Reading time ~ 2 minutes
When last I wrote our dog, Walter, had just been diagnosed with lymphoma.
Before I give an update, I want to offer a disclaimer of sorts:
In the big picture, I know I’m lucky—there are people in the world who would gladly trade places to have their most pressing problem be a dog with cancer. I know I’m fortunate we can even consider pursuing treatment. And I know I’m privileged to have a cabin in the woods where we spent this week, inhaling fresh air and bathing in tranquility—a place where Walter can wander the trails freely without the need for a leash. Even though these things are true, the last two weeks have not exactly felt lucky, but they also have not been without important lessons and incredible synchronicity.
The instant we heard Walter’s diagnosis, extraneous distractions fell away and the priority shifted to: “What now?” Depending on intonation, this question can come across with irritation or fear: “Oh $h*t, what now?” Alternatively, it can be matter of fact or posed with an attitude of curiosity: “Okay, this is the situation we’re in, what do I do now?” While both have played out over the last few weeks, the latter, action-oriented expression has been more frequent and more helpful.
Walter has lymphoma.
What now?
Start reading everything I can about the disease, which, interestingly, is so similar to human lymphoma that much of the research to establish the efficacy of treatment has been done in dogs. Most vets recommend chemotherapy, because 80-90% will go into remission, at least for a short while, and the side effects are less severe than in people.
What now?
It’s 3pm on a Friday and I call office after office trying to get an appointment with a veterinary oncologist. The disease is so aggressive, it can be lethal if left untreated for 4-6 weeks. I call 12 doctors in all, including the vet school in eastern Washington. The soonest anyone can see us is 3 weeks and 5 days.
What now?
I grip my phone and utter aloud humanity’s most frequent prayer: “Please, please, please, please, please, please, help.” The 13th office I call is in Bellingham, 90 miles north of where we live in Seattle, 30 miles west of where our cabin in the woods happens to be. The friendly voice on the line says they can see Walter at 5pm on Monday. I hang up and utter what I hope is humanity’s second most frequent prayer: “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Over the weekend, I research whether anyone is doing immune therapy for dogs, because a good friend has done extremely well having had it as part of his treatment for non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma a decade ago when it was a relatively new option for humans. I find one clinic in the entire US where this is offered—you guessed it—in Bellingham where we have an appointment.
On Monday, Dr. Sullivan comes in the room apologizing for running late (by 7 minutes) then takes a seat on the floor with Walter and talks with me for nearly an hour, answering questions and explaining his protocol. Walter gets his first infusion that night, and Dr. Sullivan checks in with me again before we leave at 8:45pm.
In the intervening weeks and 2 subsequent treatments, we have continuously questioned “What now?” while we monitor and adjust to swings in appetite and energy and blood counts. As someone who has studied mindfulness and meditation for decades, I regret that it has taken this difficult predicament for the key message to click. I remember reading once that Buddhists don’t particularly value the sentiment of “hope,” because it directs our attention toward some desired event or outcome in the future and impedes our ability to accept our circumstances in the present.
Walter is ill, but we’ve found a wonderful doctor to take care of him. Weekly treatments will mean spending more time at a place where we feel calm and connected with nature. There are bits of good fortune sprinkled in with this unfortunate reality. And, there is clarity in narrowing our focus to the needs of the present moment, which is, in fact, all that we have.
What now?
This now.
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Thinking of you, Theo and Walter and sending light, love and prayers for healing. ❤️ How wonderful that the universe led you to the compassionate Dr. Sullivan and to your peaceful cabin in the woods.
So thoughtful and well said. We continue to send positive energy your way!