The Unlimited Love of Pets

This week it seems that my social media feeds are full of friends mourning the death of, or remembering fondly, or dealing with an ill or aging beloved pet. 

I too, have had very special "spirit animals" die and I still get tearful thinking about them all these years later. I also have two senior Doberman Pinschers who both have multiple ailments, and I know the heartbreaking goodbyes will be sooner rather than later. These animals are connected to us. They are linked to us in our hearts and spirits. This is why it is so painful to see them suffer, to have them die, and also why the memories of these creatures stay with us forever.

This is Phoebe. She is my mom's dog. Mom died just over seven weeks ago. Phoebe is a 12 year old Golden Doodle who was so bonded to Mom that when Mom left, even for just a short while, Phoebe would wait by the door-unmoving. When Mom was in extra pain, or the hospital with her cancer, Phoebe would get sick too. When Mom was doing okay, Phoebe was okay. They were symbiotic. 

The hope for Mom's death was for her to be able to die at home under the care of Hospice. If this had been able to happen, Phoebe would have been a part of Mom's dying experience. Instead, Mom died in the hospital, and Phoebe was waiting by the door.

The weeks following Mom's death, Phoebe was very depressed. She was listless and looking all around the house for Mom, she suffered intestinal trauma, paced around and slept a lot. These are also signs of human grief. Dad decided that Phoebe should have Mom's pillow-the one item that still really maintained her personal fragrance-Phoebe immediately cuddled down on it, and fell to sleep. 

Not only are we attached to our animal friends, but they are truly and unconditionally attached to us. We feel aching grief at the loss of our special companion, and I know for sure that they can grieve and mourn the loss of their human as well. 

We brought Phoebe to Mom's memorial service last week and she was a grounding point for the entire family, she asked for cuddles, gave kisses and made us smile through our tears. 

I am certain that Phoebe still misses Mom, and her health has been up and down in the past weeks-but she has her pillow and she has Dad, and he has her. 

Dad with Phoebe at Webb Lake

Cancer Notes on a Thursday Morning

Dad. He always gets up in the morning before Mom. He turns on the coffee pot, warms up the house and makes sure there is honey already in her coffee mug because she can no longer squeeze the honey container. When he hears her stirring to get out of bed, he helps her in any way she needs: sometimes she can't sit up; sometimes she needs help standing; sometimes he finds she's already made it into the bathroom and just can't open the damned toothpaste. He has put her first-above everything else. 

Mom is in the hospital right now. Dad and I took her in yesterday after a week of watching a disturbing, rapid decline in overall wellbeing. She has fucking cancer in her central nervous system. She is 71 years old and for the past 10 years has battled a rare form of (incurable but treatable) non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, called Waldenström Macroglobulinimea. Two years ago things shifted dramatically when the cancer cells crossed the blood brain barrier into her cerebrospinal fluid (CSF) forming a crazy-rare mutation called Bing-Neel Syndrome. What research there is on Bing-Neel, points to a two to three year mortality rate from time of diagnosis. Mom is in year two. So, yeah. That's what is happening.

The options are to try what is called an Ommaya Reservoir-a port placed in the skull-for chemotherapy drugs to be distributed directly into the CFS...or to do nothing and eventually connect with Hospice. Yesterday, Mom decided she isn't quite ready for Hospice and wants to try the Ommaya Reservoir technique, which her oncologist says has roughly a 50/50 chance of improving how she feels. Note also that this will not cure the cancer. She still has stuff she wants to do and places she wants to see. She says she's not done hiking or traveling or being with her family. This is phenomenal to me and probably to Dad and my sister too, since she struggles to just walk around the house due to severe cancer-induced neuropathic pain in her legs and bouts of unshakable dizziness. But, this is Mom: determined, pissed off at her body, and wanting more time. 

This morning, Dad and I sit quietly waiting for the sun to rise, drinking our coffee, reading our news feeds, thinking about our day ahead to be spent at the hospital, both of us feeling Mom's absence but not speaking about it so much. I put her coffee mug back in the cupboard, and the honey sits on the counter used only by me.