The Good News
The second attempt for my CT scan was problem-free. The results show the lymph node shrunk again from 1.4 cm to 1 cm. The oncologist says ideally it would be .5cm, and it seems like we’re on track to reach that goal. Those kinds of results keep me optimistic when chemo side effects are making life difficult.
The Other Good News
We’re fully moved into our new apartment. I’m grateful that everything was boxed up in time for the movers. The guys at Atlas Moving Company took care of us for the second year in a row. Not only did my grandpa’s desk make it safely, but my craft cabinet also arrived in one piece. I can confirm the caster wheels work just fine after seeing them wheel it out of the old room and into the hallway.
Now my energy and strength are going towards unpacking. I’ve left Oscar in charge of the kitchen since he’s the primary cook. I’ve put all my unread books on a shelf. Yeah, there are enough for a short bookshelf. The box they were in had been my temporary nightstand. I know I have a problem, but there are worse problems to have.
The Rough News
Oscar’s employer (who shall remain nameless) laid off multiple employees, including him. I won’t go into details because I promised not to. They at least gave him a severance that will keep us afloat for about six weeks. I’ve told him he can use the time to make sure I’m okay if he wants to. Or just to take a break since he’s had so much on his shoulders. He’s been applying for new positions since day one. I hope whichever company he joins next will be understanding and flexible so he can continue taking me to my treatments. Part of me worries that was the reason he was one of the group let go.
The Potentially Good News
I was scheduled for chemo on the 29ᵗʰ, but I’d developed a cold the week before. I’d gone to the clinic the day after coughing up bright red flecks of blood which only happened once. We confirmed it wasn’t strep, the flu, or Covid. My symptoms were still active enough that my oncologist decided to hold off on round nine. He let me know my chemo treatments would no longer include the Ood ball with the oxaliplatin, which is great since it’s the culprit causing my neuropathy.
Right now my fingertips feel like something is constantly squeezing them. My feet are more sensitive when I walk, like the Hans Christian Anderson version of The Little Mermaid, only milder than walking on glass. Thanks to an extended recovery from round eight, I can enjoy iced drinks again. I could only tolerate them the last two days of each recent round. It’s less satisfying leaving a soda on the counter until it’s room temperature.
My oncologist also informed me I qualify for a clinical trial now that I’ve finished so many rounds of chemo. He put in a referral, and we met with the radiologist today. She cleared up any apprehensions and myths about the radiation treatment. The treatment is so pinpoint accurate these days that my vocal cords are a very safe distance away from the tracheal lymph node being targeted. It would also mean I’d get my second tattoo. It would be a very small one, almost like a tiny mole, marking where the radiation calibrates. Maybe if I get brave I’ll get a larger tattoo in the same place.
The trial would mean going to Huntsman in Salt Lake every weekday for about ten days. Each day I’d get a fraction of the total radiation treatment. Before I start treatment I’d get scanned to create a computer model of my chest, neck, and head. The radiation team uses the model to calibrate the exact motions of the radiation machine for each visit. They triple-check the data before bringing me back about three weeks after the initial scan. Chemo treatments could continue while doing radiation, but only in a pill form. I’m not up for trying that method again, so it would put chemo on hold during radiation.
There’s a 50/50 chance I’d be randomly selected, but I’m going to apply. I’m benefitting from research done with other patients, and I’ve been waiting for a chance to pay it forward. The study is trying to see if adding radiation treatment after so many rounds of chemo can improve removing the cancer as well as prolonging survival. It could mean less suffering during treatments and better survival rates for patients who are diagnosed after me. I’m hoping to be in the group with the radiation treatment, but even being in the control group without it will provide valuable data.
The Hardest News
I don’t want to write this, but I definitely don’t want to do a video update. At least this way it will be more cathartic.
Silas was having diarrhea the weekend of the 20th. I think we changed his diaper eight times on Saturday alone. Sunday was especially frustrating because I relied so much on Oscar to help clean the pug, floor, and tub from the mess. I broke down sobbing, saying the pug deserved better care than I could give. Oscar did his best to comfort me. Even Ruger came in concerned and checked on me.
Monday morning we called the vet. They set an appointment for Thursday to check his condition and gave us tips on what to add to his food. By Wednesday morning he seemed to be doing better, but the diarrhea returned that night.
Thursday morning we arrived at Ogden Animal Hospital. I’d contacted our pet insurance and asked what was needed to assist in covering euthanasia costs, in the event of a worst-case scenario. We let the vet tech know his symptoms: confusion about where he was, constant pacing as if his pain meds for his back were no longer working, his inability to gain weight with increased feedings, and recent diarrhea. The only positives in checking if it was time were his still present appetite and continuing to be social and seek out attention. The vet tech took him for further examinations, along with instructions for insurance.
Dr. Steve Lemon, who has been caring for Silas since he was a puppy, came in to let us know it was time. We’d done all we could to make his last years as easy as possible. It wasn’t the news I wanted to hear, but the pug didn’t deserve to struggle anymore just to keep him around. They let us hold him and love on him as long as we wanted before prepping him. I thanked him for the adventure and for all the rough and good times he had with me. Oscar thanked him for letting him be there for the second half of his life and teaching him how to be patient. We assured him he was a very good boy and not to be scared. Silas probably heard none of this since he’s deaf, but I hope the feelings got through.
It felt like forever, but at some point we were ready. Dr. Lemon gave him a painkiller to help him relax. I stroked his head and velvet ears as the last injection was given. Seconds later Dr. Lemon confirmed he was gone. I’m grateful Dr. Lemon got to be the one who helped us let him go. Silas was always his favorite pug since he was the healthiest he had ever seen. No offense to the other pugs.
It took a while before we were ready to leave his body. I don’t think I’d ever be fully ready, but seeing him so still was more difficult. As we left the room another couple was waiting with their cat. The woman saw me with the pug’s leash in my hand and no pet to go with it. She offered me a hug, and I accepted. She reminded me of the Rainbow Bridge.
I didn’t tell her, but I no longer believe in an afterlife. However, if it was up to me, only the best of humans would get to see their beloved pets again. Our pets deserve the best people to take care of them. Everyone else would simply stop existing. If that were the case the world would be a much better place. It would be a place where everyone’s lives allow them to have a pet at least once because good people would also want to take care of other people. It’s a silly idea, but that’s the afterlife I would want if I believed in one.
Half an hour later, as we left IFA to get Ghost a round of vaccines, I realized I was still holding onto the leash. It took some effort to let it go.
Once we were home. I spent most of the day watching my YouTube videos that had the pug. It was while watching his 13th birthday that I noticed he was slowing down. His wheelchair allowed him a little more time to be active. At 14-and-a-half years he was showing signs that it was time, but I was in denial. The idea that I’d lose him while dealing with chemo was especially hard to face, but here we are. I feel guilty for being so selfish, but Oscar reminds me of how well I took care of him.
We get his ashes in an urn in a couple of weeks, along with a blue glass tile featuring his paw print. I want to do something special for him, but I have no idea what.
Ruger has been particularly cuddly every night. I don’t know if he understands that Silas isn’t coming back home. Ghost only knew him for about a month and doesn’t seem affected. I’m glad to have both critters.
Brady was right. They do help with grieving a pet. It’s hard knowing one day I’ll have to let them go, too. For now, I’ll do my best to take care of them and hopefully be worthy of meeting them at the Rainbow Bridge.
Love you tons, pug monster.
Team Hedgehog 