When I once dreamed of sharing my life with a significant other, I never quite pictured my veterinarian as the man in mind. Alas, Dr. Arnott has indeed become the most steadfast, reliable and longest relationship I've had in recent years.
And I don't mean in a holding-hands-while-strolling-the-beach-at-sunset kind of way.
It's been a roller coaster whirlwind of emotions ever since Elvis was diagnosed with Squamous Cell Carcinoma (tonsil cancer) last November. There have been horrific days when I truly thought this was "goodbye," and glorious moments when I've almost believed my sweet pup might beat this demon. We were relishing those better moments up until last Wednesday night.
I was lying next to my boy on his La-Z-Dog recliner, cradling his head in my arms and rubbing his belly as is our nightly ritual. Elvis just eats this up. Whenever I stop, he raises his head and nudges my chin with his needle nose. "Carry on," is the obvious message. But this time when he raised his head, I saw that the crook of my arm, from elbow to wrist, was wet. Soaked.
In blood.
The incision on his neck was leaking. Gushing, actually, a pink watery fluid. Don'tpanicdon't panicdon'tpanic.
And I didn't. Instead, I remembered to use a sanitary napkin as a makeshift bandage (a most handy tip from a pet first aid class) and wrapped his neck with gauze. This enabled me to avoid a pricey trip to Emergency and safely control the leak until morning when I could take him to see my significant other. Dr. Arnott drained the remaining fluid from Elvis' neck, cleaned and wrapped the site, and reminded me that this leaking business is good: the chemo is dissolving the tumor.
Alleluia, right? Except the leaking hasn't subsided.
Over the past 12 days, I've taken Elvis to Oak Tree Animal Hospital every single night, except Sundays when the clinic is closed, to have his incision drained and cleaned. It's getting to be our daily ritual: work all day, drive my one-hour commute home, pick up Elvis, rush to vet, drain, clean, wrap.
Sigh. And we were there again tonight.
But trust me, I'm not complaining. I'll do whatever it takes to keep my boy comfortable. However, I have learned one thing:
The next time I wish for a steady man in my life, I'll be a little more specific.
I'm feeling sad tonight, so very sad.
Took Elvis to the vet this afternoon to get the stitches removed from the throat surgery he had two weeks ago, and to have his general condition evaluated.
It's been my observation that he just hasn't bounced back from this second operation, but what do I know? I"m just his "mom" after all, and not a veterinary professional. Maybe Dr. Arnott would see something I wasn't seeing, something good. Something optimistic. Something to give me hope that my boy might be okay after all.
"We probably shouldn't continue the chemo," he sighed after looking Elvis over. "It's not having the effect we were hoping for."
I knew that. In my heart, I knew that.
Yet still, I've been hoping against hope that the chemo might buy me some extra quality time with this dog I love so very much. Time to enjoy leisurely walks to the park. Time to watch him devour his meals with gusto. Time to relish his playful greetings when I come home from work each night, and time to lay alongside him on his La-Z-Dog recliner and feel my blood pressure drop while holding my beautiful boy.
But I've seen none of this over the past two weeks. He's been sluggish, quiet, morose. Nibbling at his food and disinterested in walks, just stretched across his pillow, barely breathing it sometimes seems. He doesn't appear to be in discomfort or pain, however, this isn't the Quality Time I envisioned for Elvis. And it certainly isn't what I want for him.
Tonight was a turning point because I've resigned myself to the inevitable. I'm not going to subject Elvis to anymore invasive chemo treatments or stressful vet visits. Instead, I'll embrace what time we have left, spoil him rotten, and try to take comfort in the fact that when Elvis does cross the Rainbow Bridge, I'll be handing him off to my mom, who will be waiting on the other side with open arms. I know she'll take good care of her cherished "grandpuppy."
Until then, he's mine. And I'm treasuring every minute.
Ever since Elvis had his second surgery for a cancerous tumor on Friday, I've been observing his slow recovery, kicking myself and agonizing:
Did I do the right thing?
Friends who called over the weekend to check on Elvis wound up getting an ear full of tears as I sobbed my concern that I shouldn't have put him through such a brutal procedure. I should have just accepted the inevitable, kissed my sweet companion goodbye, and put him to sleep.
Wonderful friends that I have, they reassured me that I made the best decision based on the information available at that time. No one anticipated the viciousness of this second tumor. And Elvis might bounce back, they reminded me. There might still be some quality time ahead.
Still, I've felt nothing but remorse. Did I do the second surgery for Elvis...or for me?
This is why I was so grateful for a website comment I found the other night. It was in response to my recent column about Elvis that ran in the San Francisco Chronicle a couple weeks ago:
"Eileen, like so many others, I have loved Elvis for years and hope for his happiness and comfort as long as you can be together. I know that any decisions you make will be with his best in mind.The years you have shared him and Lucy with us are precious. The gift of all the other critters' tales has been made all the more special because of the love you have shared with him. We KNOW you "get it."
The stories of your discoveries through Elvis, and all that came later (your mother and Lucy), empower us to do better with our own families (human and otherwise). Thank you. Give Elvis a skritch from us, keep us posted on the ups and downs. And may you both be fortunate enough to be there when he sleeps his last... (hopefully not too soon)."
These kind words stopped my tears, warmed my heart, and lifted the temporary amnesia that my tears had induced: it took an anonymous stranger to remind me that everything I've ever done has always been in the best interest of my beautiful boy. When that day comes and Elvis is ready to go, he'll let me know and I'll do right by him.
Just as he's always done by me.
I had planned on using this post to introduce my new ex-racer greyhound, Olivia. I was going to describe her sweet disposition, beautiful, brindle coat, and her four dainty paws that look like they've been dipped in milk. Not to mention the impressive fact that she hasn't yet had an accident in the house or chewed one single shoe.
I was going to boast that the lovely Olivia is a canine dream come true. But I can't write any of that. Not today, because my heart is breaking.
This morning I took Elvis to the vet to treat what was diagnosed last Friday as a mild case of doggie bronchitis. He appeared to be getting worse, so I thought another check-up before the offices close for Thanksgiving might be a good idea.
But instead of bronchitis, both Dr. Arnott and I were shocked to discover that, just since Friday, an ugly mass the size of a plum had sprouted on my pup's neck. Emergency surgery revealed it was just the tip of an even uglier tumor inside his throat. Dr. Arnott removed as much of the beast as he could, but said the roots extended far too deep to get it all.
Then he phoned with the news.
My beloved boy has a terminal and very aggressive tonsil cancer. Chemo and radiation aren't viable options, not for this type of cancer and certainly not for a 12-year old dog.
This afternoon, I returned to the clinic to visit Elvis since he has to spend the night hooked up to an IV. I laid on the floor near his crate and held his head against my chest until his agitated breathing slowed down and he started to relax. Through my tears, I stroked him, kissed him, and told him what a good boy he is and how much I love him. Oh, how I do.
And in his weakened, groggy, doped up state, Elvis managed to lift his paw and lay it across my arm. Letting me know, beyond a shadow of a doubt.
My boy, my precious boy. He loves me too.
