It is with great sadness that I write this tonight. A very great sadness. I guess it makes sense that I am writing now after so long because I started blogging due to great sadness-- although at the time I expressed it through humor and being silly. I am all out of humor and silly. Over the last 3 years, these traits have slowly been sucked from me and I am left with something else. I will warn you, these writings do not have a happy ending.
I will begin by telling you the end of the story so that you don't have to read all of this in the hopes that something good comes of all of it because it doesn't:
On Saturday, I put my best friend down. My always-happy, always-excited, black lab named Tripp. Although everyone is telling me I didn't kill him, I still feel as if I did. Maybe it was not from the euthanasia. Nae, I have moved beyond this and realized he was at his end. Perhaps we could have taken him home from that vets office that day and had a few extra hours with him but he his body was already shutting down. But I still feel as if I killed him somehow. I didn't do something right. Maybe I gave him the wrong supplements and they cancelled each other out, maybe I gave him the wrong food, maybe due to my sleeping habits the cancer was able to attack full force, maybe I used too many chemicals in my house, maybe I vaccinated him too much--but somehow, at some point, I did something wrong and I killed him. Should I be blamed or blame myself for this? Probably not. If I had known what I was doing wrong then I most definitely would not have done it. It was not my fault and yet I still know that, ultimately, I did something wrong somewhere.
And now for the beginning of the story which started Sunday, June 22, 2014:
He had a form of cancer called Hemangiosarcoma. It is a more common type of cancer found in Labrador Retrievers. On June 22, 2014 he just stopped walking. He didn't collapse like most dogs with this type of cancer do. He just stopped moving and stood there. He had the "lights on but nobody is home" look on his face and was not responding very much. I noticed his back seemed a bit up in the air and his belly SORT OF looked bloated but when I pushed his belly he didn't act like he was in pain. I have a video of this which maybe one day I will feel strong enough to post-- I wasn't sure what was wrong so I took a video in case he suddenly snapped out of it.
After an hour, I got him to lay down finally in the kitchen. After about 15 minutes of laying on the floor, he tried to stand to make it to his water bowl. When he stood, it reminded me of Bambi the first time the little deer tried to walk. His front feet looked strong and stable but his back legs sprawled out in this grotesque upside down V and were sliding across our hard floors. I had to grab him to hold him up.
That's when I knew something was wrong. I still assumed it was just a back problem. He had been fine just a few hours before: ate his breakfast, ran around with me outside with the chickens--no reason to believe anything was wrong at all. I assumed he must have pulled something in his back. I remember making the decision to take him to the emergency vet. I thought I was being excessively paranoid to tell you the truth as I knew a back problem could wait another day and save me thousands. However, Tripp is my world and I always feel it is better safe than sorry.
The entire way there I remember wanting to kick myself because I knew I was about to spend several hundred--if not thousands--of dollars at the emergency vet just to see him perk up on his own or find out it was a back problem and he just needed painkillers and rest. The emergency vet is about 30 minutes away from our house but by the time we got there he would not move. I wouldn't have called him "alert" but his head was up and he was looking around. Bill and I tried to get him out of the car but he would not move at all. So I went inside and patiently waited my turn to ask the girl at the front desk to assist us with a stretcher and help getting him out of the car. I remember having to wait at least 10 more minutes before someone finally came out. The tech walked out with a rolling stretcher, reminding me of a slow, bored sloth.
"Before I do anything, I need to know some things about him. When did he collapse like this?" The sloth-like tech asked.
"About 1 - 2 hours ago he just stopped walking. He wouldn't lay down and he wouldn't move. He just stood there staring"
And that's when she looked at his gums--something that had completely evaded my mind on first aid with dogs. FUCK! DUH HEATHER! You always look at a dog's gums to measure how sick they could be. How did I forget to do this before we even came?
As soon as she looked at his gums, a very morbid look came over her face.
"He has pale gums. He is bleeding internally somewhere. I have to get him inside now but I need to know if you want CPR or DNR?"
For those of you who don't know: DNR = Do Not Resuscitate and CPR is Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation (AKA: Make his heart keep pumping even if you have to do it manually)
I felt every piece of my soul, my world, break into a thousand tiny little pieces at that very moment as I tried to comprehend that it was not something small. Something was very, very wrong.
"What? What do you mean he is bleeding internally? Why the hell are you asking me about CPR or DNR?" I belted out.
She quickly explained the difference between CPR and DNR (Duh!) and said there wasn't much time. She needed an answer.
"I WANT YOU TO FUCKING SAVE HIM. CPR!!!!! CPR!!! SAVE HIM!"
