It's not Lyme disease. At least, Jessie may also have Lyme disease, but that's not the only or main thing wrong. When David got her to take her medicine today, and she threw up a couple hours later, still not eating much of anything at all, I called and got an appointment. I had to stay at work - today was end of quarter and one of our biggest days (I worked 12 hours yesterday and again today) . David took Jessie in. He called me later to say he'd left her there for them to give her fluids. They found "a mass" in her abdomen. Anyway, later the vet called me. They can't tell if it is malignant or benign without operating to remove her spleen and then a biopsy. The vet said there is more than a remote chance that it could be benign, and if it is, Jessie should be fine without her spleen. They are going to do a couple more tests in the morning - including more chest x-rays - to see if more tumors/masses are visible in other places in her body. If they are, then the surgery is probably not warranted because likely it is cancer and has already spread. If they don't find anything else, then Jessie will likely have the surgery in the morning. I have no idea how long it takes to find out results, except my guess is that even if they don't have formal "biopsy" results back right away, the surgeon will have some idea whether it "looks" good or bad.
I feel so bad for Jessie. I'm going to go visit her in the morning - because if she does have the surgery, the vet said there are risks and sometimes things happen, and I want to be sure to have been with her.
It feels ... extravagant to spend money for surgery on ... a dog ... and if the vet said or says tomorrow that the chances are overwhelming that it is cancer and her future is bleak, then I would say why make her go through more trauma of surgery. But if she has a chance- just a decent, fighting chance - to be well, healthy, I feel she deserves that chance. The first 3 years of her life were hard. She's just begun to really thrive. It's not enough. I want to give her that shot. Unless there is really no shot and it would just be harder on her.
Pray for sweet Jessie. Pray for all creatures who suffer- 2 legged, 4 legged, finned, winged - whether in hunger, in thirst, in pain, in disease, in old age, in loneliness, in poverty, in war, in fear.
Peace. Peace. Peace be upon us all, now and always.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Wednesday night
Jessie is only a smidgeon better; she had a little more energy today. With David's help, she got on the bed and rested there through the afternoon (she had been too weak/sore to even get on the bed or couch, 2 of her favorites reclining spots). She isn't eating, though. She did eat the "treat" with her medicine in it this morning, and one other "cookie". Tonight she ate another "treat" with pills in it, and a few scrambled eggs. Within an hour, she threw up - the eggs and I think the treat/pills, too. This isn't good news. However, she did walk around the block with David earlier today, and again tonight with me. Not much, but better than last night when all she would do was go out into the front yard. I guess we have to give it another day, but if she won't eat ...
Please keep Jessie in your thoughts.
Peace.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Tuesday afternoon
Lyme disease. At least that's what the vet thinks it likely is. Jessie tested positive for it (apparently a large number of dogs test positive for Lyme disease but are asymptomatic, at least for a long time.) The vet said that Lyme explained all of Jessie's symptoms. We came home with a vial of pills; the vet gave Jessie her first dose of 2 pills while we were there. Now it is 2 pills twice a day until they are used up. The vet thinks if it is Lyme disease (and only that) causing Jessie's symptoms, Jessie should feel better in just a day or two. And the pills will "cure" the Lyme (although she could get it again and we probably should have her vaccinated against Lyme, but only after she is completely well - about 2 months).
A big relief. I hope that it is Lyme and only Lyme. Not that I want Jessie to have Lyme disease, but it beats the alternatives - which could include all kinds of horrible things like ... cancer etc. But first things first - we need to get her past the Lyme and see if she gets back to her old pesky self.
Jessie perked up a little at the vet. Even ate a few treats given by the vet. But now, back home, she clearly still doesn't feel well. Nothing sadder than a sick dog... except - God forbid - a sick child.
Peace.
A big relief. I hope that it is Lyme and only Lyme. Not that I want Jessie to have Lyme disease, but it beats the alternatives - which could include all kinds of horrible things like ... cancer etc. But first things first - we need to get her past the Lyme and see if she gets back to her old pesky self.
