Our Boy
I don’t know why I return to this blog every single time something sorrowful is happening in my life. Maybe it’s because that’s where I finally stop running on hedonic treadmill of life, isolate myself, and plunge into deep reflection. Maybe it’s because writing about happy things can be kind of boring at times… suffering always has been an artistic driver, at least for me.
I’ve always been aware that pets will die one day; I’m not naive. I’ve lost many in my whole 36 years on this earth, but I feel like there will always be a few that are exceptionally rough. We both knew that losing Blitz would absolutely shatter us… and that reality came quicker than we realized.
I had just gotten home co-teaching a class that took my entire weekend up. I was irritated already, having to stay longer to ensure people were checked off on things (in which two people showed up) and other last minute changes that resulted in a complete waste of my time.
Time… it’s my most precious commodity.
I had walked into the door to the sound of an eerie silence. Normally, the moment I pull in the drive way, I would see Blitz’s silhouette peaking at me in the front door windows (his “Fuzzy Listeners” perked up). I didn’t this time, but surely he always greeted me once I go through the door even if he didn’t catch me pulling up. Still nothing. Panic started to set in as I waited for the electronic lock on my front door to hurry up, my stomach churning with dread.
That is, until I saw the guest bathroom door closed and knew he had locked himself in there for the last half of the afternoon as he snuck in to get a sip of his favorite drink (au de toilet water) and his clumsy, swishy butt must have shut the door. Whew… no big deal. He’s probably just bored sitting in there for the past few hours.
As I opened it, he was slow to lumber out of the darkness… and only made it 6 feet down the hall on three legs until he sat down. At this point, I thought I had a dog with a blown knee (CCL repair being imminent).
“FUCK!” I began to pout and play the “woah-as-me” card… I began to try and examine his leg, provide him reassurance, and not let onto the fact that I was pissed at the prospect of paying $4-6k on knee repair. Thinking back, I wish it were just that. I wish the $6,000 dollars I spent over the course of 5 weeks were for knee repair and not chemotherapy.
After a round of anti-inflammatories, he was walking better the next day. I was hopeful that this was all just an episode of him lying on tile for an extended period of time and his hip dysplasia acting up (he has bilaterial hip and left elbow dysplasia… thanks improper breeding practices..). Things were looking up, until I came home to find his entire lower leg so swollen that the skin underneath was as red as a tomato. Immediately, I thought he threw a clot or I was worried about compartment syndrome. A rush to the emergency vet was a must. I tried not to panic call Megan as I was there.
But even then, cancer was not on my mind. It was orthopedic or emergency surgery… it was maybe thinking he came in contact with the 40 something poisonous Asp caterpillars that were roaming around my yard. Not hemangiosarcoma. No way. That doesn’t happen to a dog that’s 7.5 years old. I’ve never even met a dog who had that.
I went into the back room with the emergency vet, by then his leg was shaved and he was surrounded by the techs getting all the love and attention he could ever want. He was also super drugged at the time, to help keep him calm, but I swear it was the full staff’s attention that had him drooling all over the place. I sat down on the floor with them, like I was one of their own, and listened intently as the doctor explained her thoughts. “I’m thinking it may be hemangiosarcoma… I’ll run some tests, but given how he has so much bleeding and there’s a lump behind his knee, that’s what I’m leaning towards.” Again, In accepted this rationally, thinking it was something we can easily address. I hadn’t let it register in my head that it was hemangiosarcoma… THAT hemangiosarcoma.
I went into my private room and waited for the rest of the tests to be complete, texting Megan for updates, and found myself deeply unsettled. Something wasn’t right… ”Did she say hemangiosarcoma? Why does that sound so familiar? I don’t know any dogs that have that… why is this so familiar sounding to me?” A quick google search reminded me of it; I had searched for the condition a year ago when Blitz got red splotches all over his stomach. The vet specialist declared these to be allergies, which I’m certain they were, but I remember giving a sign of relief knowing that the condition wasn’t going to take my boy away. Little did I know it would come for him later…
And that’s when my world began to spin. My thoughts raced, my eyes welled, my throat began to close. I felt the room become smaller and smaller… I stopped replying to Megan’s texts.
The doctor walked in to give me an update. “Please,” I cried, by now the facade of toughness was completely eroded, “Please tell me it’s anything but hemangiosarcoma. Tell me it’s a clot, tell me he ruptured his ligament, tell me it’s lymphoma, just please don’t say hemangiosarcoma..” She looked at me with sympathy, and apologized for giving me the worst news possible. She would be back with a referral to oncology.
The moment the Dr. walked out of the room, not 15 seconds later Megan walked in unaware of the news that I just got, arriving right at the moment that my face began to crumble with heartbreak. She didn’t tell me she was driving down, so I was just as shocked to see her as I was to learn that Blitz had incurable cancer. I didn’t want her to be there. I didn’t want her to know the pain I was about to inflict on her. But I’m happy she did come… she was my rock when I couldn’t keep it together.
Discovering Blitz’s terminal prognosis sent me into the throws of despair to a level in which I had not experienced since 2021. This time, I was ready for it… in terms of having the tools, experience, and flexibility to show resiliency in this moment of immense heartbreat. I know the routine… I get ready to hold on tight as the five stages of grief come at you in rapid succession, at first feeling all five at once like swallowing the sun, then ebbing and flowing back and forth between a couple. This switch is every 15 minutes, then hour by hour, then day by day… cycling like a electromagnetic frequency.
The future will be extremely rocky. There is so much uncertainty except for one thing that is absolutely certain: he will die of this disease.