I don't remember how they got him out of the back of our SUV and onto the gurney. I had checked out at that point and felt myself melting into the asphalt in that parking lot. It was sunny and bright outside but I swear it got dark in that instant. You know that little black cloud that hangs over Eeyore? Well, I believe Eeyore temporarily rented it to me that day. Actually, after a long debacle between the cloud, Eeyore, and myself, we finally decided that I can keep it indefinitely. It suits me better these days anyways. I do remember following the sloth tech inside the emergency clinic. Now she was moving quickly--almost running--No longer the sloth like movements. This sloth grew wings and could fly.
As I followed her in I remember tears streaming down my face, the feeling that I couldn't breathe, and gobs of snot streaming out of my nostrils and onto my face and then finally falling to the floor of the emergency vet. I remember her wheeling him in the back while she yelled at the front desk nurse that she needed to get a CPR form to me ASAP. I remember looking at Tripp's glazed stare that was not focused on anything and wondering if I would see him again. If I would ever get another chance to snuggle up to my best friend again. If I would ever hear his crazy barking, growling, whining that was so fucking annoying but had been a daily part of my life for the last 11 years.
I remember pulling out my phone as we waited and Googling "Dog's gums pale, not moving". This one word kept showing up on every website I went to. This new word that would become so familiar to me so soon but was so foreign at the time: Hemangiosarcoma. No, that couldn't be it. I refused to believe it. Everything said that dogs with Hemangiosarcoma would need an emergency splenectomy and even then the survival time was 1 - 3 months. I refused to see the truth at that moment. I thought maybe he injured his spleen when he was playing that morning. Maybe he was just anemic. Maybe these vets were totally fucking crazy and he just had a god damn back problem and all he needed was some mother fucking painkillers and rest.
As I sat there waiting for answers, my regular vet, Dr. Jodi, called me. Dr Jodi is a wonderful vet and I have her personal cell phone number that I can call day or night for an emergency. On the way to the emergency vet I called and left her a voice message in the hopes that she could answer why he could be acting so strangely. I always look for answers from her that she can't give me since she doesn't have Tripp or Daisy in front of her. One day I might finally learn just to bring them in rather than to call her incessantly.
When she finally called back, I answered my phone sobbing and trying my hardest to form words of what was going on. I think I said something along the lines of "He wasn't moving. He wasn't walking and he wasn't laying down and he wasn't acting coherent. So we brought him here to the emergency vet and they said his gums were pale and he is blee.....". I didn't even get the last part out before I heard Dr Jodi say in the most upsetting, depressing tone you could hear from your vet: "Oh No"
That's when I knew she knew what was wrong. She wouldn't have muttered that horrible "Oh No" had it not been a worst case scenario. She went over with me the things it could be. Most likely, his spleen had ruptured due to a tumor. There could have been an injury to the spleen. She even said maybe, just maybe, there was a small chance it could be a back issue but back problems do not usually make their gums pale. Only internal bleeding or anemia make gums pale and you don't just suddenly develop anemia--but perhaps it was something else. I guess she was trying to give me hope but I now know she knew almost immediately what was going on.
So after what seemed like hours of waiting, crying, screaming (Bill was still holding it together at this point), we finally saw the vet. He confirmed that there was blood in his abdomen. I believe they stuck a needle into his belly and all that came out was blood. They did an ultrasound but it was hard to tell where he was bleeding due to the amount of blood. The vet was fairly certain they could see a tumor on his spleen but they would not know for sure what caused the bleeding unless they went in to try and stop it. However, due to his age (11), breed, and symptoms, hemangiosarcoma was most likely the cause. This type of cancer typically grows on the spleen and is non-detectable until it finally ruptures the spleen and causes all those awful cancer cells to spread all throughout the body. There is no stopping it once this happens. Slow it down? Maybe. But no stopping it once the process has begun.
I remind you again, there is no happy story here. I read so, so many stories of other pet owners who were dealing with their babies having hemangiosarcoma. I mean hundreds and hundreds of stories. Out of hundreds, there were less than a handful that made it longer than 12 months. I was stupid and chose to only pay attention to those stories and not the obvious truth of the situation.
In Tripp's case, there was so much blood in his abdomen and his red blood cell count was so low that we needed to make a decision right away on surgery or euthanasia. I guess some dogs show signs of anemia and lethargy when they do not have as much internal bleeding. You can actually take these dogs home to wait and have your regular vet do the surgery at a much lower cost. This was not the case for Tripp. The vet said he literally could be gone any minute and they already had a surgical team scrubbed in and waiting if we wanted to do the surgery.
So now the moment of truth. His heart was beating normally and his liver looked good as far as they could tell so he was a candidate for surgery. However, if it was hemangiosarcoma then they would remove his spleen and he would go back to being normal Tripp for awhile until the cancer eventually spread to his liver, lungs, heart, or brain and caused him to bleed internally again and kill him. This most likely would happen within 3 months unless we did chemo which could give him another 6 months.