Jessie perked up a little at the vet. Even ate a few treats given by the vet. But now, back home, she clearly still doesn't feel well. Nothing sadder than a sick dog... except - God forbid - a sick child.
Peace.
Tuesday morning
Jessie is sick. I don't know what it is. She's been a little finicky about her food for a couple of weeks. We thought it was the by-product of us spoiling her a little, giving her a "treat" from our dinner now and then. She had developed a habit of not eating her food if we were having a meal, and then after we finished, going and eating. But she was eating albeit less enthusiastically (in the past, she's been a wolfer). We went hiking on Sunday, a fairly rigorous hike. It pushed me (of course I'm out of shape) and it seemed to push Jessie, too. When we got home, she flopped down and stayed there. I expected that and so wasn't worried. She did eat her dinner and went for her normal nightly walk. Then in the middle of the night, she woke me with the sound of ... throwing up (sorry to be graphic). That was early yesterday morning. Since then she is lethargic, hasn't eaten. She has drunk water. She has gone outside to go to the bathroom, but is obviously not herself. I had called the vet for her annual check up which is next week, but I don't want to wait. I will call them when they open this morning and see if they can see her. Poor Jessie. Seeing her like this brings up so many feelings in me, which I try to push aside. This isn't about me. This is about Jessie.
I'm going to try to post a recent photo of her.
Pray for Jessie.
Peace.
I'm going to try to post a recent photo of her.
Pray for Jessie.
Peace.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Sunday morning
Good walk in the park with Jessie this morning. With the shortening days, arriving at 6:00 a.m. meant we were able to see the sun rise. Again it seemed a quiet morning, creature-wise. The most unusual creature spotting of the day was at the end of our walk, when to prolong it some, I took us back around the pond on the opposite side. There are two interesting trees - some kind of curly leaf willow - that must have once stood very close to the edge of the pond, both of which have fallen over or been toppled by wind. And there they lie, and seem to be thriving horizontally. Odd. Anyway, we passed them, keeping an eye on the pond in case the heron appeared. I heard voices and thought perhaps other walkers were approaching us from the other side of the pond. Instead we came upon a young couple laying down on colorful beach towels. A little further long, we came across another young couple on another brightly colored beach towel. At 6:45 a.m.? I wondered if they had spent the night in the park. At any rate, other than the Mallards, squirrels and one lone Canada goose (who seems to have been left behind) - these 2 couples were the only wildlife we encountered this morning.
Yesterday I attended the "Celebrating Survivorship" program at the hospital, celebrating survivors of gynecological cancers. There were perhaps 75 or 85 people there, mostly women, but obviously some spouses and other family members. Dr. R gave a brief introductory talk. Dr. M didn't talk, but was mentioned by numerous women who "shared" their stories at various points during the program. It evoked a wide range of mixed feelings in me. First arriving and getting a hug from Dr. R caused me to tear up. At the same time, it did seem that the majority of women there have put cancer further behind them than I have at this point. (This was the 7th year of this program.) It was inspiring to see so many women doing well, but also reminded me that I am still very close to the experiences of diagnosis, surgery, chemo and radiation. I ran into Dr. M at the end of the program and again, I have to say, that seeing him is a very positive experience for me. He exudes a belief in my being "cured" - not to say that he doesn't want to see me regularly, etc., but he seems so confident.
That's important because I realized something recently, which I expressed to my girlfriends V, S and M, when we had dinner last week. I realized that during the first 2-3 months after my treatment ended, I felt ... great. It was such a relief to complete treatment. It was an even greater relief to find myself feeling better and better every day - instead of worse and worse as had been the case during the accumulated side effects of the various treatments. Then at some point - not exactly sure when, but more or less some time during August - it seemed as if as my life really began to be "normal" again, I found anxiety lifting its ugly face within me.
