Run free Frida!

 

The last few days I could clearly see that Frida’s health was deteriorating quickly. On Wednesday she barely ate some pieces of scrambled eggs, I knew we were in trouble. That evening, when Mark came home, we talked about helping her to cross the Rainbow Bridge, and we agreed we would have to do it over the weekend. At this point, I still had some doubts about it being the right time. I had not seen the famous “look” that people talked about, or felt that it was the right moment. But that night, when Mark and Frida picked me up at work, when I opened the door to get into the car, she didn’t move from the seat, she didn’t jump back and forth, and she just sniffed my hands, she didn’t react to me!   I squeezed into the front seat with her, and she moved to my lap, something that she would never do, and she rested her head on my arms. She wasn’t feeling well, she was not herself.  We came home, Mark carried her, but we put her on the ground in case she wanted to pee. She did, and she started walking home, so slowly, she seemed an old, old dog.  She didn’t sleep well that night and the diarrhea kicked in at 1 am in the morning, and then again at 4 am.  Mark went to work, and at 8:15 I got a call back from the vet’s office, we tried to schedule something as our wished were to have it done at home. Frida spent all morning like in a kind of limbo, sleeping on the sofa. She wasn’t feeling well, she had stopped eating, drinking, and I knew that this was the time.

As usual, I had everything organized beforehand, and in my mind I had created what I thought was best for us to manage her departure from this world. I wanted her ashes returned to us on the same day, and I didn’t want her to be kept in any freezer, bag, or anything like that.  And it was possible, as I had already inquired about all this, but I never counted on the timing.   It happened that to match Frida’s current situation, the in-home service with our vet, the crematorium services and transporting Frida by ourselves to their facility, became a nightmare. Every phone call was just a hurdle along the way. Finally everything seemed to be as I had thought, and everything was scheduled for Friday morning.  Then I took Frida for a short walk, and she didn’t pee and the diarrhea was worst. I knew that we were not going to make it through the night, or we would, but with Frida in very poor conditions, or maybe having to end up in an emergency clinic.  I didn’t want that for her, she deserved to go with dignity, surrounded by the people she loved, as the wonderful dog she had been.  I went home, and at that moment I realized that I had to let go my plans, and just take everything as it was coming. It was so hard for me to subjugate my original, ideal plan, to the reality we were facing at that moment. But I had to, and I realized once again, that I had to let it go.  I realized that it was easier in terms of time to have it done at the vet office, where they have a beautiful room for that purpose, and use the cremation services company that they usually work with. They would pick her up there on Friday, but she wouldn’t be left in a bag, or freezer. They have a cold room, where she would “sleep”.   So I called Mark, he agreed totally and came back home. I made the eleventh call to the vet, and they made all the arrangements for the evening.

After that everything went smoothly. Mark came home, we spent time with Frida, we talked, we cried, we told her how much we loved her.  We left home. It was so hard to leave knowing that she wasn’t coming back with us.  We were already in the car when our good friend Doug was just stepping outside, and he was able to say goodbye to her. She jumped to him, and licked his face through the window. More tears. On the way she started shivering, but I prayed and sang, asking God to bring peace, to take away our fear. And it worked. When we arrived to the vet the three of us were all calmed, at peace.  I made arrangements to arrive by the back door, so Frida wouldn’t recognize the place and get nervous. She was OK; she walked confidently, following us.  They walked us in, to the cozy “living room” they have for these moments. It was warm, nice. I put her favourite, red blanket on the sofa, and she was ready to join me there. We helped her as she couldn’t jump.  All the staff was so warm, compassionate, accommodating, loving, and so professional. They did all the right things for us, they explained everything, and they granted all our wishes.  Inserting the catheter was the hard part, especially because of my needle phobia. But Frida didn’t move, or even looked. She was looking at Mark’s eyes, just in front of him. She was surrounded by me, and by some of her favourite people at the vet: Jen and Allison.  They administered a sedative, and Frida started to relax in my arms. She still wanted to keep her head up, but I managed to gently push her towards me, and she finally gave up, and rested her head on my arms. We were left with her for some time, and then dear Doctor Kates came. She was going to perform the procedure. We were ready. The medication went in, and petting her, telling her how much we loved her, and singing to her “You are my sunshine” she slipped into an eternal sleep.  The doctor checked her heart, it had stopped.  The doctor held my hand, she cried with me, she told us how good we had been with her, and how this had been the perfect decision, the perfect moment. She was genuinely crying with us.  We stayed there with Frida in my arms, for around an hour. My dear friend Edith showed up to support us, and to say her goodbyes to her beloved Frida. Heinz her husband arrived too.  Around 6:30 we were ready to go.  We left Frida there, on the sofa. I had brought a blouse of mine so she would feel my scent and be calmed. I covered her body with it, she would spend the night there, but her body would have something that came from her home, from her humans.  Her ashes will be returned to us hopefully by Monday.  We shared again hugs and tears with the staff.  I will never be able to thank them enough for what they did for us.

