The Bags We Carry.
There’s this bag I’ve been carrying.
I got it at H&M one time, the only reason I used to go to the mall when we still went to malls. It was a blue and white tie-dyed canvas tote that originally held my purchases but soon transitioned to a park/beach bag. It was the perfect summer tote, lightweight, soft, and able to carry a water bottle, Lara bar, and journal for longer walks and park jaunts. That bag hung next to my gym bag, which was full of a swimsuit, swim cap, goggles, and tiny travel toiletries, things we used to need when we left the house.
In March of 2020, those bags hung side by side — and didn’t go anywhere. Not during the beginning of lockdown, my first surgery, a second surgery, or recovery. Even though it was summer, I still couldn’t walk far, so I didn’t need the bag. And since no one was sitting on park benches or doing extended hangouts, that bag sat in the closet. In the gym bag, the swimsuit would eventually disintegrate, the effect of chemicals on fabric over time. When Petey got diagnosed with lymphoma in December of 2020, and I realized we’d have to trek to Milwaukee once a week for treatments, the summer bag found its use, again. It became the chemo bag.
When we started treatments in January 2020, it was so cold that packing came with questions. What would I need if I was waiting in the car for hours since I couldn’t go inside the vet? What if I had to pee? Was twenty-five degrees too cold to sit in the car and write? My instincts kicked in and I instantly filled the bag with anything I thought we might need: a Talenti Gelato container for, you know; masks of all kinds - KN95, cloth, cloth with filters; a roll of poop bags; a bag of kibble and a heavy-duty dog coat. This was a few weeks before the ice storm, so the bag also held extra socks, a sweater, hats, and gloves since the warmer clothes I’d ordered hadn’t arrived, yet. Layering would have to do. The bag also held some emergency supplies in case the car broke down, which was a possibility since I hadn’t driven it much since March 2020. There were water bottles and snow booties for Petey, phone chargers, and a roll of duct tape. I threw in a journal, pens, and a book. And even though I didn’t take my laptop, I packed my external hard drive. Carrying my novel-in-progress made me feel better, somehow.
I had no control over what was happening, but I could pack a bag. I could prepare for things that would probably never happen (breakdowns) but be glad I had a few things for comfort (water and a journal.) In the early days, it was too cold to take a walk, and everywhere was still closed, so I’d usually drop him off, go home and write for an hour, then go back. As we headed into spring, I walked around the neighborhood, responded to work e-mails, and wrote in the car. No matter where I was, though, when Petey Sellers was in treatment, that bag stayed in the front seat, waiting for him to come back.
Every night before chemo, I packed the bag like a ritual. It became part of our preparation, just like the meditation and reiki I did with Petey, explaining the treatment he was having the next day and getting his body ready to receive it. When things were hard, I could cling to it, this packing of a bag. It was a known in a time when everything else was unknown. That bag had become a survival bag, just like so much of the rest of our lives; survival from a pandemic, surgery, and sepsis; a historic wind event and wildfires, a fraught election, and an ice storm; virus variants, vaccinations, and a heat dome; survival, temporarily, from lymphoma. That bag was packed to the brim with all of it, including worry and grief, but also joy and gratitude. Could one bag really hold all of that?
As it turns out, it could.
In July 2021, the bag went with us to his last chemo treatment in the CHOP protocol. It was full of Petey’s UV shirt and booties, my UV shirt and hat, sunscreen, a towel for him to stand on, phone chargers and water bottles, the journal, and yes, the external hard drive. But this time, we also packed hope.
