Remember
finals week? A week of one trial after
another. People on campus didn’t talk
much – everyone was buried in their books – sequestered in the library – or
hunkered down at a coffee shop.
Sometimes
life becomes a series of final exams – designed to test your will – your
fortitude – that inner strength that pushes you beyond which you thought you
were capable of coping… that’s what last
week was for me.
When I
arrived home from Baltimore a couple of weeks ago, my left arm was noticeably
swollen. I mentioned it to my chemo
nurse the next day and she thought perhaps it was a result of flying and my
altered diet from normal of Neil’s home cooking to eating out on the road. Over the course of the next week, the
swelling went down a bit, but it still felt tight and not quite right. My next chemo treatment – a week later – I
mentioned this condition again to my chemo nurse, and she immediately went to
chat with my doctor. While they weren’t
worried anything was life threatening, it was still something I should get
checked out. So the treatment went on as
planned and I left with an appointment for an ultrasound the next day.
Friday
afternoon, I head in for my ultrasound and there is definitely some kind of
blockage going on. So at 5:30 I get sent
to the ER to be administered a shot and get started on blood thinners. Lovely – just where I want to go on a Friday
night.
I arrive at
the ER and am escorted to a curtained “room” with a bed and told to hang
out. My neighbor to the right is a woman
who has fallen at her house and broke her shoulder in 4 places. My neighbor to the left arrives via the EMTs
– her name is Patricia – a nice little old lady that has dementia and keeps
complaining of chest pains (this is her 2nd time here in 2 weeks)
and she answers ‘yes’ to any question posed to her.
Finally, the
doc comes to see me and confirms that yes, I have a blood clot – though
apparently clots that develop in the arm aren’t prone to be life threatening,
but they want to make sure it doesn’t get any worse and I don’t develop any
more. Fair enough.
I get to
hang out for a couple of hours and I’m visited by a variety of nurses. Finally one comes in with my very own ‘home
injection kit’ and I’m told that I have to self-administer shots to my stomach
twice a day for the next 5 days. Are you
kidding me? She pulls out a syringe and
asks if I want to do it? Um – no thanks,
why don’t you do the first one?
I leave with
a prescription for 5 days of shots and pills and told if I hurry, I can make it
to the pharmacy before they close.
Test #1
complete.
The next
morning, I open up my little injection kit and just stare at the little
needle. Really? For once, I’m grateful for the added padding
around my mid-section, so I pinch a good inch, swab it with alcohol, pick up
the syringe and take a couple deep breaths…. 3 – 2 -1 – Go.
Test #2
complete.
Sunday
morning I take Neil to the airport – he’s off to Austin, TX for a
conference. I meet a friend for coffee
and then head home to mow the yard. Mom
and Dad are due to arrive in a couple of hours for a visit.
The next
couple of days are spent visiting with the folks and just hanging out. They take off around lunchtime on Tuesday and
I head off to meet up with Dr. Chemo to talk about my blood clot. Turns out he’s not too concerned – he’s sorry
it happened but knows that with my chemo almost over, this won’t be happening
anymore.
I came home
and made some cupcakes – I wanted to make something special to take to the
chemo nurses on Thursday for my final treatment. I spend the evening just hanging out with the
dogs and turn in around 10pm. As I turn
out the light, I hear a strange noise from the backyard. The dog door has opened, but it didn’t shut
properly and now there’s a weird noise coming from the gravel below. I get out of bed and look out the window,
trying to see something in the darkness.
What I see makes my heart stop – there is Mocha, my dog of 14+ years…
her back legs aren’t working and she is pulling herself through the gravel and
off into the bushes. I race down 2
flights of stairs with the other 2 dogs in hot pursuit and I pause at the back
door just long enough to pull on a pair of old sailing boots. I get to Mocha before she’s managed to drag
herself under the depths of a spiny, thorny bush and the poor girl is in a
panic and absolutely covered in beauty bark.
I manage to pick her up and carry her upstairs (thank you,
CrossFitX). I call the emergency vet and
they agree that I should bring her in, so off we go. X-rays are taken and nothing very decisive is
learned, so blood work is done and her protein levels are very low. This leads us to believe that there may have
been a tumor that ruptured and the resulting internal bleeding weakened her
enough that her already weak backend couldn’t function. They want to keep her the rest of the night
to monitor her and will continue to check her blood every 4 hours. I’m to return at 7:30 the next morning to
transport her to my vet so they can perform an ultrasound and we can hopefully
find out more.