We left, it was already dark outside, without our Frida, but at peace.  And we weren’t alone. We went home with our friends, and Frida’s friends: Doug, Chris, Edith and Heinz. When I arrived home I displayed an improvised memorial over the fireplace mantel, with the professional pictures we had taken some months ago. Her collar, some candles. We had wine, pizza, we talked about her, we cried.  Chris played for us the flute, a special tune in honour of Frida.  We made several toasts for her, for us, and for the great gift that Frida had been in our lives.

Today the house feels so quiet. Mark is here, we are crying, and talking, and laughing; and then we cry again.  Her stuff is all around. It will take time. We will have our good and bad days. Frida is happy, running free. She was always a loving, gentle soul, full of life and energy. She couldn’t be trapped anymore in that sick body.  I gave her instructions upon arrival to Heaven: look for my mom, she will take care of you, she knows who you are, just don’t lick her face, she doesn’t like that. Juan my brother, he will throw the ball so you can play your favourite game. We will be fine. And please, come and visit me sometime.

Until we meet again my Frida!

 

Scrambled eggs along the way

Eating a home baked doggy treat! November 16th 2015

Those of you who have known my Frida for a long time, know that she’s a food lover. Frida loves food, and she would eat anything at anytime. One of the most difficult things these days has been to see pieces of food left intact. I cannot believe a cookie has been sleeping for 24 hours on her mat, and Frida couldn’t care less about it.  She seems to be hungry, but her sense of taste and smell seem to be highly affected by the disease.  I just assume all this based on the experience with my late mother. When she was in the last stages of cancer, she was reluctant to eat lots of things, even her favourite ones. She would say the food tasted bad, or at least that was her perception.  She would eat limited things. At least she could verbalize what was going on. With my Frida it’s a game of guessing, assuming, trying and failing.

We haven’t been sleeping well the last few… weeks? I’m always on alert mode, checking on her or listening to every noise. She also is moving a lot, she seems to be uncomfortable. Right now she’s beside me, sleeping deeply. But at night  it is different. She cannot find a good position to rest. She kicks with her back legs, or moves endlessly.  I am sleep deprived, however I’m trying to keep my running days going,  even when I feel very tired I try to sneak in a short run. That makes me feel good, and I need to give my body a good reason to be tired, not just the lack of sleep. Fortunately my classes are coming to an end so I will be able to get rid of that responsibility for some weeks.

The experience of having a doggy on the last stages of cancer is not very different from my experience with humans.  It must be even closer to the terrible experience of having a sick child who cannot express himself.  I cannot even think how painful that must be.  That makes the tasks even more difficult. But also makes you gather big amounts  of love, patience and compassion. It’s so sad to see how the will to live is slowly taken over by an undermined body. This morning I felt so sad when she seemed reluctant to eat her scrambled egg, one of the few thing she likes lately. But patiently I interested her in the food. I had to hand feed her a little, and then hold the bowl closer to her mouth, and she ate everything! She even cleaned her bowl for me 😉

Every day brings new challenges. Some days I feel I crumble apart, because it’s sad to watch how a disease is taking a life, right in front of you. Some days I feel hopeless, some others I lose my patience. And then I  realize that Frida is still fighting, that she’s still showing affection and excitement when she sees us,  and we are the only ones who can help her to fight, by taking care of her.  When we decided to fight cancer 9 months ago,  somehow we altered the course of nature for an animal. In the wild Frida would have been dead many months ago.  So now we have to continue what we started. I cannot give up on her now, because she’s not giving up yet.