If it was a different type of tumor on his spleen, we would have better results and he could live for longer. We couldn't confirm it was his spleen (Although they were pretty certain) or what type of tumor it was until they got in there. They couldn't confirm if the cancer had spread to his liver, lungs, or other vital organs until they went in. There was a 50/50 chance that it had spread so much that there was no point in fixing him....in which case they stop the surgery and euthanize.
I still cannot fathom how this happened. Just that morning he ate his food like always, he played like always, he lept off the porch instead of using the stairs as always, he chased the neighbors kids as always, he sat beside me while I tended to the chickens and ducks as always, he went through the trash as always, he squeaked his ball half a million times as always, he whined as always, and he barked as always. No signs of any pain or being uncomfortable although surely he had some and Tripp was obviously really good at hiding it.
In fact, things were so good in my household that just 1 day before the day of this spleen rupture I posted this to Facebook:
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I am convinced I jinxed myself with this post. Karma or the universe or whatever just couldn't let me be high on life for more than 24 hours.
Now for the complications of the surgery--Obviously death although they said there was a "good chance this wouldn't happen. Heart Arrhythmia is common after a splenectomy and he would need to stay in the hospital until those were under control. There was a chance for more arrhythmia after we brought him home it could possibly kill him but it is not common (Of course, the vet just HAD to tell me that he had a dog just last week go home from the same surgery and died a day later after his heart stopped, but you know, that's not common). Another major complication that can happen during surgery is his blood pressure drops. In this case they would have to actually take him off the anesthesia and wait for him to become stable again before continue. Lastly and very likely, he would need a blood transfusion due to loss of blood.
So ALL of this is running through my head while I am, at the same time, trying to comprehend that only a few hours earlier I had a perfectly healthy, happy dog and now I have a dying, sickly dog. Unfortunately at this point in time I could no longer comprehend anything that anyone was saying to me. Per usual Heather-ness, I couldn't get past the small details. The first detail--HOW THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN? I still wish I knew the answer to this even after all we have been through.
The vet left the toom to allow us to make our decision. When the door closed behind him in that small examination room, Bill finally broke. It's not very often that I see him break that way and start sobbing like a baby. All he could mutter is "I don't want him to die". However, one big thing loomed on our minds: The $6,000 estimate that was given. Yes, $6,000 and that was without a blood transfusion.
Only 3 weeks before my nightmare began, Tripp had another surgery. He had 3 massive lumps removed from his side, stomach, and ankle. The lump on his side had grown to be the same size as my head (I didn't realize it was actually that big until she took it out) in just a few months. We had aspirated the lump at least twice in the past and every time it came back as just being a fatty cyst. Nothing to worry about.
Then the last time we brought him to the vet, I believe the end of April, they aspirated it again due to how quickly it was growing and it showed abnormal cells. Dr Jodi removed these lumps and cleaned his teeth on June 3, 2014. They did find that the lump on his side was a Grade 2 mast cell tumor but she had cleared the margins by more than double. We didn't think we had much to worry about there. The lump on his ankle was benign but was in an area where it was causing mobility issues for him so it was good it came off. The lump on his stomach came back as a grade 1 mast cell tumor with dirty margins. Since it was only a grade 1 (Non-aggressive), Dr Jodi didn't think there was too much to worry about and decided not to put him through another surgery to remove the parts she missed. We were given a nice $1,300 bill and a big sigh of relief because we thought we had won. I had plans for Tripp to live to be 30. The oldest dog ever. We got all the cancer and all the lumps and we were good now. Or so I thought.
So after paying $1300 for a surgery which now seemed like a ridiculous waist of time and money, we were told we would have to cough up another $6,000 if we ever wanted to see our dog again.I didn't know what to do. How do I put a price on my best friend but DAMN--- $6,000. I don't have that kind of money just laying around. Who does? I wanted to do the surgery, however. There was no question in my mind that I wanted to do it even if it only meant a few more months. I felt guilty saying it out loud to Bill when I know most people could never fathom spending that amount of money on a dog that wouldn't live to see his next birthday.
A lot of times in my life, I have found that I just need someone to tell me why it's ok that I think the way I do and why I shouldn't feel bad about it. On this day, that person was Dr. Jodi. We spoke to her on the phone again and she made it very clear. "It's just money. You can make it back. If this is what you need to feel good and have no guilt, it's just money. Knowing you and knowing how much you love Tripp, I don't want you to always wonder if you could have saved him." And she was right. I could have never EVER lived with myself had I not done the surgery. What if it wasn't hemangiosarcoma? What if it was but we could prepare ourselves for his death and have our Tripp back for at least a few more weeks? Dr. Jodi was right--the only thing holding me back was money and my own personal sanity was worth that $6,000.
