Dog Lived (and So Will I) (22 page)

The nurse slowly backtracked away from most of what was in the booklet (and later that night at home I noticed the book was written in 1997—and they’ve learned a lot about chemotherapy treatment since then).

Eventually we gave up asking questions because, as we discussed later, we could have said, “What about grass? Am I allowed to go near grass? Is air a problem? Should I avoid air?” and she would have smiled slowly and said, “What? I’ll have to check. Ummm, it’s different with everyone.”

She, like her soul mate Wig-teen, gave up on us. She left to go get the billing person to discuss the “financial arrangements” with me. And that’s when I noticed the song playing over the speakers was Sarah McLachlan’s “I Will Remember You.” I pointed to the speaker and looked at Chris. We both burst out laughing. He had already noticed they had also played “You Had a Bad Day” and James Ingram’s “Just Once.” All we needed was “Seasons in the Sun” and we had ourselves a chemo mix tape for all time. Chris even went into the chemo room to find out if we could expect this sort of serenade when I was hooked up in the chair. Thankfully, the sound system did not play in that room.

Where the chemo no-training nurse was quiet and soft and confused, the financial person was loud (really, really loud) and quite detailed (down to the penny) and full of information (down to the penny). So I learned that I was $2,114 into my $3,000 deductible and I needed to bring a check for $800 toward my deductible plus the $20 office visit co-pay on Thursday—then $96 the next time, and then $20 each time after. This part they were very, very clear about. Whether I could drink coffee or add mega greens and antioxidants to my fruit juice, which of the possible side effects I should phone in about, and what we should bring with us to the chemo session (food? water? blankets?) they were less sure of.

For that day’s useless training and the opportunity to have Dr. B whoosh by me in a frost, I handed over the same credit card I’d used when Seamus was in treatment. I’d be getting airline miles for this, too.

As the receptionist handed me back my card, I thought clearly, “Seamus’s card.” Suddenly I realized why I’d been so baffled by the concept of a wig. Everything else had followed a familiar pattern. With the diagnosis, the search for a doctor, the surgery, the pathology report, the chemotherapy training, and now even the method of payment, I’d had experience and knowledge. I’d had a frame of reference. Because of Seamus.

But Seamus didn’t lose his hair. Seamus hadn’t needed a wig. I had to figure out hair loss and a wig on my own. There was no beagle-guide for that part of my journey. Suddenly, I missed my diabolically cute guru.

I turned back to Chris. “Let’s go get Seamus and go home. I’d like to forget about this day.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” he said.

I slept as we drove home, waking as Chris pulled into the Pet Adoption Center. I hurried in to get Seamus.

But Seamus wasn’t there.

“Destiny took him home,” the young woman at the counter told us.

“Took him home?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t she supposed to?”

Chris and I looked at each other, bewildered and hoping the other had an explanation.

“Uhhhhhh…” I looked around the lobby. “Is Denise here?” Denise was the same Denise who had run Ruff House Pet Resort and helped spoil Seamus with me. She was now the executive director of the adoption center. I had confidence she’d know why Seamus had been sent home with Destiny. Unfortunately, I was right.

Denise explained to us that he had howled so loud and so often all day that Destiny took him home with her after her shift ended, hoping to soothe his nerves. Seamus must have had a premonition of how badly our day was going.

“He howled too much for a facility with fifty other dogs?” I said, wincing.

“That’s our Seamus,” Denise managed to still be smiling. Seamus was lucky his charm was as far reaching as his howls. “He probably just senses the stress in the house. You guys have a lot going on.”

We drove to Destiny’s home, only a few miles from our own, wondering the whole way how we’d ever get me through all the upcoming medical appointments if Seamus’s howling was even too much for a pet adoption center.

Destiny handed me Seamus’s leash with him jumping and howling on the other end, while Chris loaded the crate in the back of my car.

“If you need help,” Destiny said, “I’m happy to watch him for whatever appointments you have. We love Seamus. And he doesn’t howl when he’s here.”

I looked down at the happy, twirling dervish on a leash. Destiny had interceded again. Seamus was a handful, but he was a lovable handful. His charm worked magic. All he really wanted was to be loved. And never left alone. Well, and fed a lot.

“That is really nice of you, Destiny. I may have to take you up on that. I have a lot of appointments coming up. A lot.”

The next day, with a new determination born of necessity, I began a search for a wig shop. I emailed a few breast cancer survivors I knew, and I went online until I found what I needed. One name kept popping up.

