Archive for pets

Catching up…

East River Esplanade, June 2009 - 05
Image by Ed Yourdon via Flickr

It’s been an amazing and crazy three weeks.

I spent Easter in NYC, in a lovely little apartment a block away from the East River and the walking paths that go from the Upper East Side down to the 59th St. Bridge. On the train down to the city, I opened an email from my friend Monica Burns, telling me that Quail Run Rumor Has It RN NA NAJ (Reuben) had died in his agility partner Bruce Burns’ arms on April 1st.

Reu had been just five years old when I’d been diagnosed, and after surgery was ruled out and I was put on chemo forever, I knew I had to re-home him with someone who could manage his activity level and give him the active life I’d trained him to enjoy. I had placed Reu with Bruce and Monica in October, 2004, at a pretty low point in my cancer diagnosis. They loved our crazy Gordon setter like he’d been their forever. He was their boy, and I kept my distance while he got acclimated. I saw him a few months later at the first AKC Rally trials of 2005, and that fall and the next during the Wine Country circuit, we had a small reunion. Each time I saw our boy my heart was proud that he’d adjusted so well. Each time I turned on my work laptop and saw the magnificent portrait of Reu posing in a field next to a pond, my pride in my setter cried a little.

I was supposed to die first. So I did what I needed to do to make sure he had a great home. But me dying first didn’t quite work out – Reu died three weeks before his 11th birthday.

The Monday after Easter, I discovered that my scans were, once again, ‘unremarkable.’ Who knew I’d ever grow up to want to be unremarkable? But there it is – and I’ve got the paperwork to prove it. Better still (I think) is that Dr. Personality put me on six-month checkups.

NYC every six months? I’ve been traveling to NYC for scans and check-ups at least every four months (or three months or two months) for the last five years. NYC is part of my world, so much a part of my life that I always wonder how to answer that NY state income tax question about maintaining a residence in New York City. Now, I get to go to NYC when I want to go – not just to have a CT scan.

Being unremarkable means that I’m going to look at something I think I can do – even if it does over-book me for awhile. I’ve applied to sit as one of the citizen reviewers on the Department of Defense Peer-Reviewed Research Committee for colorectal cancer research. I don’t know if I’ll get in, but I want to try.

Then, today, I found out that a friend from the Colon Club – Mary Catherine Dykhouse, who posted as “justsing” – passed away due to complications of advanced stage IV rectal cancer. She is survived by her husband Joe, her daughters and a son. She was 46 years old. She lived about 2 1/2 years after her diagnosis. MC and I didn’t always agree on approach, but we always respected each other.

What I find myself asking in my out-loud voice is why I’m breaking the rules, coloring outside the lines of expected survival, outliving yet another person who was diagnosed with this disease after my own dx in 2004, but who will not break through his or her own survival curve.

Lobbying in D.C. made me realize how effective I could be at getting people to listen, and act. The DoD peer-reviewed research committee sounds like it’s something I’m supposed to do, if I get the opportunity. Maybe this is why I outlived my wonderful, crazy Gordon setter. Maybe I can make a difference…and speak for MC, for Carolyn, for Janine, for Piotr, for everyone who isn’t alive any longer to speak for themselves.

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Time stands still, time moves on

Bruce runs Ruben (Reu) in Novice standard

I’ve rewritten this post four times. I think it’s just time to publish it.

Last week, I got an email from Monica, subject: Ruben. Monica (and Bruce) are the wonderful couple in western NY with whom I placed Reu, my too-much-dog five year old gordon setter in the fall of 2004. Monica started her email by saying she’d hoped she’d never have to write me this news.

It was also a sentence I never wanted to read. Heck, six years ago I never thought I’d be alive to read it; who worried that I’d be around? Not me. I was more worried that I wouldn’t be around. That was why I re-homed Reu in the first place. In 2004 Reu was an active, hard-charging 85-lb. Gordon who needed a full-time job. On chemo days, I could barely hold onto him. A researcher I work with took him into her home during my first 12 chemo infusions – where her family called him ‘Hurricane Reuben.’