Creativity come to me! Let me find ways to feed this furry girl, that has given so much love to us.  Wisdom stay by my side to be able to see when there’s not more to be done. Love keep alive your magic. And Lord, please continue holding our hand  and sending Your light to guide our steps through this journey.

Dearest God, Heavenly Father
maker of all living creatures,
we ask you to bless Frida,
who brings so much joy into our lives.
By the power of Your love,
enable her to live according to your plan.
May we always praise You for all Your beauty in creation.
who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
Blessed are You, God, in all Your creatures!
( from http://www.moodycatholic.com/prayer_animals)

 

The boy who cried wolf

Seriously, I’m not the boy who cried wolf.  Yesterday when we went to the vet I started to second guess my sanity. This was the 4th time in a a week that we were there, besides regular phone calls.  But our wonderful vets and technicians and receptionists reassured us. We were doing the right thing. And the vet carefully checked Frida once again.  I was not nuts, the new lump that I felt in her abdomen is real, but not important. It was a subcutaneous lump, not threatening.  They took X rays and the tumour didn’t grow significantly.  She listened to me, to Mark.  She gave Frida treats, that she accepted happily! (we have discovered new treats that she likes!) And she comforted us: You are doing the right thing. Sometimes you can’t see the forest for the trees.  This is your new normal. There will be bad days and good days. When she’s having a bad day, you will be having a bad day too! Try to look the other way, and maybe the following day will be better. When the bad days are more than the good days, or a dramatic change comes, then it will be time.  And you will know.

And she told us again something that I knew in my heart, but it’s so great to hear:  “You have been so lucky with Frida, for a schnauzer she has a fantastic temperament.  She will live a short life because she’s sweet. The schnauzers that live long lives are the ones who have bitten me! And I’m not saying it to make you feel better, it’s true”   And I know that God let us find this wonderful dog, with this great personality and temperament, because her life was going to be short, and full of challenges, and she was going to need lots of care. Taking care of Frida is so easy, she let’s us do anything without complaining, growling or biting.  She’s so sweet. And she’s so brave.

Today it’s clear for us that Frida won’t leave this world without a fight. She’s a little warrior. She’s leading the pace. She’s showing us that she’s still embracing life. I had forgotten that cancer is like this.  Now I know that this horrible disease is the same in humans and animals. It’s a fortune that Frida doesn’t know that she’s sick and terminal. And it’s great, because she won’t give up. She will fight until Mother Nature with all her wisdom, will let her know that it’s time. I just pray we will be able to understand her message.

“And yet she moves” said Galileo.  Well, Frida is still moving. She’s slower, she needs to rest and sleep. But she still has energy to love us. To wag her tail when she sees me. To go like crazy to the door and perform the “doggy dance” every evening for her beloved Mark. Who are we to take that happiness from her?  She’s fighting, we fight with her.

Picture by Off-Leash Photograpy

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” ~A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh

The worst part of the ride

These days have been the worst. Not only because we know the end is near, but because we are fighting so hard with the fact that we will be the ones making that decision.  The always asked question:  How will we know that it’s time?  I have read tons of articles, spoke to people and to the vet.  I have learned that most people say that you know when it’s time and that your dog gives you “the look”.  I have put a check mark on the boxes of  “quality of life assessments” and we don’t seem to be there yet, but every day I see that my Frida is not OK.