When I telephoned Splendor Wigs, I heard a dog barking in the background. And, though I’m not big on “signs,” I knew then that this was the place to get my wig. Much like understanding my survival statistics through poker-playing dogs, I found comfort in the bark of this dog. I’ll follow a sign from the canine universe.

When I arrived at the little house of wigs on a busy commercial street, I asked about the dog. The owner, Diedre, hesitated only a moment before saying she didn’t have a dog. I looked around the room for any sign of a dog while also assuring her that I wouldn’t mind in the least if she did have a dog hanging out. My dog comes to my office all the time, I said. But no, she did not have a dog. She seemed quite sure of this.

Did I imagine the dog? Was it a neighbor dog? It didn’t matter much, except, perhaps, for the sake of my sanity; this was the place I needed to be to get a wig that would fit properly, look natural, and come with instructions from someone who actually knew what they were doing. The dog barking in the distance, real or not, was enough to get me to the shop with a large selection of wigs and to a woman who knew how to select, fit, and style a wig.

Chris and Laureen, my friend and paralegal, met me at the wig shop. Though I was still overwhelmed, their enthusiasm and excitement over the options eased my worries. Diedre sat me in a chair and carefully placed on my head each perfectly combed, styled, and cared-for wig that Laureen and Chris selected. Some choices were good, others were ridiculous, but the three of them cheered me on, and Chris and Laureen even tried on a few wigs themselves while making comments and suggestions—some were even helpful.

“I don’t know if I want to stay blond,” I said, surprising even myself.

“Really?” Chris said.

“Well, yeah. It’s not like I’m trying to hide that I’m in chemo or wearing a wig, so maybe I’ll just have a little fun with it.”

“I like it. It’s like I get a different girlfriend for a while,” Chris said.

“Go brunette. You can see how the rest of us live,” Laureen said.

“You can always get two,” Diedre said, smiling.

I went from having no answers to my wig dilemma to too many options.

But I had an idea.

I immediately went home and posted photos of me wearing several of the wigs on my blog. Then I set up a poll and let my friends and family (and, as it turned out, quite a few strangers) decide what look I should choose. Seamus might not have been able to help me with this part of my cancer odyssey, but my friends could.

Seamus wore a “Beagles for Boobies” shirt to my birthday party. His shirt and my matching sweatshirt were gifts from my mother.

Since my birthday fell between surgery and the start of chemotherapy, Chris and some friends decided a “Post-Operation/Pre-Chemo” birthday bash was in order. The party was quickly dubbed the “POP-C Party” and, alternatively, the “Boobie Bash.”

Destiny came as a special guest to corral Seamus and make sure at least some of the food remained available for the human guests. (Seamus still snuck more than his fair share.) As for the refreshments, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many variations of pink food and drink. It wasn’t even October, Breast Cancer Awareness month, and yet my friends were able to find pink vodka, pink ribbon wines, pink cakes and cookies, pink ribbon tablecloths, plates, and cups, and even pink martini glasses. What they couldn’t buy, they made. One friend even made what she called “boobie pops”—small cake balls on a stick with pink frosting and a darker pink jellybean “nipple.”

My mom and stepdad sent flowers, and Chris’s parents sent a basket of very useful items including a gorgeous periwinkle soft cotton wrap that Trudi assured me would be perfect to use during the chemo infusions. A group of friends surprised me with a lithograph from an artist I loved and whose show I had to miss because of the surgery (and the obvious fact that I needed to spend money on health care, not artwork). The colorful lithograph was of a hound dog, standing on a lush green lawn, empty liquor bottles surrounding him. The title was “Booze Hound.” It made me laugh for so many reasons. I was thrilled to see that the artist, Robert Deyber, had signed a program from the show wishing me well in my treatments.

I was able to forget, for just that one night, what lay ahead.

Soon after, though, I began to count down the days before I’d have to start chemotherapy. I was not sleeping well. I fell into a habit of waking at two each morning. I’d get out of bed, grab a book off my nightstand, and head to the recliner in our library. When Seamus started waking with me and following me to the other room, I thought it was cute. When he crawled onto my lap and slept there with me, I knew my nervousness was palpable.

I thought I’d gotten used to the idea that I would lose my hair, but I kept trying to picture how it might happen—would I wake up one morning and my hair would all be on my pillow? Would I wash it all down the drain in the shower some morning? Or would I be sitting in a client meeting when suddenly my hair would begin to fall into clumps on the conference table? What if it was a new client? They’d be too frightened to come back!

