You are Amazing.
You are amazing.
That’s what the paper sign said, handmade, tie-dye painted and hanging on an electrical pole. The photo popped up on my phone on treatment day, one I remembered from June 2020, the first time after surgery I was able to drive to the park and take Petey Sellers for a walk. These were the early days of the pandemic and we passed a lot of signs along the way, messages to stay safe and strong, hang in there, and take care of each other.
You are amazing.
I remember feeling good when I saw that sign like yes, I am, thank you, and so are you, and so is my dog. All of us living through this time are amazing, especially healthcare and essential workers, people on the front lines of the pandemic, working hard while the rest of us were working hard to stay at home.
It was perfect for the day when Petey went in for his fourth chemo treatment. This treatment was longer, doxorubicin, administered by IV slowly over thirty minutes to avoid potential side effects. We were doing the CHOP protocol, the gold standard of dog chemotherapy, which consisted of two months of weekly treatments and then every other week for four months. The previous treatments were a bolus, short and sweet, or a pill, snuck inside a treat and given at home. But that day, they brought out the big guns. From what I read, this treatment potentially had the most side effects, but it was also the most effective drug in the protocol. So, we prepared, buying sweet potatoes, bananas, and baby food, and waiting an extra week to get his blood cell counts up after they’d dropped. His bone marrow recovered, but the lapse in treatment caused his lymph nodes to swell, again.
Like with humans, chemo for dogs is adjustable. Things happen. All dogs aren’t the same, but they’re cared for equally by wonderful oncologists and vet techs, heroes and heroines, each and every one of them. They want to save your dog as much as you do, but sometimes dogs get sick. Sometimes you have to take a pause. And sometimes, cancer comes back, but that’s okay. We were there for treatment, showing up for the fight. Petey was on board with this, too. He gave me a smile and resisted nothing except the twisted, crooked cells invading his lymph nodes.
The night before, we did our usual routine: meditation, meds, bed early. We slept together on the bed, deeply and into the night, waking only when an alarm went off for early meds and then a snuggle, breakfast with jazz, a cup of tea, and then into the car for a drive to Milwaukee. Only today there was traffic, sunshine so bright it was hard to see, and frenetic jazz on the radio that I eventually turned off, singing one of Petey’s songs to him, instead. Dulling the chaos.
When we got there, we parked between one car and a huge truck that kept its engine on, revving and blowing exhaust. I sat in the backseat with Petey, petting him as he squinted at the sunshine. When Tammy, his favorite vet tech came out to get him, he leaped out of the car and ran to her like he wanted to be treated. He knew why he was there, what we were doing, and was there for it.
He is amazing.
They were keeping him for 4-5 hours, so I drove back home to work. On the way, I was called to stop in one of my favorite neighborhoods for a walk. The street was beautiful, dotted with huge houses, wide streets, and a view. It was crispy and cold, February 2, 2021, but there were still yard signs out – Never Grow Up and Love Each Other. There were also painted rocks and a friendly robot, continuing to encourage us through the pandemic like the early days, missives bright and welcoming against a glittering blue sky.
Fifteen minutes into the walk, Petey popped into my consciousness. I don’t like this, he said. Are you there? I stopped walking and sat on a rock. I’m here, I said. And then I said: repeat after me: I am, I said. I am, he said. I am, I said. I am, he said. I am amazing, I said. I am amazing, he said. You are amazing, I said. Brave, strong, and you can do this. I’m with you. I can do this, he said. I am amazing, he said. There was a pause. Mommy, you are amazing, he said. I love you.
I felt it with all of my body, this connection we have. I’m strong and clear enough to listen so that he can reach out when he needs to and I’ll be there for him. In this way, we are never truly apart during his treatments. I stay awake, present, alert.
I am.
So hum.
“So hum” is a Sanskrit mantra I’ve used for the past twenty years during yoga and meditation. Roughly translated, it means “I am,” which can also mean I am one with the universe and all that surrounds me. I love how it showed up today as part of a memory of a sign we saw together, but also as the mantra I’ve used for strength, comfort, and grounding for years. So hum. I am. At that moment, with Petey, it took on an even newer meaning. I am here. I am fighting. I exist.
He exists.
Health journeys are never what you anticipate, not even when they’re with your dog. Up, down, crooked line, roller coaster, sideways. Kind of like the pandemic. It’s still happening, eighteen months later, almost twelve months since we started on the canine chemo journey. We’ve lost time, but we’ve also found it. And through it all, even now in the darkness of the coming months, the signs are still there. Take care of each other. Hang in there. Stay safe and strong. But also:
You are.
You are here.
You are amazing.
Good news! Petey Sellers made it through this appointment and three more rounds of doxo. And he’s still in remission as of yesterday’s appointment, 11 months post-diagnosis. Good job, brave warrior! We never know what the coming months will bring, but we’re savoring as much of them as we can. Stay warm and cozy, hug your people and your pets, and print out this award ribbon for your dog or yourself. Whether you’re a fellow or former pet cancer caregiver or someone living through these times, you deserve it. Here’s to a beautiful month! We’re grateful that you’re here. xoxo