What was I anxious about ? I asked myself, when I became aware I was. I guess that's obvious - that cancer could reoccur. And not only come back, but come back worse. It was as if during the first several months after treatment, I had no expectations beyond day-to-day living. Just being alive was wonderful. I was just grateful to put treatment behind me and live. All too soon I found myself becoming invested in making "plans," in thinking about "the future." "Today" was not enough, I wanted more. And so the fear of "what if" was born: What if cancer comes back? What if I only have a year to live? 5 years to live? What if? (And, you know, the first time you go through cancer, what you're afraid of is more-or-less the unknown. Because you've never had cancer or gone through chemo. But now, this "what if" is a grown up "what if" that has a better idea of what's involved. In some ways, an informed "what if" is less scary than fear of the unknown; but in other ways, it carries the weight of the concrete, the dread of reality.)
I need to remember what I wrote in"What I've Learned (So Far) From Cancer" - which I remind myself WAS addressed to me. I don't know if cancer will come back. But am I really going to spend every day in the meantime being anxious about that unknown? Even a perfect morning like today's, when the sunrise spread like a blush across the sky overhead? When Jessie sat patiently, likely hoping for a careless chipmunk's passing, as I moved slowly through my T'ai Chi form's pattern? When I heard birds calling nearby, and noticed how the flowers in the beds of the perennial garden all leaned as one, together, tilting to the east? Should I spend these precious moments being afraid?
This is all I have. This moment. I will not be afraid. At least I will try. I will live and I will be stubbornly hopeful.
Peace.
Yesterday I attended the "Celebrating Survivorship" program at the hospital, celebrating survivors of gynecological cancers. There were perhaps 75 or 85 people there, mostly women, but obviously some spouses and other family members. Dr. R gave a brief introductory talk. Dr. M didn't talk, but was mentioned by numerous women who "shared" their stories at various points during the program. It evoked a wide range of mixed feelings in me. First arriving and getting a hug from Dr. R caused me to tear up. At the same time, it did seem that the majority of women there have put cancer further behind them than I have at this point. (This was the 7th year of this program.) It was inspiring to see so many women doing well, but also reminded me that I am still very close to the experiences of diagnosis, surgery, chemo and radiation. I ran into Dr. M at the end of the program and again, I have to say, that seeing him is a very positive experience for me. He exudes a belief in my being "cured" - not to say that he doesn't want to see me regularly, etc., but he seems so confident.
That's important because I realized something recently, which I expressed to my girlfriends V, S and M, when we had dinner last week. I realized that during the first 2-3 months after my treatment ended, I felt ... great. It was such a relief to complete treatment. It was an even greater relief to find myself feeling better and better every day - instead of worse and worse as had been the case during the accumulated side effects of the various treatments. Then at some point - not exactly sure when, but more or less some time during August - it seemed as if as my life really began to be "normal" again, I found anxiety lifting its ugly face within me.
What was I anxious about ? I asked myself, when I became aware I was. I guess that's obvious - that cancer could reoccur. And not only come back, but come back worse. It was as if during the first several months after treatment, I had no expectations beyond day-to-day living. Just being alive was wonderful. I was just grateful to put treatment behind me and live. All too soon I found myself becoming invested in making "plans," in thinking about "the future." "Today" was not enough, I wanted more. And so the fear of "what if" was born: What if cancer comes back? What if I only have a year to live? 5 years to live? What if? (And, you know, the first time you go through cancer, what you're afraid of is more-or-less the unknown. Because you've never had cancer or gone through chemo. But now, this "what if" is a grown up "what if" that has a better idea of what's involved. In some ways, an informed "what if" is less scary than fear of the unknown; but in other ways, it carries the weight of the concrete, the dread of reality.)
I need to remember what I wrote in"What I've Learned (So Far) From Cancer" - which I remind myself WAS addressed to me. I don't know if cancer will come back. But am I really going to spend every day in the meantime being anxious about that unknown? Even a perfect morning like today's, when the sunrise spread like a blush across the sky overhead? When Jessie sat patiently, likely hoping for a careless chipmunk's passing, as I moved slowly through my T'ai Chi form's pattern? When I heard birds calling nearby, and noticed how the flowers in the beds of the perennial garden all leaned as one, together, tilting to the east? Should I spend these precious moments being afraid?
