For the Most Part

Goodness gracious, that Elvis lip! <3

In January, I took Charlie to the vet to check into some bloody urine that he had been having. Abbie girl had had a similar issue occasionally with bladder infections and would be right as rain after a round of antibiotics, so at the time I wasn’t particularly worried. Charlie had been being obstinate about emptying his bladder regularly, so I thought perhaps that had led to his getting a urinary tract infection of his own.

His urinalysis showed crystals and a few bacteria, but the veterinarian wasn’t convinced that infection was the primary issue. She wanted us to get an ultrasound of his bladder to make certain Charlie didn’t have bladder stones or a bladder mass. Since he was going to be sedated anyway, I asked them just to ultrasound his whole abdomen.

Our veterinarian doesn’t do ultrasound, so we had to travel a short way to a sister clinic and one of her partners who does do them. The staff was kind as they came to take Charlie back for his procedure and when they came to get me to talk to the vet afterward. When they rounded the corner to come for me, though, my spidey senses started tinglng, but as I have mentioned before, I am an Olympic level worrier, so I pushed my feeling aside and told myself not to indulge my worrying nature.

The first words the vet said was “For the most part, everything is okay,” and with that my mind began to grasp desperately toward the words I then knew were coming. He started with excruciating detail about what was right about the exam and our boy.

“There are no stones in the bladder. His kidneys and liver look great…”

I was screaming inside, mentally clawing toward the thing that was not okay but outwardly nodding my understanding as my left hand stroked Charlie’s ear or rubbed the top of his head.

”Here is his prostate…”

“Prostate? He’s neutered,” I thought. That shouldn’t be an issue since we don’t have the hormonal influence of gonads.

Soon, the vet would echo my words, “It’s about 5 centimeters in diameter. It should be less than three. Since he doesn’t have the testosterone of an uncastrated dog, we shouldn’t be seeing this level of enlargement.”

As I looked at the grainy black and white images while he scrolled through them on the monitor, his words began to sound similar to the Peanuts teacher. “Whah whah whah whah” until they ended with, “… so it’s most likely prostate cancer. Like punctuation, the tears that had been building as he spoke brimmed and began to fall.

The emergency room makes me no stranger to functioning around heartache, though, so I did what I do all too well, and I boxed up that emotion, and I focused on what I could control—information. I formulated questions and asked about our plan of attack. Six to nine months of war with the same ending regardless of the battles was our prognosis.

Dr. Thomson patiently and compassionately answered my questions, and I took my dear boy and headed home. First, though, I sat in my car in the parking lot and ugly cried.

The subsequent weeks slogged by as we waited for our appointment with the oncologist, but I wasted no time looking into less than traditional options and following the vet’s instructions to the letter. We started anti-inflammatories and some alternative therapies, and we began the processes of proper spoiling of the patient, soaking up every moment of furry love we could get. If we only had six to nine months, they would be months stuffed with love and memories of long, leisurely walks and breezy rides to the magic window for ice cream or puppuccinos—maybe sometimes even both.

Finally, though, February 15th rolled around, and we met with Dr. Roof, the veterinary oncologist. I wish I could say that I went to that visit filled with optimism and glowing hope, but I didn’t exactly. I went with a sense of resignation and realism, thinking that I would leave with little more knowledge than I came with but maybe a plan to make last days as good as possible.

I left unable to contain my joy.

During our appointment, Dr. Roof reviewed the information from the other veterinarians then did her own studies and ordered a few more, but her preliminary opinion was that Charlie did not have cancer but instead had a severe case of prostatitis. Sitting on the floor using a beat up dry erase board, an orange marker, and atrocious drawings, this petite blond woman a bit younger than me explained why her diagnosis was different and what she would do to confirm it. Antibiotics would fix our issues.

I felt as if a low lying storm blew away leaving a perfect sunset. I cried in that parking lot for a completely different reason. Then we went and had a puppuccino.

In those days after we had been given a cancer diagnosis, I wrote the following poem. It, and the feelings we managed in those weeks between ultrasound and oncologist, were rich reminders of living life in the balance of focusing on the here and now while preparing for the future.

* * * * *

FOR THE MOST PART

“For the most part
Everything is okay.”
I’ve almost recovered the breath
Snatched into the vacuum
Of soft words
Spoken around grainy black and white images.

Still we have
Butt bumps
And circle wags,
Morning snuggles
And a good strong tug on the other end of the leash.
We have anxious anticipation of homecomings
As we open the door to leave,
And that heavy lean,
lean,
lean
Of a hug,
And “thank you,”
Still we have “thank you,”
And
Still we have you.

For the most part
Everything is okay.
We shared another sunset
With the osprey,
Heavy orange ripening to deep blue echoes across still water.
And oh!
The soothing comfort
Of the cool, silver embrace
Of Mama Moon
As we turn to home.
How silly to think
The gentle chill caressing our cheek
Was a simple change in the weather
When she is always there
To guide and celebrate and mourn
The ebb and flow of our lives.

For the most part
Everything is okay.
But now we hoard
The moments and the images,
The smell of cold on your fur
And the feel of your floppy left ear between grasping fingers,
The sound of your Husky happiness
And the clicking joy of dancing paws.

We pack away the precious humdrum
Into the velvet lined boxes of our minds
And place them
Gently, carefully,
Next to the warm security
Of mothers’ hugs
And the soothing safety
Of fathers’ voices.

Because soft words
Have been spoken around grainy black and white images.

01/23/22

* * * * *

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Unless otherwise noted, all material--written, photographic, and artistic--is the original work of Estora Adams. All rights reserved.