I get back
home after midnight and Mambo and Murphy are both on edge. I send an email to the office to let them
know that I won’t be to work the next day and then fall into bed. At 5am, I get a text from my friend, Pam,
asking me what is wrong with Mocha? I
tell her what I know and she agrees to meet me at 7:30. Back at the emergency vet, we’re told that
Mocha was stable through the night but that she had not tried to stand at all,
so they prepare to carry her out to my car.
Suddenly, from the back we hear an exclamation, and here comes Mocha
walking through the door! She had heard
our voices and, in typical Mocha fashion, wanted to come out under her own
power. Stubborn old broad! She got to where I was standing and then
collapsed. No worries, Girl – we got
you. I try to thank the vet, but the
tears are too close to the surface and my voice just cuts off to nothing. She says ‘I hope you’re able to have more
time with her’. Dear God, I hope so too.
Now at
Northshore Vet, we talk to Dr. Colleen Coyne.
She tells us that she’ll take Mocha upstairs with her to the surgery
area and let her hang out with her for the morning until the 2 other vets can
perform an ultrasound. So now we
wait. Pam and I head off to a local
coffee shop and are soon joined by Michele Bodtke. Together, they try to keep my mind off what
my heart is dreading. After a couple of
hours, Pam heads home for a bit and Michele and I head downtown to grab a
sandwich. Just as we are entering the
restaurant, my phone rings and it’s the vet.
So, standing on a sidewalk, with both of our heads tilted toward the
cell phone, we listen. The ultrasound
suggests carcinoma tumors on her gallbladder, her spleen, her left kidney, plus
an enlarged liver and lymph nodes. It
doesn’t take a trained oncologist to see the writing on the wall, though we are
given various surgery options if that is a route we wish to pursue if I feel the need to prove what my heart is already telling me. We thank her and ask if we can have an hour
or so to talk things out. We’re told to
take whatever time we need, so we head into the restaurant and our poor server
has to deal with 2 crying women. After a
solid hour of talking through all the options and discussing whether waiting
for the next day so Neil could also be present was the right thing, we came to
the conclusion that what was best for Mocha would be to quietly end things
today. We communicate our plans with Pam
and the 3 of us rendezvous at Northshore Vet.
“Mocha’s Posse” has arrived. We
are escorted upstairs and meet once again with Dr. Coyne to let her know that I
have made up my mind and am confident that we are doing the right thing at the
right time. She lets me know that she
doesn’t have any commitments that evening, so if we wanted to take Mocha home
for a bit, she could come by the house after work and take care of things
there. That was the best news I had
heard in the past 18 hours, so we loaded Mocha onto a stretcher and I brought
her home. The next couple of hours were
wonderful. She laid down on her favorite
pillow in the sun and we all sat around and petted her while she napped. A little after 5pm, Dr. Coyne and a vet tech
arrived and it was all very peaceful.
Mambo and Murphy both got to sniff her and say their respective doggie
good-byes, as well as her human family.
I couldn’t help but wonder at the irony of it all… that Mocha passed on
the eve of my last chemo treatment. God
gives and God takes – her vigil over me was complete.
I pick Neil
up from the airport at midnight and once we’re home I head upstairs to fall
into bed. The day I have long dreaded is
done.
Test #3
complete.
The next
morning, I am solemn but collected.
Though my heart is heavy, I am at peace that I did the right thing at
the right time.
I spend the
morning finishing up the cupcakes for the nurses and then it’s time to head to the
anti-coagulation clinic to have my blood numbers checked. They check out within the range they are
hoping for, so from there it is on to the Cancer Center. There are 2 other women that are also on
their last treatment, so it is a party atmosphere when we walk back to the
infusion area. The cupcakes are a huge
hit and are quickly devoured by the wonderful staff. As the pump alarms go off for the other 2
ladies, signaling the end of their final bag of whatever chemical they have had
to endure, there are claps and cheers and tears all around. There aren’t as many folks left at the Center
when my final alarm sounds, but the cheers, joy, and elation I feel is not
lessened at all. The nurses hand me a
Certificate of Completion, signed by them all and I walk out of the infusion
wing for the final time. This horrible,
life-altering part of my cancer journey is done.
Test #4
complete.
What is next
only time, fate and the miracle of modern medicine will tell…but I am strong,
and in the words of Neil’s boss, Tony, ‘they can’t make it hard enough….’
Bring it!