This is all I have. This moment. I will not be afraid. At least I will try. I will live and I will be stubbornly hopeful.
Peace.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Sunday evening
To the park with Jessie this morning. I woke up early, so early in fact that we had to wait a bit before we went so that we would not arrive in the dark (the park is supposedly open dawn to dusk). We saw the sun rise. Silver mist still lay shining on the meadow. Creatures were not stirring. I did my T'ai Chi form.
I made it through the Yom Kippur fast, aided I think by sleeping yesterday morning unbelievably late (for me): 11:30 a.m. Well, I did get up for a while - from 7:00 until around 8:00, reading. Then lay down on the couch and woke up at 11:30. I made it to synagogue at 12:00 noon. Services went until 3:00 p.m. and started again at 5:00 p.m. I came home and took another nap and went back at 6:00 p.m. Services concluded about 7:45 p.m. It is amazing what 26 hours without food or water does to those of us who are used to having both food and water at hand at any hour and all hours. Sobering liturgy, to paraphrase: On Rosh Ha Shannah it is written and on Yom Kippur it is sealed: who will live and who will die, who will die at his appointed time and who before his appointed time, who will grow wealthy, who will grow poor, who will die by fire, who by water, who will become lowered and who will be raised up. A year ago I went into Yom Kippur aware I had a medical "issue" - within weeks, I was in surgery, received the cancer diagnosis, etc. Now, here I am, NED - no evidence of disease. I think what Yom Kippur does for me is remind me not to take anything for granted.
I am wondering how cancer "survivors" count their "survival" - from their diagnosis? or from the end of their treatment? If from diagnosis, I am coming up soon on one year.
Next Saturday there is a morning program at the hospital where I had my surgery and cancer treatment for gynecological cancer survivors and their family. I have signed up. I heard Dr. R will be there. David likely won't go with me as he'll just be coming home from work, but that's okay. I have ambivalent feelings about it but think I will likely attend.
Meanwhile, on the home front - I am making plans for a trip to Atlanta, hopefully for my grandson's 4th birthday (Halloween). And as of yesterday, we have not had a working television for a week. We cut off cable and because we don't have a digital-ready TV, no TV whatsoever. An interesting week. We have watched movies. It seems like we have a lot more time.
21,000 people in Connecticut have already or are on the point of running out of 99 weeks of unemployement. The "poverty" level for a family of 4 is $22,000. $10,500 for an individual. Where would that individual live? What would that family of 4 eat?
I don't understand human beings, not forgetting that I am one, too.
Peace.
I made it through the Yom Kippur fast, aided I think by sleeping yesterday morning unbelievably late (for me): 11:30 a.m. Well, I did get up for a while - from 7:00 until around 8:00, reading. Then lay down on the couch and woke up at 11:30. I made it to synagogue at 12:00 noon. Services went until 3:00 p.m. and started again at 5:00 p.m. I came home and took another nap and went back at 6:00 p.m. Services concluded about 7:45 p.m. It is amazing what 26 hours without food or water does to those of us who are used to having both food and water at hand at any hour and all hours. Sobering liturgy, to paraphrase: On Rosh Ha Shannah it is written and on Yom Kippur it is sealed: who will live and who will die, who will die at his appointed time and who before his appointed time, who will grow wealthy, who will grow poor, who will die by fire, who by water, who will become lowered and who will be raised up. A year ago I went into Yom Kippur aware I had a medical "issue" - within weeks, I was in surgery, received the cancer diagnosis, etc. Now, here I am, NED - no evidence of disease. I think what Yom Kippur does for me is remind me not to take anything for granted.
I am wondering how cancer "survivors" count their "survival" - from their diagnosis? or from the end of their treatment? If from diagnosis, I am coming up soon on one year.
