Little Graces.
Little Graces.
An early post from the vault + hydrangea season surprises.
I didn’t start posting on Substack until September 2021, but I started writing these missives in January. This one was written on Wednesday, March 21, 2021. Enjoy!
We went back to chemo today after a week off.
Unlike the other times, there was a gentleness about it, knowing what was ahead. I didn’t have the energy to do it well, so I just did it, tucking us into a cold car with frosty windows. It reminded me of when I took Petey in January and he got diagnosed with lymphoma while I shivered in a freezing car wrapped in a coat, hat, and blanket, awaiting his fate.
That morning we listened to jazz and tossed the panda; Petey ate a half breakfast, which is something we do on chemo days; and he walked gently up the stairs and into the car, no lifting, no extra treats, no heroics, just doing the thing in forty-five-degree weather and a fleece-lined dog coat. The drive to Milwaukee was empty as usual since everyone was still working from home. It was early, so I played more jazz, Monk, and Coltrane, humming along as we drove out of the cloudy Northeast and into the sunny Southeast. It was so bright, I almost couldn’t see, but in the rearview mirror, I saw Petey. He was smiling. I smiled, too.
“Hey, buddy!” I said. “Are you ready to go from acute to maintenance? Are you ready to kick cancer’s ass again?”
Petey kept smiling, probably loopy from the anti-anxiety meds, but also, I think he knew. I wasn’t even sure if he’d go from the acute to the maintenance phase today, it all depended on a good check-up, but I had hope. After three months, maybe we could move from weekly chemo to every other week. Maybe we’d know that it was working. Maybe we’d send that cancer packing and he’d be in remission, again. I’m pretty sure that was the plan. We passed thick rows of trees on both sides, the nicest part of the drive, and Petey gazed out the window. Maybe he was thinking about his future, too. I love this dog.
When we got to the clinic, Petey climbed out of the car without fanfare, peed a few times, and went in, willingly. He loves Emily, the vet tech, and the rest of the crew. I think he knows they’re helping him, even if he feels bad afterward. Maybe this time, he also knows that we’re lowering his chemo dose so that his white blood cell counts don’t plummet, again. I told him that this morning like I did before every visit. This was a longer one with an early drop-off, so I went home since the cafes were closed and it was too cold to wait in the car. But Petey knows this trip, this medicine, these vet visits are just a thing we do now, but with ease and grace.
Little graces.
The way his ears twitch at night as I read him to sleep.
The way he went back to his previous food, chicken and rice, a more bland diet, and is eating like a champ, again.
The way he ran yesterday, chasing me, and then tossing a stick after a few bad days.
The way he wanted to play this morning, even on meds.
The way he smiled at me in the mirror.
The way he went into the clinic, willingly.
The way he loves his team, and they love him.
Petey’s body is stronger, but maybe his soul is, too, from this year of intense connecting. Isolation is hard, but there have been so many little graces along the way. As I write this next to his empty dog bed, I can physically see how big his presence is in my life. It always has been, but this last year, it’s been everything. I’ve always adjusted my schedule so that Petey would have the most fun and the best care, but he’s always given it right back to me.
Little graces.
Sometimes we show up, stronger and with enthusiasm, and other times we show up, quiet and tired, but with steady, calm energy that says Everything is okay. I’ll be back to get you, later. Less drama, more mama.
I cried all the way home because it was hard to start treatments, again. We had an extra week off so that his WBC could recover, but it was wonderful to have normal Petey for an entire week. No driving to Milwaukee, no managing the side effects, no doing everything I could to get him to eat. I also cried because I missed him, my constant companion, but mostly I cried because we were back to treatments, again. Hopefully, for the next three months we’ll switch to every other week. Spring is coming, the vaccines are on their way, and for a moment, it felt like he was magically healthy, again. It felt like maybe the cancer was over, too.
But nothing’s really over, it just is. It just goes along. The pandemic’s not over, but soon we’ll be vaccinated, safer, and can finally see friends and family, again. Petey’s cancer’s not over, either, it’s just something we both live with, now. There’s no cure, there’s just the saving his life part, which we did, and giving him more time, which we’re doing. But there are also sunrise drives and evening snuggles, walks with bouncing ears and songs at the piano, Petey Sellers hugs and high-fives, and the love of the Very Best Dog.
Along the way, there are hard parts. But there are more than enough little graces to see us through. How lucky is that?
NEW: It’s Hydrangea Season over here! One year, after picking a bouquet, I held one up to Petey’s back end, giving him a blossom instead of a tail. “Flower butt!” I cried, and a tradition was born. Every year I cut the first bouquet and Petey stood there, tail wagging, already posing. He was a ham! He loved attention! He waited patiently for the flower to appear, and then he posed until I got the shot. Below are a few of my favorites. He was less thrilled in 2022 (Flower Neck!) but adorable, all the same. Enjoy the season, however you do it! May all of your dogs have flower butts, and may all the Olympians win the gold, at least in their hearts. Happy summer! Thanks for reading. Share photos of your pups and their flower butts if you dare. :) xoxo