I knew in mid-summer 2004, after Dr. Personality declared me inoperable, that I needed to find a new, working home for my big guy. As much as it tore me apart, I told my dog friends and I put out the word that a five-year-old started Gordon setter was available for rehoming. I contacted the breeder - a novice who didn’t acknowlege my letter or emails or phone messages. I talked with the stud dog’s breeder, long-time friends about an hour away. I knew that Reu would always have a home with them, but since their main focus is conformation and I was the obedience/agility connection, Reu wouldn’t really be challenged in their kennel. They’d be doing the right thing, but it might not be the right thing for my guy.

And then an agility friend introduced me to Bruce and Monica – fellow agility competitors from western New York. Bruce had always wanted a male Gordon but Monica was reluctant to start a male puppy. They came to meet me and Reu at our campsite during the Wine Country Circuit that September – and then, they came back with all three of their Gordon bitches. The dogs got along. Reu took to Bruce like he’d found his next best friend. And he was (to my surprise) immediately gentle with Monica, who has multiple sclerosis (MS) and met him from her electric wheelchair. I could tell before the weekend ended that Monica and Bruce were good people, the right people.

We made an agreement, and two weeks later, Reu went home to western New York with Bruce. I had trained him in Rally and entered him in the AKC’s first Rally trials in Rochester NY on New Year’s Eve/Day 2005. Monica showed him to his Rally Novice (RN) title, making him the first Gordon setter in the country to earn the RN. That trial was our first reunion – and while my crazy puppy was glad to see me, he was also attentive to the sound of Monica’s wheelchair and to Bruce’s voice. The dog who once had been mine now had new bonds, new people, and a new focus in his life. And he was happy and productive. And I knew he was home where he belonged.

That’s the kind of rehoming transition that every trainer and rescuer and breeder hopes to reach when placing a dog…the dog who still hugs you but is looking for his new family. They sent me pictures and portraits and news, as Reu earned first his Novice Preferred title in agility, and then his Novice standard and jumpers titles. I still have the blue glass trophy plate Bruce brought home from the Gordon Setter Club of America national specialty, where Reu finished his NAJ. I know every day, every moment, in every part of my being, that I made the best decision for both Reu and I, and that he’s had for these last five years a far better life than he would have had nursing me through three surgeries and five chemo regimens.

But while I seem to have cheated time and survived longer than anyone in 2004 could have believed, time has moved on for Reu. In another six weeks, he’ll turn 11. And according to Monica, his next birthday is not a guarantee. She was writing to tell me that our boy has a sarcoma on his spleen, and that he’s not, in the estimation of their vet, a surgical candidate. On medication, he is (in her words) ‘acting more like his old self.’ But time will move on and the sarcoma will not stand still, or go away. Our boy doesn’t have very much more time, but the vet assured Monica and Bruce that on medication, he’s not in any pain.

No matter how much we care for our dogs, we cannot make their time – or our own – stand still. They won’t be either crazy puppies or strong adult dogs forever. All we can do is hug them and help them to meet their time without pain or distress. But as I re-read the email, as I have each day, I can’t help but realize that a part of my life, the part where I owned a crazy wonderful special setter, is changing again. And the next email will remind me that time moves on, but survivors leave too many friends behind. 

And there is just never enough time.

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Runnin’ on caffeine when you’re runnin’ on empty

Cup of Caribou Coffee
Image via Wikipedia

I keep telling myself that I was younger then. And I was, ten years ago when I routinely showed my dogs two weekends (and sometimes three weekends) in a row. I also drove further and toted more weight for more creatures (a gordon setter, an english springer spaniel and an english cocker spaniel.)

Ten years ago was before an intracerebral hemorrhage and a cancer diagnosis. But this year, I spent the second and third weekends of January showing my dog – last weekend three days at American Spaniel Club in Valley Forge PA, and this weekend two days in one of the snow capitals of New York state – Hamburg. I rode with my friend Deb Bain down to Philly, but I drove myself to Hamburg.

Showing two weekends in a row was revisiting my old normal – but I had to reinterpret the old-normal dog show weekend with a five-hour nap on Saturday afternoon. I was able to touch base with old friends: Casey’s breeder Mary Frances, who hadn’t seen the old man for awhile and had a happy reunion with the old guy; Bard and Reu’s breeders Ken and Pat, who have a beautiful new gordon boy from the Pacific Northwest. I shopped, and found a made-in-NY pair of hand-crafted fleece glove-mittens. I watched dogs, caught up on my reading in the motel (the TV didn’t work…) and met a couple with an Old English Sheepdog special who were amazed that my traveling menagerie included Churro the cat.

