Sometimes Words Have No Meaning

I suggest reading the following when you’re not at work and when you have a few minutes to spare…

When the doctor left the examination room with my friend to take X-rays and samples I couldn’t help but worry as the solitude and silence dragged on for nearly an hour. I was relieved when they returned but could tell by the look on the doctor’s face that the inevitable words that would break the silence were not going to be good. “He has Lymphoma,” the doctor said, noting that “it is the best type of cancer for him to have.” I fought back tears as the doctor began to discuss the diagnosis and explained to me the short-term plan: he would prescribe a week’s worth of medication and I would come back the following Saturday to assess the results and discuss a long-term plan with the Oncologist.

I recall a few moments of numbness as I began to process this information before my emotions began to take hold of me as I realized that Jack had no concept of the severity of the situation. He had no way of understanding his condition or what that would mean for his near-futurE. I will admit he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, it’s not his fault that he doesn’t know what words like “Lymphoma” and “cancer” mean. After all, he’s a dog.

I had managed to keep myself fairly composed until I saw my sister and could tell she had already shed some tears. She works at the VCA hospital and had received the news about Jack before I saw her in the lobby. We sat there crying for a few minutes and I couldn’t help but be amused at the fact that we were both a wreck as Jack sat there wagging his tail, sniffing everything and expressing a strong desire to go interact with all of the other dogs in sight.

Ciella, Jack and I returned to the doctor’s office a week later to hear the results of the blood and sample tests and review treatment options with the Oncologist. She was extremely personable, honest and helpful in answering any questions we had during this difficult conversation. We left the office with the plan of beginning injection chemotherapy the following weekend. Starting that form of chemo gives him the best statistical shot at maintaining a high quality of life for as long as possible. We will continue this treatment as long as he responds well to the chemo and assess his condition on a weekly basis moving forward.

To say that ignorance is bliss would be a bit of an understatement as far as Jack is concerned. He’s just as happy, energetic and wiggly as ever, perhaps even more so because of the steroids, and I wonder if it’s better that way. I, for one, believe that at this stage in the game him not knowing what is going on is exactly how I would WANT to feel if it were me in his paws. However, what really makes this whole thing so difficult is that when the time comes and his body begins to give way, there is nothing I can do or say that will let him understand what is happening.

While the last two weeks have been rough, especially since I’ve been pretty hush-hush about this, it has given me and others a rejuvenated appreciation for his joy, goofiness and love of life and love of others, both canine and human alike. I sincerely wish I could’ve found a better and quicker way to spread the news but I needed some time to figure out the details so I could share as much information with you all in an effort to limit having to answer too many questions on an individual basis.

Ciella has begun creating a bucket list for Jack and we are certainly open to suggestions. I can assure you he will get to the beach, eat plenty of treats, and receive a lot of love in the coming months. It is comforting to know that he has the love and support of so many uncles, aunts, friends and family members. I cannot describe what it will be like to lose such a close friend and luckily we’ve got some time left together, but I can assure you that the following quote is just the tip of the iceberg for me and Jack:

“We’ll be Friends Forever, won’t we, Pooh?” asked Piglet.

Even longer, “Pooh answered.”