So we opted to do the surgery. We got to see him one last time before they took him into the operating room. I remember going back and there was my shell of a dog laying on a table. A bunch of doctors and nurses were standing on the other side of the room, scrubbed up and mingling quietly to one another while they waited for me to say my goodbyes. Thankfully not my last goodbye. I say he was a shell of a dog because Tripp was so weak and so out of it that I am not sure he truly comprehended I was in the room with him. I'm sure there was some comfort he felt somewhere when I came in but he didn't display it.
I kissed him and I hugged him and I told him, very clearly, that if he saw any light to run the other fucking direction as fast as he could. Stay the hell away from the light and come back to me. As I was kissing him goodbye one last time the nurse ensured me she would take good care of him. Then she said something that almost made me want to scream and something I will never forget, "He is such a good, boy. He is just so calm and laid back" That was the point I nearly vomited all over the floor. In the 11 years I had Tripp, 11 years he had been my best friend, NO ONE EVER used those words when describing Tripp.
Tripp was anything but what you would consider "good", "calm", "laid-back". By all means, Tripp was bad, hyper, and incredibly annoying. I will hit on this subject more later but it was at that point that I could have sworn he was going to die. The dog laying in front of me of was not my dog. He was the shell of my dog and I wanted more than anything to bring back my dog.
As nicely as I could I told the nurse that what she just said was not a description she should ever use on my Tripp. She was a bit befuddled. I told her when he wouldn't shut up, her ears were on fire, every drop of food was eaten, every bit of trash torn to pieces, blood spraying everywhere because he wagged his tail so hard that it cut open and yet he continues to whip it around like a cowboy with a lasso, when he was basically the worst patient she had ever had to deal with, then she would know my Tripp. My dog. My best friend. My trouble maker.
The next few hours were grueling, upsetting, and filled with tears as I am sure you could have imagined. We didn't stay at the hospital. For as much money as they charge to just examine your dog and then to do surgeries, you would think the hospital could at least buy some comfortable fucking seating. Instead, the waiting room is lined with these wooden slab benches that hurt your butt and back almost as soon as you sit down. The benches are cold and hard and desolate. I honestly think the emergency vet wants my body to feel as terrible as my heart did.
I had already spent many hours on those benches when Daisy had her health problems and I didn't think I could do it anymore. Luckily my mother lives less than 5 minutes from the hospital so, as much as I wanted to stay as close to him as I could, it seemed pointless when my mother's home is less than 2 miles down the road. I needed warmth and comfort and love at that point and not wretched, austere seating arrangements.
I finally received a call from the surgical veterinarian about 3 or 4 hours later. Tripp was as "stable" as could be expected given what he went through. His blood pressure had dropped during surgery and there was a point where they had to turn off the anesthesia and wait for him to stabilize before they could start again. He had been very near death. Later, I liked to joke that Tripp remembered me saying to run away from the light and, for the first time in his entire life, he actually listened.
The surgeon was able to stabilize him and finish the surgery eventually but I guess it was pretty heart-stopping (pun intended) for a bit. He explained that a tumor and his spleen was removed from and the tumor was what had caused his spleen to rupture and the internal bleeding. The tumor was very, very small. Originally I thought this was a good thing but the doctor explained that a small tumor is not a good thing. Usually small tumors are hemangiosarcoma because benign or non-hemangiosarcoma tumors get quite big before the spleen ruptures. However, there were no signs that it had spread to his liver or major organs. This was a small victory as, if you remember me mentioning before, there was a 50/50 chance it had spread and there would be no point to trying to save him.
More complications Tripp had after the splenectomy included heart arrhythmia, which they expected. They were also giving him a blood transfusion. Basically he had every complication, other than death, that were possible. I found out later that the blood transfusion was not absolutely necessary but they decided to do it to be safe and also in an attempt to flush out all the bad blood with cancer cells in it. Amazingly, they expected him to have a full recovery but he would not be able to leave until the arrhythmia was under control which might be a few days.
We did decide to drive the 30 minutes home after they confirmed he was stable and they expected him to make it through the night. We did have other animals - cats, dogs, ducks, hens, and new baby chickens that had not been well attended to. The one comfort I found was that he was at a 24 hour emergency clinic and I could call at anytime during the night to check on him. I think I called at 2am, 4am, 6am, and then they called at 9am to confirm he was still holding steady. There was no sleep for me until Tripp came home a few days later. This is somewhat ironic as I am actually diagnosed with Narcolepsy. I guess all the anxiety and fear beat out my brains desire to put me to sleep every few minutes-- although I sure could have used it.
And that was Day 1 of my living hell.
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