The doctors and nurses seemed confident nausea wouldn’t be an issue, but I’d always had a weak stomach, so I wasn’t convinced. And the list of other possible side effects was horrific. My fingernails and toenails might come loose and fall off? Skin rashes? Thrush? Swelling of the hands and feet? Severe bone pain? Fluid retention? Mouth sores? Anemia? Nerve pain? Life-threatening infections? Seizures? Neuropathy? Debili-freaking-tating fatigue? My memories of Seamus’s white blood cell crash were fresh and frightening.

I had to remind myself that these were just possibilities and that they would not all occur. Surely they couldn’t all occur. And yet, the only way to know how I would respond to the chemotherapy—the only way to know which, if any, of these side effects I would experience—was to undergo round one.

• • •

• • •

Two days before my first infusion appointment, I sat at my desk at home staring at the medication chart the nurse had given me. The chart was similar to the one Seamus had, only where his had been carefully designed and printed from a computer, mine was a poorly copied calendar with handwritten notes squeezed into the boxes for each day. The chart was a pill regimen meant to reduce or eliminate nausea and pain. These were “good” pills.

There were pills to take the night before, the morning of, the evening of, and the next two days following the chemo infusion, and there were optional pain medications, one for mild pain and one for severe pain. I had filled all of the prescriptions as well as purchasing all of the over-the-counter drugs that had been suggested—Benadryl, antidiarrheal, stool softener, Tylenol—and two thermometers so I could constantly monitor my temperature at work and at home. I wondered if pumpkin pie filling worked for relieving side effects in humans like it did in dogs.

“Maybe you should put the chart somewhere we can both find it,” Chris said, entering the office.

“I can’t imagine forgetting it, given the dire consequences,” I said.

“You never know. Plus, you might not feel like getting up and getting the list, so I should know where it is.”

“I was thinking I’d leave it by the coffee pot. Then I’m sure I’ll see it.”

“What if you aren’t drinking coffee then? Remember they said your sense of taste might change.”

While it was difficult to picture drinking my usual gallons of coffee while nauseous, or worse, vomiting, it was equally hard to imagine getting through this stressful time without coffee. I can’t imagine getting through a morning without coffee.

We decided instead to leave the chart by my computer in the home office, and I lined the pills up next to the chart once again, going over each one with Chris. “I guess you need to know the instructions, too. In case, you know, I’m a vomiting, shaking, unconscious mess.”

“You’ll be fine. You’ll be like Seamus was—all appetite and energy.”

“I’m not that lucky. Plus, really, the silver lining to chemo had better be weight loss.”

I awoke at five on the morning of my appointment. Seamus stretched, yawned, and then followed me, waiting for me to get down the stairs before racing ahead of me. The one good habit I’d managed to teach Seamus would turn out to be a very useful thing.

When I first brought him into my home, Seamus regularly raced ahead of me, cut me off, and thought nothing of running between or under my feet. Before Chris moved in, I had fears of Seamus tripping me on the stairs in his mad dash to the food bowl. I envisioned myself sprawled on the floor, back or neck broken, days passing before anyone came to look for me. And then it would only be because Seamus, having missed breakfast, was howling at the gate. So I trained him not to run down the stairs ahead of me. He had to sit (not so) patiently until I reached the bottom of the stairs and gave him the signal that he could descend. He challenged me regularly, rushing ahead of me when I was three or four steps from the bottom. I’d stop and make him go back upstairs and wait before I’d continue down, and even then, occasionally he’d bolt down after I took just one more step. I’d stop and make him go back upstairs and we’d do it again. Finally, he’d wait, sitting at the very edge of the top step, dancing back and forth on his back end, shifting the weight on his front paws—left, right, left, right—and groaning with anxiety, until I stepped down from the last step and turned back to him to say, “Okay.” Then he’d let out a victory howl and launch himself, screaming,
AAAAAARRROOOOOOOOO! Hurry the fook up! Get my breakfast, woman! I don’t have time for these fookin’ games! AAAAAARRROOOOOOOOO!!!
as he bolted for the laundry room where his bowls were. It was a game to Seamus. I knew that. The only way the training worked was because Seamus knew if I never got to the bottom of the stairs, he’d never get breakfast.

Now, if I was going to be ill and weak and perhaps have numb or painfully swollen feet, it was a very good thing I’d managed to teach Seamus this particular game.

Seamus followed me to the laundry room and I scooped kibble into his bowl, giving him a little extra. Chemo morning seemed to call for leniency and empathy for all creatures. I poured myself a large cup of coffee and drank it downstairs, letting Chris sleep. After breakfast, Seamus cuddled in next to me on the couch.

