Jan. 9, 2016, 1:09 a.m.
So the dog is dying. Two months before Aila's leukemia, Brian noticed that Trinidad was drinking humongous amounts of water. Turns out that he was hypercalcemic (his body chemistry is messed up) as a result of his anal sac adenocarcinoma (i.e., cancer--really universe, really?). The vet gave him two months to live. The funny thing is that we started loading the kids into the wagon and taking walks with him around the neighborhood, reminiscing and sharing happy memories about Trinidad (and believe me, there are a million). The last time we took a walk with Trinidad was the week before Aila was diagnosed.
Seven months later, he's still here. But the past two weeks, he really hasn't been looking so hot. Back in the Summer (again before Aila was diagnosed), we had an awesome hospice vet visit and figured out a plan for the "end," which at that point we imagined would be much sooner. We watched his breathing every night. I spent sweet mornings before I headed to work telling him how much I loved him. He started taking prednisone, which treated to some extent the hypercalcemia. And then, for months, he carried on per his usual. Stealing food from the kids. Following Zander from room to room as he dropped cookie crumbs. Jumping up on counters during our absences to drag packages of bread or treats to a spot where he might eat them peacefully. He seemed more tired than usual, but then, so were we all.
During the past three weeks, things maybe have gotten worse than they have been, however. A ton of lethargy and a fair amount of incontinence (which, for the record, has always been his communication style of choice), interspersed with some happy moments of stealing food or running after the kids. I ask you to hold your judgmement! Perhaps others in a similar situation with a pet may have already pulled the trigger and called it. But I find myself unbelievably confused at the idea that I can spare my dog additional suffering but not my mother or my daughter.
Speaking of Aila, this week was agonizing. She (and her family!) somehow made it through seven agonizing days (and fourteen agonizing doses) of dexamethasone, which concluded on Wednesday morning. From Friday evening through Tuesday morning, Aila was awake for about 6 hours. When she slept, she looked like a washed-up methamphetamine junkie, with sallow, sunken eyes, and no color. On Wednesday night, after her body realized that it didn't get it's fix, she unleashed her fury. She barely slept, demanding bowls of sausage, plates of cheese, pasta, and "Mickey on the teevee." I stayed awake with her until 4am but then had to get some sleep before the next day, when I was slated to teach a 3-hour lecture. At 7am when she awoke demanding something, I screamed to Brian to "get her away from me," as I was so frustrated with the situation.
She's desperately immunocompromised, so we were all week expecting a fever and to be headed back to the hospital. But she didn't get a fever. She spent the week on her grandfather's couch, with him hanging out, getting her sausage and changing her diaper. (Thank you, Dad, with all our hearts.) No fever (yet), and this gave Brian and I time to work, get our hospital bag ready with cool-weather clothes, slippers for the hospital room, and toiletries. Today, after two full days off dexamethasone, she smiled for the first time in over a week. And she wanted to get up and walk (her version of walking) around my Dad's apartment.
So tell me, how do Brian and I decide to euthanize Trinidad? Everyone says, "you'll just know," and maybe we will. But our bar for bearing witness to suffering is pretty high, given my mother's agonizing Alzheimer's and Aila's journey. And I'm not a lawmaker or an ethicist, but right at this very moment...it's hard for us not to be frustrated that it's only the dog for whom we can provide any existential relief.
Wow, this is NOT an uplifting post, filled with hope and positive sentiment. My apologies. I actually sat down tonight with the idea of writing a funny post, since humor has defintely gotten me through a ton of dark days lately. But once I start writing, I guess I don't feel very funny.
I'll say one thing in closing. For those of you in our work and other worlds, Brian and I may be carrying on seemingly "as usual," and no doubt that will likely continue. It's kind of who we are. But make no mistake, this is not because we are just fine or even okay. Rather, when your child has a life-threatening illness, you are profoundly aware of all you have to lose. And if we lose some things or other things change in the long run, that's just fine. But Brian and I refuse to let cancer steal away anything in the moment. So we carry on with our lives and our careers (with the help of my father and others), as though nothing has changed, amidst this leukemia tornado. But make no mistake, as everything in the world is changed forever.
Love you, sweet baby. --Mom
Comments
Bruce MacEachern 8 years, 10 months ago
Reading your blog, I want to respond, but there are no words. I am listening.
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