During all this time, the last 8 months, even giving her the chemo capsule (metronomic chemotherapy, Cyclophosphamide) I never felt that she was sick.  Administering the capsule every other day was a reminder that she had cancer, but besides that, Frida was a normal dog. She was happy, energetic, playful, hungry and thirsty! When last week she stopped drinking water I knew things were not normal. The vet says that she’s taking the necessary water from her new food, and I believe it, as she is not dehydrated. But seeing her reject food made me cry yesterday. Frida has never rejected a piece of anything!! One of the reasons she was a dog very easy to train, is that food is her passion! Frida would do anything for food. And it doesn’t have to be anything gourmet, she would be content having some kibbles as treats. Now she doesn’t want her kibbles any more, not even as treats. Her little cup with dry food, that we keep by the door for treats when we come back home and she sits down and waits for her paws to be dried with a towel, is gone. We also put away her Kong food dispenser, that she used to play with. She doesn’t want to go for walks,  just short potty breaks and she pulls back home. She’s not playing at night with me before going to sleep, making zoomies all over the room, or ambush us by hiding under the bed. Now my doggy is sleeping, and being fed cooked rice with chicken, and a gastrointestinal canned food, small portions every few hours. Her collar is loose now, she’s loosing weight, and still she looks like fat or swollen, as the tumour is growing.  Now I really feel that we have a dog with cancer, however she’s eating, pooping, peeing and being responsive.

When is it time? When she cannot go to the door any more to greet Mark? or before the tumour bursts inside her creating an internal hemorrhage? Shall we wait until the tumour creates such a big discomfort that she starts throwing up and having diarrhea? Or shall we avoid getting there? It’s such a difficult decision. Is palliative care compassion or just keeping her with us for a little longer?  I felt so bad  when once we found a poor squirrel dead  on the sidewalk, and no one picked her up for at least a day. I asked Mark and we went back with a plastic bag, and picked her up, and threw her body to the forest. And I was crying, and Mark consoled me telling me that she had gone to “The glory of the chipmunks”.  How will I feel sending my beloved Frida to the glory of the schnauzers?  She won’t be cured, so basically we would not be stealing anything from her. But she’s a living creature, how can I take her life? This is really hard. And heart breaking.

The doctor told us that in euthanasia, there’s a wide spectrum: on one end there are owners who won’t accept any treatment and decide right away to put the dog down, and then on the other end, the owners that would do anything, and go beyond what’s possible to save the dog, dragging him into pain and suffering.  It’s so hard to find a “happy” medium for us.

This is the worst part of the journey. Whatever we could control is covered, but  now we are facing uncertainty and it’s very painful. She cannot say if it hurts or if she’s still OK. Trying to guess is so difficult. We know what to do, we know the humane reasons behind euthanasia, and we clearly don’t want Frida to suffer. But it’s so hard to know when. It’s a decision that has no way back, and that we will have to live with the rest of our lives, and feel comfortable about it. Sounds very rational, but the emotions kick in and it’s more complicated than that.

I know: Let Go and Let God.  And in the middle of this struggle, good people show up bringing comfort. Prayers, light and love sent our way. I guess that is how we are going through this. One day at a time. Eventually everything will come to an end, and at the end we will be OK.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your love, support, prayers and good thoughts.

“Fear, uncertainty, and discomfort are your compasses toward growth.” ~ Celestine Chua

“All great changes are preceded by chaos.”~ Deepak Chopra

The Last Part of the Ride

If you have been following my blog, you will remember that I have always said that dealing with a patient with cancer, human or animal, is like a roller coaster. The best roller coasters of the world save the most intense emotions for the last part and then end up with a smooth rolling stop.

Yesterday we entered the last part of our ride, we are running the last kilometres.  Frida was almost due for her every 5 weeks check up, but on Monday she started throwing up.  Yesterday early morning, I discovered a big mass in her stomach. I could clearly feel something there, and I knew immediately it meant trouble.  So we took her to the vet and our dear doggy has a tumour of considerable size in the liver.  The one in the lung hasn’t really changed. We all followed up on the lungs, without knowing that the final stage would be in the liver.

There’s nothing else that can be done. Her cancer was a death sentence since day one, her cancer is very aggressive, a very nasty one, as Dr. Graveling said when she first delivered the news back in February. I really consider ourselves very fortunate, as she has lived 8 wonderful months after her surgery.

