As we navigated the familiar routine of parking in space No. 8 outside the veterinarian's office, a surreal sense of disbelief clung to me. "This must be a misunderstanding," I whispered to my husband, the air thick with uncertainty. Our chocolate Labrador, Bill, eagerly bounced around, seemingly oblivious to the gravity of the situation. It was September 2022, and we were still adhering to pandemic protocols, calling in from the parking lot before entering the veterinary clinic.
As the technician recorded Bill's vitals, a numbness settled over me, attempting to shield my mind from the possibility that our beloved dog might have cancer. Despite his energetic demeanor—begging for treats, seeking attention, and exhibiting all the vitality of a healthy dog—I couldn't escape the reality unfolding around us. The questions about Bill's eating habits seemed almost surreal, my silent desire to scream affirmations drowned beneath the constraint of my N95 mask.
Our journey into the realm of veterinary oncology had begun with a seemingly innocuous symptom: a cough that led us to the primary veterinarian. Anticipating a routine prescription and a manageable bill, we instead received an unexpected revelation. Bill's slightly enlarged lymph nodes prompted the veterinarian to aspirate them, a precautionary measure that carried a foreboding suggestion: "Sometimes it's cancer," she nonchalantly remarked. The words lingered ominously, a precursor to the heartbreaking diagnosis that awaited us.
The oncologist entered the room, confirming our fears: B-cell lymphoma, a treatable but incurable cancer. Left untreated, Bill had mere weeks to live; with chemotherapy, a hopeful extension to his life expectancy was possible—perhaps a year or more. The weight of this diagnosis pressed on us, especially poignant as we grappled with the aftermath of our fourth consecutive pregnancy loss, coupled with the devastating news that we wouldn't have children of our own.
Just three months earlier, during my challenging fourth pregnancy, Bill had been a steadfast companion. Amidst months spent bedridden, fighting for my life and the life within me, he would curl up beside me, offering a comforting presence. In moments of weakness, he followed me to the bathroom, resting his head on my feet—a silent source of solace.
The oncologist, attempting to provide a glimmer of positivity, explained that chemotherapy in dogs doesn't manifest as it does in humans. Bill, undergoing treatment to preserve his quality of life rather than seeking a cure, would be spared the typical side effects. His vitality would remain intact, his fur unaffected, and any potential discomfort could be effectively managed.
"Some lymphoma patients have lived a long time," the oncologist offered, a fragile ray of hope amid the shadows of uncertainty.
As the journey unfolded, a quiet determination whispered within me, "Bill will be the outlier." Thus commenced the battle for Bill's life—a privilege I am eternally grateful to have experienced. The decision to combat Bill's lymphoma was a profound choice, one that carries a financial burden often beyond the means of many families. In our case, it was a choice made with profound gratitude for the ability to afford it.
Bill, a loyal companion who had weathered the storms alongside us, licking away tears during moments of profound loss, deserved the unwavering support we could provide. For us, there was no alternative plan; fighting for Bill's well-being became a singular focus. On his seventh birthday, he embarked on his first chemotherapy treatment, ushering us into a realm unfamiliar yet embraced with determination.
Armed with questions and a thirst for knowledge, I approached each weekly chemotherapy session—always parked in spot No. 8—with a sense of purpose. What started as a clinical relationship with his care team transformed into a bond resembling old friends rather than medical professionals. Five months later, Bill completed his chemotherapy plan, adorned in a graduation cap, and we celebrated in the parking lot as he bounded toward us.
Two cancer-free months offered respite before the disease reemerged. Undeterred, we embraced another chemotherapy protocol, reveling in more than six blissful months as a family. Bill's lymphoma diagnosis cast a spotlight on a dog's fleeting lifespan, prompting us to ponder how every day could be his best day. The 13 months gained through treatment became an intentional effort to savor joy in every conceivable moment—big or small.
With both our dogs in tow, we embarked on car rides to savor "pup cups," relishing the simplicity of spending time together. Ordinary moments became extraordinary, such as the collective crawl into bed to watch a movie as a family of four. In the face of adversity, our intentional pursuit of joy and togetherness transformed Bill's journey into a testament to resilience, cherishing the precious moments that define a life well-lived.
In our usual life as a couple that traverses the globe, we redirected our focus to pursuits that involved our dogs. Trips to the beach became joyous occasions where Bill reveled in tearing through sand-covered rental properties. A road trip to Kentucky, despite the dogs' disdain for car rides, unfolded with whining accompaniment for nine hours. Visits to wineries became memorable, with Bill always insisting on securing the best seat in the house. What might have once irked me now evoked smiles and gratitude. Reflecting on the multitude of photos taken during that period—more than 10,000—I see not cancer but an abundance of happiness.
In October 2023, a subtle shift marked a change. Bill, typically enthusiastic about his meals, declined to eat and instead retreated to bed, prompting a concerned text to his oncologist. During the drive to the appointment, Bill, with his head out the window, seemed to relish the familiar journey, even mustering a smile upon reaching spot 8. His love for his oncologists and care team was evident, and the parking lot served as a catalyst, sparking an internal rally, regardless of how he felt.
A battery of tests ensued throughout the day—bloodwork, ultrasounds, and internal scans—all revealing normalcy in lymph nodes and organs. Yet, an underlying unease lingered, voiced by his doctor while Bill rested his head on my feet. Despite this, Bill rallied by day's end, resuming his usual activities of eating, wagging his tail, and anticipating the journey home. A celebratory dinner of crab cakes ensued, with Bill playfully attempting to pilfer morsels from our plates.
At 4 a.m., an unsettling feeling disrupted the night. Bill, once vibrant, now appeared restless and unwell. We administered fluids in an attempt to revive him, following the guidance learned from his care team, but to no avail. As dawn broke, I whispered into his floppy ears, seeking understanding. Our oncologist, meeting us at the hospital, conducted another examination that presented Bill as outwardly normal. Despite this, a unanimous decision was reached—hospitalization for supportive care would be in his best interest.
Walking out of the hospital with only his collar and leash symbolized a stark reality, one I was neither ready nor willing to accept. The unexpected turn of events cast a somber shadow over our journey, a stark reminder of the fragility inherent in the fight against illness.
The next morning, the ICU doctor delivered a somber message over the phone, "Bill won't eat for us, and his white blood cell counts and platelets are tanking. We have reason to believe his cancer has moved aggressively to his bones." Puzzle pieces in my mind shifted, and the illusion of having cheated cancer crumbled. That night, a painful truth emerged: Bill deserved to spend his remaining time with the ones he loved most. We brought him home, settling into bed together for the last time. Restless and gripped by dread, I rubbed his back, half-hoping for a miraculous turnaround as the sun began to rise. Instead, he edged away, signaling an impending farewell.
For over a year, people had told us that we would recognize the moment "it was time" by the look in our dog's eyes—a sentiment I had dismissed as an empty platitude. "His eyes are a different color," I whispered to my husband as the morning light bathed our room. The air felt suffocating as we pulled into the familiar spot for the last time. Walking into the clinic unmasked, without a phone call, we cradled the dog who had once barged through those doors. Alongside our dedicated care team, I kissed Bill's velvety ears as he drew his last breaths.
Feeling foolish for harboring hope, I confided in one of Bill's oncologists. "Hope is how you get through it," she gently responded. From the onset of his diagnosis, we had vowed one thing to Bill: when the bad days outnumbered the good, we would carry out our final act of love. Back then, we couldn't predict if that meant an extra month or an extra year. We stopped counting days and began counting moments, fulfilling our promise to him without hesitation or regret. Perhaps that was the lesson from Bill himself: life is too short not to savor every moment and make it count.
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