I managed to get all the way home today and only had to stop once – but I owe it all to pounding a Burger King Mocha Joe and a Dunkin’ Donuts whole milk latte with a double-shot of expresso, both in less than two hours. I’m trying not to obsess about the fatigue, but I’m still concerned that I slept full nights on Friday and Saturday (nine hours,) and grabbed an extra five hours’ nap on Saturday afternoon…and right now, I could fall asleep with 5 minutes’ notice. Persistent, excessive fatigue is a sign of something wrong, a cancer marker. Part of me says that worrying about the fatigue is listening for cancer cells to grow. Part of me says that I’m worried for now reason.

It doesn’t matter how many clean scans you have, if you have even one cancer marker sneaking in to upset your serenity. Here’s to running on caffeine.

How do you keep going when you run out of steam? Do you use (or abuse) caffeine to get through your day?

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Priorities: Stage IV but I want to have kids

Holding hands with a child from the Miracle Fo...
Image via Wikipedia

This is a hard post for me to write, and I’m sure for some it won’t be an easy post to read. But I hesitate to put it on a support board because any response to someone who has discovered s/he or a partner is infertile due to chemo and radiation treatments always sounds as if it’s being insensitive.

A support board discussion about infertility or preserving fertility during treatment for rectal or colon cancer usually starts something like this:

I have just been diagnosed with Stage IV rectal (or colorectal) cancer. I have mets to my (liver) (lungs) (peritoneum). I’ve been reading all of the posts about what happens after (radiation) (chemo) and my doctor didn’t tell me that I wouldn’t be able to have children! I don’t have time to save my (eggs) (sperm) because I’ve already started (radiation) (chemo). Why didn’t the doctors tell me more about this?

Often, the responses will include other peoples’ stories and experiences. But sometimes the advice (if the person hasn’t started treatment yet) to take ovary-sparing measures during radiation, bank sperm or preserve eggs to use to conceive a child when treatment is completed, etc. And reading it is heartbreaking — not because the doctor didn’t discuss infertility with the patient, but because the doctor clearly didn’t make the gravity of the Stage IV diagnosis clear to the patient.

Stage IV in any cancer is serious business — but stage IV CRC is a cage fight. Despite advances in treatment and care which are helping those of us with stage IV CRC live better and live longer, the prognosis for a stage IV diagnosis is still very grave. Most patients will be in some form of treatment for the remainder of their lives with only very short breaks. If chemo and radiation work, there’s a chance at surgical intervention which may be curative, but that option only becomes available for about 30% of the patients diagnosed in stage IV. Curative intent of surgery isn’t guaranteed.

I am a five-year Stage IV survivor of rectal cancer. The longest period I’ve been NED during these last five years has been 21 months — and six of those 21 months were spent in surgical recovery and post-op chemo, so they weren’t treatment free. I know a few five-year survivors; only a handful have been NED (no evidence of disease) for most of those five years. I know only a handful of 10-year survivors, and only one has been NED since initial treatment and diagnosis.

Now — here’s the really hard thing to say, the thing that is perceived to be insensitive when posted to a support board. If you or your partner has just been diagnosed with stage IV rectal or colon cancer, the chances of surviving for more than five years — much less ten years — and the chances of being alive and healthy and free of disease long enough to bear and raise a child are very, very small. And the difficult question to ask is, in light of that information about the gravity of the diagnosis, should having a child or preserving your fertility be any priority at all? Shouldn’t the first, and maybe the only, priority of a person with a stage IV CRC diagnosis be dealing with treatment?

More of us are living longer with CRC and treatment, yes — but five years where most of the time is spent in chemo and radiation and surgery is certainly not the best environment in which to try to bear a child. Five years, even ten years, is not long enough to raise a child — in many breeds of dogs, it’s not long enough to raise a puppy! It’s not long enough to see a kitten into old age, and birds often outlive their healthy owners!

It’s at this point in the post that, on a support board, most responses will get vehement:

  • Someone has to be in that 30% who live; why can’t it be me?
  • The doctors still should have told us that I/we couldn’t have children!
  • I’ve heard of lots of people who have children after treatment!
  • I’m going to beat this and I want the option to be a parent!