“What do you think, buddy? Shall we have toast?” I was supposed to eat something.

Seamus thumped his tail at the word
toast
. He also thumped his tail at
what
,
buddy
, and
shall
—since he’d just had his own breakfast and knew he’d be getting mine next.

Dr. Dutelle had told me Seamus could have carbohydrates now and in fact would need some. Since I kept him on the high-protein, low-carb kibble, I gradually returned to our codependent toast-sharing routine. I made two slices of wheat toast and slathered them with peanut butter.

Chris came into the den as I handed Seamus the last bit of crust.

“Did you pop your pills yet?” he said.

“I’m headed upstairs now to take them. I figured food in my stomach was a good idea. And coffee in my brain…so I can read the pill labels. No OD’ing on Vicodin the first day.”

“Good plan. I’m going to pack us a lunch while you get ready.”

Seamus’s tail thumped again.
Lunch? Yes, please!

But I had less enthusiasm. I had to go “get ready.” And how does one get ready to have their body flushed with poison? Should one wear black?

I showered and dressed, choosing comfortable black pants, a short-sleeved periwinkle blue cotton top, and the huge, soft cotton wrap Trudi had given me. She told me the infusion room was usually cold, but you can get hot flashes from the drugs, so the wrap would easily come on and off without disrupting the tubes coming from my arm. Practical advice. And fashionable—the wrap was gorgeously soft and in my favorite color. I blew-dry and styled my hair, trying unsuccessfully to not think about how many more times I’d do that before there was no hair.

I went back downstairs, where Chris waited, showered, shaved, and dressed, snuggled up with Seamus on the couch.

“Okay, pills are popped. I’m ready for the chair.”

“And lunches are packed. It’s only 7:30. We’re even early.”

“Obviously cancer has changed us. And not for the better.”

“Surprisingly.”

“Let’s just get going. It’s not like I’m going to sit down and rest.”

Seamus followed us out to the courtyard, and we stopped for photos of me, new cancer warrior, and Seamus, the veteran. I petted Seamus for good luck, kissed the top of his forehead, and then put him in his crate in the backseat of our car.

We dropped Seamus at Destiny’s home. True to her offer, she was watching Seamus for the morning. Or however long my appointment took.

• • •

I was relieved to see that the oncology office had removed the Valentine’s Day décor. The office seemed more professional without pink and red streamers and hearts. And this time, I was in my paper dress and being addressed by the nurse practitioner by 9:15. She deemed my surgery scar healed sufficiently and the blood work I’d had done earlier in the week came back fine.

“Go ahead and get dressed and we’ll find a chair for you,” she said.

Although I’d been calling it “the chair” myself, the expression got more ominous the closer I came to having to sit in it hooked up to a bag dripping poison. Chris followed me to the infusion room. We both stood in the doorway and looked around the room, waiting for instructions.

After a few minutes a nurse showed me to my chair, on the left side of the room, next to an elderly woman reading a book. I sat in the chair, and Chris took a seat on a small chair next to me.

“We’re mixing up your chemo cocktail now. I’ll be right back,” the nurse said as she departed.

I looked at Chris. “I’ve never been so disappointed to hear the word
cocktail
.”

“No kidding. It’s like an abuse of a perfectly wonderful word.”

The infusion room was small. The chairs (large and reminiscent of the massage lounge chairs usually found in places named “Happy Nails”) were positioned up against each wall of the room. Which meant, like it or not, the patients, ten of us (nine women and one man), were all staring at one another in silence.

I wondered, what is the etiquette? What do you say? “I’m new here”? Or, “Come here often?” Or, “What are you in for?” It was hard to know. I think the etiquette should have been covered in my chemo training. The dogs with Seamus didn’t seem to have this problem. In that oncology waiting center, the patients sniffed butts indiscriminately as a greeting. Such knowledge was not going to help me here, although having the nonchalance of a dog would certainly have.

Most patients merely glanced at us and returned to their magazines. A few were sleeping. All had IV drips on poles next to their chairs.

Chris began to unpack all that we’d brought with us—some books, my journal, my laptop, Chris’s laptop, the large bag of foods Chris had prepared, two liters of Gatorade, several magazines. Because the chemo drip is done slowly so as to observe any negative reactions, we were told, the first day of chemo was going to be a long one. We had prepared for that. Maybe we’d over-prepared. We looked like we’d come to stay.