Next Saturday there is a morning program at the hospital where I had my surgery and cancer treatment for gynecological cancer survivors and their family. I have signed up. I heard Dr. R will be there. David likely won't go with me as he'll just be coming home from work, but that's okay. I have ambivalent feelings about it but think I will likely attend.
Meanwhile, on the home front - I am making plans for a trip to Atlanta, hopefully for my grandson's 4th birthday (Halloween). And as of yesterday, we have not had a working television for a week. We cut off cable and because we don't have a digital-ready TV, no TV whatsoever. An interesting week. We have watched movies. It seems like we have a lot more time.
21,000 people in Connecticut have already or are on the point of running out of 99 weeks of unemployement. The "poverty" level for a family of 4 is $22,000. $10,500 for an individual. Where would that individual live? What would that family of 4 eat?
I don't understand human beings, not forgetting that I am one, too.
Peace.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Thursday night
Just taking a quick moment to say things have settled down at work. I got through it. Thanks for those who sent messages of support. It's scary how a couple of days like that at work can bring home to you how much of your time (life) you give over to your "job" and how deeply things that happen there can affect you, not just on the surface (as in financially), but emotionally. I try to keep things in perspective; it is a JOB, not my life. And as I get older - and post-cancer (if just newly so) - I realize that I am more and more ready to let things go, to see it as a "job." The troubling thing is knowing that with a history of cancer, I am one of those people with a "pre-condition" that might never get medical insurance again if I left my current job. That changes things. Still, I had a talk with this woman at work today about the whole issue of letting go of things you can't control (this was a discussion about things in her life, not mine, but the lesson remains).
Tomorrow night is erev Yom Kippur - the eve of Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement. The day that God is said to "seal" the fate of every living thing for the year to come - in the Book of Life OR ... not. On Rosh Ha Shannah (New Year, last Thursday-Friday) it was "written," and on Yom Kippur, it is "sealed." Not sure where I am intellectually on this, but after more than 25 years of observance, the rituals and traditions of this holiday season are part of my emotional makeup now. The fast begins at sundown tomorrow and ends at sundown Saturday. Not just no food, but no water. It is almost always difficult for me, physically. I don't think I'll ever be able to say - and probably shouldn't - that I "look forward" to it. But perhaps I have come to dread it a little less each year. Not sure. I guess I've come to believe that I will do the best I can. And I will try to let go of the rest.
Can't we all just do the best we can? Could we believe that others also are - usually if not always - just trying to do the best they can? Could we cut a little slack for someone we're usually hard on? I'm going to try. Could it hurt that much to do that? For anyone I've offended in the past year, I ask your forgiveness. And for anyone who offended me, I forgive you.
How wonderful would it be for the world to start anew with a clean slate?
Peace. Peace. Peace.
Tomorrow night is erev Yom Kippur - the eve of Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement. The day that God is said to "seal" the fate of every living thing for the year to come - in the Book of Life OR ... not. On Rosh Ha Shannah (New Year, last Thursday-Friday) it was "written," and on Yom Kippur, it is "sealed." Not sure where I am intellectually on this, but after more than 25 years of observance, the rituals and traditions of this holiday season are part of my emotional makeup now. The fast begins at sundown tomorrow and ends at sundown Saturday. Not just no food, but no water. It is almost always difficult for me, physically. I don't think I'll ever be able to say - and probably shouldn't - that I "look forward" to it. But perhaps I have come to dread it a little less each year. Not sure. I guess I've come to believe that I will do the best I can. And I will try to let go of the rest.
Can't we all just do the best we can? Could we believe that others also are - usually if not always - just trying to do the best they can? Could we cut a little slack for someone we're usually hard on? I'm going to try. Could it hurt that much to do that? For anyone I've offended in the past year, I ask your forgiveness. And for anyone who offended me, I forgive you.
How wonderful would it be for the world to start anew with a clean slate?
Peace. Peace. Peace.
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