looked at the online dating profiles of some of the dogs and had a few in mind, but just as in actual dating, the profiles didn't tell the whole story, and none of our prospects were right for us. But as we had walked up, we'd seen a volunteer walking a black dog she'd proclaimed to be a "real snuggler." We'd smiled politely, intent on meeting the dogs we'd identified online, but now we decided to give the snuggler a second look, and we fell in love.
We'd wanted a dog for a lot of reasons. Walking a dog in a new neighborhood is a great way to make friends, for grownups and kids, not to mention good exercise. We were big believers in "pet therapy," and felt a dog would be good company and spur my recovery. Dogs are fun and cute and lovable. And we knew that if we adopted a shelter dog, we'd be saving it from a bad fate, and making room for one more dog in the shelter so that dog could find a home.
And then there was the reason I didn't tell anybody. My cancer reason.
I figured, if anything happened to me, the dog would comfort Greg and the kids. And also maybe help Greg find somebody new, because women stop to talk to guys with dogs. He's a handsome fella, he doesn't really need a dog as a wingman, but it's a litmus test: a woman who is drawn to a black Lab is not the same as a woman who is drawn to a little fluffy dog. And my husband doesn't need a little-fluffy-dog type.
There was another cancer reason, too.
About twenty years ago, my aunt and uncle's faithful dog died suddenly. Three days later, my uncle also died suddenly. There was conjecture that the dog knew somehow, and wanted to be ready at the door to greet him. A few years later, the same thing happened with the grandmother of a friend. I started to hear of other stories.
So, I thought to myself: I really don't want to go, but if I had to, it would be nice to have a dog there waiting. And I picked a young dog, because, hey, I'm not in any hurry.
(The thing with this cancer: it's not like other cancers. It's not like if you get to five years post treatment, you're considered cured. It apparently decides to spread whenever the hell it feels like it. Three years, five years, twelve, whatever. That's why the scans every six months. There's a roughly 80% chance that it won't come back by five years. The stats after that are a little fuzzy. I'm probably going to be okay, but maybe not. And if it comes back, it's pretty much incurable. Maybe that will change with more research, but right now--not good.)
So, as I said, I picked a young dog. I'd like to stick around.
And then I discovered the angry red-and-white growth on her toe.
Ordinarily, I would not have been too alarmed, but I know that black Labs are prone to tumors, especially on their feet. I immediately pictured us together in a pet-friendly hospice, with matching morphine drips. (You may have noticed I am a little prone to jumping to disastrous conclusions.) I thought, well, maybe I picked the right dog after all. Maybe she knew something was wrong with me, and developed a tumor in sympathy. In my head, I began referring to the two of us as "Tumors R Us."
But it turned out her growth wasn't a tumor at all; it was a rather unpleasant abscess caused by something she stepped on, probably a sliver of wood. It felt like a good sign, even if she did have to wear the Cone of Shame for a week while it started to heal. And then I had my scan, and the doctor, who probably remembers my meltdown of a few months back, was barely in the door before she said, "Your scans look great."
Nobody knows what the future brings, of course. I'll have what my friend Chris calls "scanxiety" in the weeks leading up to every scan for the rest of my life. But for right now, I've got an extension for another six months, and I'll take it.
Also, I won't be letting my husband walk the dog by himself. I don't need some neighborhood hussy moving in on my man. Or my pet. I'm still here, and planning to stay.
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