First, you cry
by Janine Adams
Malignant. That's got to be one of the ugliest words in the English language. The ugly word came out of my vet's mouth as she told me that Scout's biopsy report was in. My girl-the healthy one of my two standard poodles-has cancer.
We had no inkling that that was the problem when she got laid flat by what we thought was a nasty bacterial infection. Because her ears were twitching, we thought maybe it was a middle ear infection. She responded to the antibiotics, but didn't bounce back fully. During the course of examining her, our meticulous vet discovered a mammary tumor, so in the midst of her not feeling well, we realized she'd have to be operated on. The surgery went well and the tumor was benign. I was elated, but somehow not surprised. Looking back, I think I was a bit smug. Cancer simply wasn't an option.
In the meantime, Scout became anemic, and as we monitored her blood work over the course of about three weeks, the anemia worsened. Blood showed up in her urine-she was peeing a red stream. We worried that she might be developing autoimmune hemolytic anemia, a life-threatening condition, but then, miraculously, her anemia got slightly better, relieving that worry. Throughout all this Scout actually felt pretty good, though her ear twitching worsened. It was her blood work that was troubling.
About a month after the first inkling Scout was ill, the vet performed an abdominal ultrasound, ostensibly looking for bladder stones. Her bladder was beautiful, as were her liver and spleen. But her kidneys were another matter. There it was growing like an alien out of her left kidney: a tumor the size of an orange.
After this discovery, when I faced the cold, hard fact that Scout might have cancer, I cried. I wept with dismay, anger and grief. As Scout looked up at me, her ear twitching now almost a constant quiver, I wept at the idea that I might not have years left with eight-year-old Scout. Our time together might be measured in months. I couldn't (still can't) think of it in terms of a shorter time period than that.
We waited an agonizing few days before Scout could get an IVP, a procedure to establish that her right kidney was working properly, since her left one might well have to be removed. It was working well, so the next day she went under the knife. I still held out hope that the tumor was actually a giant hematoma or abscess.
After the surgery was over, my vet called to tell me that she came through it well, but that there were complications. It seems that the tumor was a very aggressive devil. It had broken out of the kidney capsule and invaded the abdominal cavity. It adhered to the colon, but they were able to take it off with minimal surface damage to the colon. They removed the kidney with the tumor and got all of the tumor they could see. They saw no evidence of any other tumors. But, my vet warned, since the tumor wasn't encapsulated, there's always the chance that it left behind microscopic cancer cells.
I knew that a benign tumor wouldn't behave that way. And I wept again. I'm not a pretty crier. My face becomes beet red and swells. Since Scout wasn't there, I felt free to heave great sobs, though I'm sure that I stressed poor Kramer. I shared the news with some dear, caring friends on the Internet. Their supportive responses meant the world to me and I know they shared my grief. My husband, Barry, and I discussed our reluctance to put her through treatment that would make her sick. Seeing my grief, Barry tried to counter it with the positive notion that the worst was behind us.
The next day, Scout was released from the hospital. My joy at that development was tempered by the news of the biopsy report. Scout didn't have ordinary renal carcinoma. No, Scout is special. She has spindle cell sarcoma, a cancer that's very rare to find in a soft organ. The pathologist helpfully supplied a single citation from the veterinary literature, a 10-year-old article about this cancer in the kidney of a dog. A single dog.
Amazingly enough, I didn't cry. The report confirmed my worst fears, but at least the uncertainty was over. Our enemy had been identified. And we could come up with a battle plan.
Our vet encouraged us to consult with an oncologist. I was in a much bigger hurry to consult with our holistic vet, who practices five hours away. Two days later, we had a phone consult in which we outlined a plan to strengthen Scout's already formidable immune system, slow down cancer-cell replication and strengthen her connective tissue (hers is a cancer of the connective tissue). We would do all this through diet, nutritional supplements and herbs. After that consult, I felt better than I had in weeks. I know that a positive attitude is going to be absolutely essential in helping Scout stay healthy.
Scout makes it easy to stay positive. Only three days after surgery, she not only was going up and down stairs on her own, she chased a cat. She was trotting instead of trudging. Now, a week later, she most clearly feels better than before the surgery. Getting that tumor out must be a great relief. And, sure enough, her twitching ears-which had been a constant reminder of her illness-are staying still.
Scout's indomitable spirit makes me feel that if anyone can lick this, she can. We're seeing the oncologist next week, but I feel very comfortable with the alternative route we've chosen. We're going to concentrate on keeping her strong and not allowing cancer to take hold, rather than using drugs to kill any cancer cells within her. (I'm not casting any aspersions on people who choose conventional cancer treatment for their dog; it's an entirely individual decision). I'm doing my darndest not to think of her as a dog with cancer, but rather to think of her as a dog who's going to fight off any cancer cells that have the audacity to try to proliferate within her.
Like most owners of dogs who have received the dreaded cancer diagnosis, I'm treasuring the time I have with her. I'm reveling in the fact that she's feeling good and I'm hoping that she'll be feeling good for a long time to come. But the future has a little black cloud of uncertainty it's never had before. As I adjust to that uncertainty, I'm going to hope that it translates into living for the moment. It's yet another lesson that Scout (and Kramer too) have taught me.
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