Last Tuesday, we went to the veterinary oncologist to see if there was a viable treatment plan for our baby girl that would significantly improve the length and quality of her life. While we were there, the vet said that it is still uncertain as to what type of lymphoproliferative disease our baby girl has: acute or chronic. The vet said that while the bone marrow results were indicating that it is acute disease, her blood markers are indicating that it is chronic. She said that there was also still one other possibility, which would be worse than either chronic or acute leukemia and that would be acute myeloid leukemia, which is very rare, but is sometimes discovered in cases like Kayla’s where the bone marrow says one thing and the blood results say another. Acute myeloid leukemia is very bad. Very aggressive. No real successful treatment.
This whole ordeal has been like watching a train wreck. We can see that something bad is going to happen and that it can’t be stopped, we just don’t know how bad the damage will be until after impact. Well, now we know.
The oncologist called yesterday afternoon. It is acute myeloid leukemia. Her expected survival time is about two weeks.
I think I was in shock yesterday. I cried some one the phone with the vet, but my mind immediately shifted into planning mode. Plans for a Thanksgiving at the lake: cancelled. Plans for Christmas: travel, but likely with only one dog instead of two. Plans for two weeks from now: laying my baby girl to rest.
In some ways, this was a merciful result. There is no agonizing over whether to treat her, any treatment that we would pursue would only increase her life span by 4 – 6 weeks and would not even increase her quality of life appreciably during that time. It will be fast. There will not be months of watching and waiting. The oncologist said that she won’t really be in pain, she’ll just get weaker and weaker and will eventually stop eating or even trying to get up to go outside. At that point, we’ll know that it is time for us to let her go.
I am trying to be grateful for those mercies and for the other blessings that I have in my life right now. It is not easy. It is barely even possible. All I can think about is the fact that my baby girl is getting sicker and sicker by the hour. Each wag of her tail, each bark, each contented sigh that she makes while I rub her ears or belly may be the last.
I started a journal the week before last to try to capture my memories of some of our baby girl’s last good moments. It is therapeutic and masochistic at the same time. I read about her playing ball a week and a half ago. She doesn’t really have the energy to do that anymore and so I cried at the realization that I had captured in writing the last time that she will chase after her ball with such passion and drive. It is so painful to watch her waste away before my very eyes and yet I don’t see any other alternative. As long as she is not in pain and can enjoy simple things I do not want to end her life. So I become an observer of the terrible events that this disease has put into motion, waiting for the moment of ultimate impact so that the damage can be assessed and the wreckage cleared away.
And there will be wreckage. Our first trip to our place at the lake without her is going to be more painful than words can express. She and her older brother usually swam twice a day each day that we were there. People would go out on their balconies and watch the two of them run and play in the grassy area between the condos and the boat docks. The children would come watch our baby girl launch herself off the dock in pursuit of whatever was being thrown out into the water for her to retrieve, but actually, she just liked the thrill of the jump. People will ask us questions like “Where’s the other dog?” and “Don’t you have two dogs?”. We will have to explain to them, without completely breaking down, that our younger lab is no longer with us. We will have to pack up her crate and put away her bed and towels at our lake house. The wounds of grief will be re-opened and more memories will come crashing down on us reminding us of our lost baby girl.
My grief over losing my baby girl has given me a new appreciation for anyone who is suffering from clinical depression or the grief of losing someone very close to them. I am beginning to understand how it feels to be paralyzed by grief; to want to escape the feelings that overwhelm every other thought that tries to enter my mind. In the end, though, it is making me a more compassionate and understanding person. It is another gift from my baby girl.