So am I saying that a stage IV patient shouldn’t have kids, shouldn’t have pets? Of course not.

However, my responses to each of those vehement protests is just one thing: what if you don’t survive? Is having a child (who will probably grow up without a parent because you are more likely to die than live) more important than living yourself?

I waited a year after being declared NED the first time before looking for a new dog — and I didn’t want a puppy, I wanted an older dog who I’d have a better chance of training and showing, who had a safety-net established for a new home in case I got sick again. And when I did have a recurrence, I was very glad that Madison and my older dog Casey have established safety nets for their care. They’re adult dogs, relatively care-free and trained to accept that sometimes I can’t function as well as I’d like. They are not babies (human or canine) who need 100% attention and care 24/7.

I knew the chances that I’d be around to raise a puppy into an adult and safely retired old dog were slim (and still are), and I didn’t want to take that responsibility…for a pet. I confess, I’m mystified that anyone with a terminal prognosis like most stage IV CRC patients would want to take on the responsibility of bearing a human child, knowing that s/he would likely not be around to raise the child to adulthood.

If you are one of the lucky ones who does experience extended survival time after a stage IV CRC diagnosis, there are many ways to parent without personally bearing your own child, or even raising a child born of your eggs or sperm. Adoption, foster parenting, simply being an active adult in the lives of children who are not your own are all options — viable options for contributing to the life of a child without creating a life you’re not going to be able to be responsible for raising. Or you can try to roll the dice, and bet that you won’t be one of the 70% of patients who don’t enjoy survival much longer than five years.

What about you? Is bearing a child so important to you that you would bring a baby into the world knowing that you had a fatal disease which would prevent you from being around to raise your child to adulthood?

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The dog trainer's back, one hour at a time

A Hungarian Vizsla negotiating an A-frame.
Image via Wikipedia

Two weeks ago, I substitute-taught an advanced beginner dog agility class at Syracuse Obedience Training Club. No big deal for someone who’s been a club member for 28 years, taught obedience classes for 20 of them and is training and competing with her third agility dog–right?

Right…except that in July, 2000 in week 4 of my new 8-week curriculum, Obedience for Agility Puppies, I had an intracerebral hemorrhage.

Nursing the worst headache of my life, I called my assistant and all of my students to cancel that Monday’s class. Roxanne, my assistant, continued the class after I was hospitalized. And although I’ve taught many other things since that Monday night in July, 2000, including teaching dog trainers how to be better instructors, I haven’t taught a class full of inexperienced handlers and their dogs since that summer nine years ago.

I was a little nervous. Sure, I knew the curriculum and the principles of the class–teaching the dogs to sequence (working multiple obstacles.) I had worked with two of the students, but knew none of the dogs and had never worked with the class assistant. I would have to teach from notes to be sure to stay on track. What if I lost my train of thought, what if I couldn’t adapt each sequence to the skill level of the student and dog? It felt like my first day at school.

When I arrived, sequence areas were set up–A-frame to weaves, tire to tunnel to jump to chute, teeter to table. As the students came in, I introduced myself to the miniature schnauzer, visla, australian shepherd and toy dachshund while everyone grabbed a stanchion to set up a jump circle. One student helped me move the table so that it could be part of the circle and the teeter sequence. We warmed up with the jump circle, small dogs first, everyone analyzing each other’s efforts and the handler paths. I felt them out, they felt me out, and with everyone prompted to chime in with comments, soon all of the students relaxed (I was still nervous as a cat.)

After the jump circle, I asked, “Who has equipment at home?” and “Who practices outside of class?” That segued into my favorite subject: home practice. I explained simple sources for practice equipment: the Dollar Store, the farm supply. I explained how every sequence we were going to practice could be modified for at-home practice, and how in five minutes a day, they could work control commands like here and out and go. I moved into the jump circle with my imaginary (perfect) dog to demonstrate a simple one-jump practice to work on straight lines and curves. I could see the AgilityNerd blog drill practice in front of me, explaining to them how to work the straight lines in the circle and switch sides for the curve.

I was teaching again. And taking my life back, one hour and one class at a time. It IS just like riding a bike!

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