We are facing now the terrible decision of saying when. She’s not in pain, she’s still in control of her functions, she’s eating, however we needed to modify her diet to something easier to digest, and she’s looking good.  I don’t have the heart to say “Stop” at this moment.  How far shall we go?  It’s clear we won’t let her suffer, but how much is too much suffering for her?  I have never had to put a dog down, neither Mark. I know this will be done from the point of view of love, but it goes against me to take life from any living creature, especially a creature that I have taken care of since she was 7 weeks old, and that  the last 6 years has been my friend, my companion, my joy, my dog. This is really a hard time.

We are determined to enjoy whatever time we have left.  A few days ago we could see ourselves reaching one year of survival, next February. Right now, I think it will be a miracle is we make it to Christmas. We are hitting the statistics of life expectancy for histiocytic sarcoma: 9-12 months.

So there’s not much we can do now. Once again, I’m reminded that there’s only so much I can do or control. God is in charge, and honestly, I don’t want to be in charge of this. It’s up to him. We are praying for light, guidance and strength. If you are reading this, Can you please pray for us? and if you are not religious, at least keep us in your thoughts and send light our way?

This is certainly a hard time, as we know the end is near. Some months ago I decided to stop fighting against death, I felt it was so agonizing for me, trying to fight as if death was pulling Frida to one side and I pulled her back to mine, almost like pulling a rope! I decided that given the moment, I would let Frida go, let her go to the Rainbow Bridge, straight to the arms of God. That’s how I see it in my mind. She deserves it. She has been so brave, so loyal, so loving.

One hour at a time, and hours might become days. That’s how we go from here. I’m so at peace because I know we have done everything, however that doesn’t mean that this is not painful. I know that we have given her the best life she could have, the best care, and so much love. And we have gotten in return a fantastic dog, that in  her short 6 years has taught us so much, and loved us as we never imagined.

Picture by Off-Leash photography, Angie Wojciechowska.

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

And the wisdom to know the difference.”

When positive thinking is not enough

I have said it many times, and I won’t get tired of repeating it. This journey has been a constant reminder of some basic concepts:  live the moment and let it go.  They sound like basic things, but for some of us they don’t come naturally. I’m a control freak, if you have been reading my blog you know that I like to have things under control, and plan for every possible scenario.  Is it possible? No. Is it healthy? No. Is it time consuming? Yes. Is it energy consuming? Yes.  As you can see I have the concepts very clear. The thing is putting everything into practice. I am very proud to say that I have been doing much better this time, with Frida’s disease. I have noticed how I have matured and changed.  All those books read, all those hours (and $$$) invested on therapy are paying off.  But there are still moments, moments when praying, breathing, and quoting Louise Hay is not enough.

Last night I had a bad night. At 4 am, I woke up. Mark was sleeping, and Frida too, as normal creatures do! I could hear both of them breathing deeply. Sleeping in peace. Frida was sleeping close to me, at the foot of the bed. I started thinking about how it was going to be having to put her down, and my mind wandered so much, that I could picture the doctor coming to our house and Frida’s last moments. I was about to cry, the moment became real. I went to the bathroom and on my way back I petted my Frida, and she started purring. She does that when she’s very relaxed and enjoying being petted. At that moment I decided to swap my horrible thoughts (not unreal, but not necessary at this time) for a beautiful moment with my Frida, that I would be able to hold on to in the future. So I grabbed my pillow,  I put it on the foot of the bed, covered myself the best I could with the duvet, without waking up Mark. (if he had woken up he would have found my feet next to his face)  and l lay there upside down, next to my Frida, petting her, and enjoying the moment. It was a sweet, peaceful moment. She was half awake, but certainly relaxed and purring like a little kitten. And she fell asleep. And I snoozed there for a while, then I went back to sleep like a normal person.