On May 12th, 2022, Petey Sellers came out of remission after almost a year. I’d been preparing myself for this news in June, but I would have felt the same way a month later: lucky that we’d had an extra year, angry that the cancer was back, and guilty that we hadn’t done more in the previous year. But like with any feelings, all feelings are valid – but not always accurate. Even though we spent more time weathering the pandemic than we’d hoped, (Delta, Omicron, etc.) and we spent a lot of time alone at home, we also spent that time together. We worked through things and healed; we wrote music. We went to the beach! I got boosted and my nephews came back for a visit. Other friends showed up, too, ones I never thought he’d see, again. We finished another draft of a novel, and then another, the final one, for now, leaving plenty of material on the cutting room floor for the sequel. We wrote essays; appreciated the moss and the light in fall, the snuggles in winter, and the flowers, damp with rain, in the spring. We sat in the backyard watching migrating birds, listened to records, read books; meditated, and did Friday Night Dance Parties. We loved as hard as we could. And he had a break from cancer.
May 12th was also Petey’s birthday, the golden one. He was twelve! Since we had to go for a cancer recheck, we made it a celebration. I brought cupcakes for the team, they gave him a butterfly toy, and we talked about options as he tossed the toy around. He seemed happy, healthy and ready for the world. It’s hard to give up on a dog like that. So we decided to start three treatments, once a week, the following week, and then re-evaluate. He sailed through the first one, and four days later, we packed the chemo bag for the beach – his favorite place in the entire world. The coast was sunny, but cool, our favorite weather; he got to stay in a hotel room, which he loves; and everyone was beyond friendly, spoiling him with treats and hellos, pets, and dog sniffs. We saw old friends and made some new ones. We also left the house – and laptops – behind for the first time in a year. We walked on the beach, Petey running off-leash some of the time, trotting beside me other times. But mostly, we sat on the blanket my sister gifted us and stared at the sea, breathing in the ocean air. I had a twisted ankle in a brace and Petey was fighting cancer, again, but we were making a memory. We were healing. We were in the moment.
When we got back after a few days, I washed the bag, which was full of sand, dried it, and packed it again for treatment. We were entering a new phase: living well with lymphoma. This time, the goal isn’t full remission, it’s to slow the spread of the disease and make him as comfy as possible. Treatment, but make it sassy! June will have some chemo in it, but it will also have joy – friends and walks, coffee outside with people watching, sitting on a blanket in the backyard, and taking drives with the windows down. We’ve missed the world – and everyone in it. The beach reminded me of that.
It’s a lot of work to finish a novel, to do a draft that’s as final as you can make it, and then let it go. Petey and I worked on this book together for so many years and, in the last few months, I read pages to him nightly as he smiled and drifted off to sleep. But it was complete, for now. So, I stared at the sea and let it go, along with other things, too: the stress of cancer and caretaking; the grief of making decisions and knowing what’s to come; financial stress and job worries; twisted ankles and dog bodies full of cancer cells. I let it all go, making space for the next part of our journey. By the time we got home, I felt centered; stronger; and prepared for whatever we’ll need. Petey reminded me of that, too. This is who we are, he said, as we were sitting on a blanket by the sea. Don’t forget what we do! We meditate! We write! We play music! We see friends! We’re social! These things ground us, they always have. As we head into summer, Petey Sellers will be out there, smiling and living his best life for as long as he can, spreading his special kind of magic to everyone he meets.
Truly, I’m the lucky one.
We never know what's ahead, but we can try to prepare a little, pack joy with worry, bring hope with sorrow, and carry a bag that, as it turns out, also carries us.
Art: Magic Bag!
Don’t have a bag for chemo visits, park jaunts, or important summer fun? Borrow ours. It’s magic!
Update:
As always, we hope you’re healthy and well. Thanks for reading, sharing, and subscribing. I keep these posts free so that everyone on the canine cancer journey can read them, but if you can help by subscribing or gifting any amount, we’d really appreciate it. When lymphoma comes back, it moves quickly. So we’re trying a few things to slow disease progression, but we’re not sure if they will work. Petey was resistant to the first two treatments, so we switched to a new drug last week. I’m hoping he’s with us through June. He could surprise us and stay longer! Or he could leave sooner. It’s hard to know. But one thing we do know – we heart you! Thank you for reading and being a part of our community. It means the world to us that you’re here.
Happy summer, happy living, happy Pride!
xoxo, Kari and Petey Sellers
