So yeah, I'm back in the chemo ward for another dose to treat The Blood Thingie--a blood disorder that my doctors describe as "a major bummer, but it won't kill you."
They suggested another round of chemo in an attempt to halt the progression of nerve damage that has numbed my feet and is gradually creeping up my legs. They're even hoping for possible nerve regeneration as some patients with similar conditions have recently experienced through an ongoing, low-level chemo maintenance program.
Whatever it takes, folks. Whatever it takes.
After my first infusion Friday, I returned home not feeling all that great. Rituxan isn't the hair-loss-sick-as-a-dog type of chemo, but I did have to take a few drugs to prevent a possible reaction and the cumulative affect of everything left me a little queasy, lightheaded, and exhausted. Now would be a good time to take a nap.
I had just closed my eyes when Olivia came to the side of my bed and stared at me. She never joins me on the bed despite my encouragement that it's okay, girl, really. Jump! Jump! Instead, she prefers her oh, so deliciously smelly pillow on the floor.
This time though, to my surprise, Olivia jumped on the bed, towering over me and still just staring. She methodically sniffed my body up and down, up and down, sniff sniff sniff. Then she circled two or three times and spooned my side, resting her knobby little head across my chest. With my arms wrapped around my dog, smelling of oatmeal shampoo and froggy breath, we drifted off to sleep until a ringing phone woke us up three hours later.
Olivia's nose, that canine marvel equipped with more than 220 million olfactory receptors, told her that something was off. Something was coursing through her human's veins that didn't belong there. Something had to be done to comfort her human.
And that's just what my sweet girl did.
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.
This past Thanksgiving weekend, when Elvis was diagnosed with an aggressive tonsil cancer, my vet consulted with U.C. Davis School of Veterinary Medicine Oncology. After all, if anyone would know anything about anything, it would be them. And he was told that despite the seriousness of this particular cancer, chemo might buy my beautiful boy some quality time.
That was all I needed to hear. Quality time? Let's do it.
And so, I scheduled a three-hour drip chemo for Elvis that following week and he responded beautifully. Not only did he dodge potential side effects, but he appeared to be feeling better than ever. He was excited about walks, enthusiastic about food, and was traipsing around the house with a playfulness I hadn't seen in months. I was over-the-top delighted and encouraged.
Maybe my boy would be sticking around for awhile, after all.
And so, I was feeling pretty good this afternoon when I picked Elvis up from his second chemo treatment at my vet's office. We were fighting the good fight, doing all possible to delay this cancerous spread and, by all counts, we appeared to be holding down the fort. That's why I was blindsided by Dr. Arnott's news.
The tumor was back.
Already the size of a walnut, the cancerous demon has returned to the same spot where he excised a fist-sized tumor just three weeks ago. The chemo isn't helping, he told me. If it was, the tumor wouldn't have returned so quickly.
Dr. Arnott is calling U.C. Davis for further advice when they reopen after the holidays, but he warned me: there's not much else we can do to treat Elvis. As we were having this dire discussion, my sweet boy just stood there looking at me, anxious to leave and eager for a walk.
I took him on his walk and observed how deceptively healthy he looked. I admired his gentle beauty and thought about the little things he does that have become so entrenched in my life; the way he taps my face with his nose every night, when I'm in bed, before retiring to his La-Z-Dog Recliner. His happy little dance when I say the word, "cookie." The way he tucks his needle nose between my knees so I can scratch that spot between his ears.
I tried to imagine a life without Elvis and couldn't.
Our walk over, I brought him home. Held him. And cried.
Chemotherapy. The very word sounds lethal, conjuring up painful visions of cancer patients suffering through nausea, and hair and weight loss in their fight for survival.
The only treatment known for MGUS, the blood disorder I've been diagnosed with, is chemo. But the good news is that it's a "chemo-lite" called Rituxan. No nausea. No hair loss. The only long-term casualty is my immune system, which will be seriously compromised for at least one year. This means I'll need to avoid air travel, crowds, bubonic plagues, things like that.
So there I sat in the chemo ward as the nurse prepped me about what to expect and things I should do. I may experience flu-like symptoms for a day or two after each treatment. Okeefine. I should drink at least 32 ounces of water to help flush out my system. No problemo. Oh, and speaking of flushing:
"Be sure to flush your toilet twice for the next 48 hours," she told me. "This stuff is bad for your pipes."
Pipes? PIPES? What about my pipes? If she saw the look of horror on my face, she ignored it as she inserted the IV tube and exited stage left. The slow drip had begun.
And it was fine for the first four hours. When my best friend, Pam, learned I was planning on doing the treatment alone, she took the day off work and insisted on accompanying me. Yeah, she's that kind of friend. I hadn't wanted to bother anyone, but found myself grateful for her company. We were discussing diets, men, work, fashion, flipping through store catalogues and stuff like that. We might have been enjoying a conversation over an espresso at Starbucks, if not for that bag dripping the toxic sludge into my arm. Then the nurse came by.
"Just 15 minutes left," she chirped. "You're doing great." Hey, I was!
Her words were still floating through the air when I felt a back ache developing. Probably from sitting in the recliner-type chair for so long, I figured. So I stood up and stretched, and noticed the ache was extending down my legs and up my torso. Then I started to shiver, first a little, then a lot.
Ruh roh, Scooby Doo. Something wasn't right.
Can you get the nurse? " I asked Pam and sat back down. Suddenly my entire body started shaking uncontrollably, like Lindsey Lohan in front of a judge. When a nurse tried taking my temperature, she couldn't find one. Another took my blood pressure, which had dropped to 80/50. I started worrying I might see that infamous "bright light" as a flock of nurses rushed to my side. They heaped heated blankets on me, yanked out the IV and began flushing my veins with a saline solution to cleanse the chemo while pumping me with drugs to counteract the reaction.
Me? I semi-conked out.
And when I awoke a short while later, all was dippity-do-dah-dandy. The shaking had stopped, my temperature was normal, and the chemo was resumed to completion. Almost six hours later, I was done.
Until the next round, that is. Every Friday for three more weeks. It'll be fine. Really.
Let's just hope I can say the same for my toilet.