So yes, I have my moments. But I realize that I have learned to change them for something more positive. Overall, I’m happy with the way things have happened. Frida has had wonderful 7 months of life after being diagnosed. The first month was very hard, as she was recovering from surgery, but we have been able to give her some more days, with total quality of life. A friend of mine a couple of days ago was mentioning how far Frida has come, and that all the prayers, good vibes and energy must  be really helping.  I just think we have made the right things for her, and we have been surrounded by the right people, people who have contributed with their good thoughts and prayers. We have been blessed by God, and this morning I was just thinking how His timing is always perfect. Things will happen when He knows is good for us. We keep on going, doing our best, the rest is in His hands.

I had a bad night, but I’m OK today. I treasure in my heart those little Frida moments. Life goes on.

People along the journey

These weeks have been good. Frida seems to be feeling well, she’s eating, she’s happy. We are again in a good moment of our journey. We are enjoying this time, as we never know how long this will last.

Today I want to stop thinking for a moment about my dog and reflect about the people along this journey. About the people that  have crossed paths with us, and that maybe without them knowing, have given us a gift.

It’s incredible how life, the universe, or any superior force, that I call God, works His ways to send messengers of hope, love, compassion. They don’t have wings or a halo. They are behind a camera, or holding a dog’s brush, some are wearing a white coat or scrubs, giving away a stuffed toy. Some of them visit and bring flowers. These messengers are not sitting on a cloud playing a harp. They are on Instagram or Facebook, they leave notes on a picture, they send messages or leave a comment on my blog.

How can I express to each one of you how much it means what you have done for me during this time?  How can I make you see that you have touched my heart?  Am I capable to express with words my gratitude? I don’t think I am.

But I want to let you know, that I treasure every gesture of kindness, every pat on the back, every word of encouragement. You have to know that little things can mean the world during this journey.  In the middle of the darkness, we have been guided by a light of compassion, understanding, friendship and love.

“Sometimes the smallest things take the most room in your heart” ~ Winnie the Pooh

“The level of our success is limited only by our imagination and no act of kindness, however small, is ever wasted” ~Aesop

Picking green beans and crying

I spent an ambiguous weekend.  I was feeling happy, I was feeling sad.  I was doing OK, and I was not. On Sunday our good friends Doug and Chris invited us to their “garden”. They have a community garden plot where they grow vegetables. Every year we go and help them to harvest. Honestly, they do all the hard work, but we enjoy the agricultural experience and have a nice time with them.  Dogs are not allowed in the community garden (for a very good reason!) so Frida stayed at home.

Picking potatoes, cutting some cilantro. I was on my knees picking some green beans, Mark was close to me. Suddenly I felt I like if the water of a dam was being released. I just told Mark, “I’m going to cry” (my poor husband, at least I wanted to give him some warning) And there, kneeling on the ground, in the middle of the beans, the cilantro and zucchini, I cried and cried. I just felt Mark’s hands on my back. That’s all I needed. Someone by my side letting me cry. He didn’t say a word, he didn’t say the terrible “Don’t cry”. He just sat there and waited. I don’t know if it was a long or short time. It just felt so good.  But kneeling was uncomfortable, so I sat down on the ground, covered my face with my hands and kept on crying. From a distance I heard Doug’s voice asking how the green beans picking  was doing, but he quickly realized what was happening. He said “It’s OK Vero” and gave us space. I kept on crying.  And it felt great.  Mark later told me that I truly looked like a little girl crying, he was so touched. When I was ready I composed myself, and after having watered the crops with my tears, we left with a bag of potatoes, cilantro, zucchini and green beans!

The rest of the day I felt tired, we went home and had a quiet evening. Frida barked so much all the evening. At every noise. She was getting on my nerves, but we felt bad putting her in her kennel, and I didn’t have any strength to be controlling her barking. Later when I went to bed I felt the need of reading a book that I have had for a long time. A friend of mine gave it to me after my mom and brother passed away (“Dejame llorar”, by Anji Carmelo). And reading in bed, everything started to make sense: My tears of sadness, my irritability, my anger, my emotional fragility, the feeling of loneliness, feeling needy, but at the same time not wanting people around.  I’m grieving.  It’s called anticipatory grieving.  And it’s OK.

I won’t stop making everyday count. I will enjoy my time with Frida.  We still have plans for the rest of the summer and God willing we will see the beginning of the fall together. But it seems that I have already started my grieving process. I don’t know if that will help me at the end, but I’m embracing it.  I’m healthy, I’m exercising, today I nailed a 10K run. I’m excited about keeping in shape and conquering new distances. I have some ideas boiling in my mind about my job, and I want to explore them. I want to spend time with Mark.  And I love Frida more than ever. I cherish every moment, every little thing we do together.

It’s OK to grieve. I know some people feel uncomfortable around tears and anger.  I know for some people it’s totally incomprehensible to feel like this for “a dog”.  For others it’s not what God wants from you, or it’s a matter of lack of strength. I have been here before. But this time I’m doing things different. Because now I know a little bit more than some years ago. Some things might be similar, others will be totally new.  We’ll see how’s the experience like this time. The only thing I know for sure is that from this I will learn, and I will be stronger and hopefully a better person.

And Frida?  Today, she’s doing fine. She’s happy and feeling well. I cannot ask for more.

“Grief is not a disorder, a disease or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical and spiritual necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve.” ~Dr. Earl A. Grollman 

Changing our route

Today Frida had an appointment for a more extensive check up, as we are just hitting the 6th month after her surgery. It didn’t start good when the scale revealed that she had lost around 2 pounds, that’s almost 850 grams. However, weight can be tricky, and I wanted to stayoptimistic.  I say I wanted, but I had known for some weeks that something had changed. Frida is sleeping a little bit more, she’s getting tired more easily and she prefers short walks and to go back home.  There’s blood work pending, but the X-rays confirmed my fears.  The vet told us there’s a “lesion” in her lungs, that corresponds to metastasis. Fortunately, the location of this lesion is not creating any breathing problems now, and it can stay like that for some time, we don’t know how long. That’s as far as X-rays can tell.  The other option would be an ultrasound, but at this point it doesn’t matter if there’s more or less. The fact is that the metastasis has started.  Our vet will discuss with the oncologist the situation, and see if any changes in her current chemo protocol could help to give her some more time. Our situation has changed. Sadly I realized that we are hitting the timelines, the statistics. Sadly, our beloved dog will be another victim of histiocytic sarcoma, a victim of canine cancer. Frida is not anymore on remission, the cancer is back.

We knew this day would come. Today our journey takes a new direction, and sooner or later we will find ourselves at the end of our trip. The emotions are hitting, the roller coaster!  My promise to Frida is that I will do everything to protect her and to save her from any suffering. I have taken care of her since she was 7 weeks old, and I will continue to do that until the last minute of her life.  Today Mark and I have talked so much about the chunk of heart that will go with her when she dies. But as hard as it is, we are also determined to enjoy her energy, her happiness and all the joy that she brings to our life. In September we have already another trip planned, and we are so looking forward to it.

The memory of the shine, warmth, and happiness that sunshine brings to life stays forever with us. Frida is a sunshine, my little sunshine. We will make the most of our time together, and when the time comes I know that it will be OK to let her cross the rainbow bridge, and she will go just as she has lived: surrounded by our love.

“Dogs are angels sent from heaven in order to help us to be better people.”~ Robert Genn

Our Happy Place

We all have a happy place. It can be a mental state or a physical place.  Whatever the case is, it’s good for the mind, the soul and the body to visit that place from time to time.  For me a  happy place is Whistler, B.C.  I always feel relaxed, connected, reassured and peaceful when I’m there.  I don’t know if it’s the view of the mountains, the cold water of the lakes, the tall trees surrounding the paths or the charming village, but certainly for me, it’s a very happy place.  Maybe it is because I have fond memories of our Frida there.  Did I mention that Whistler is one the most pet-friendly places I have ever been to? That makes things easier for some of us, who like/ have to travel with the four legged family member.

So well, our family trip to Whistler happened a week ago. Of course, we left with all the expectation of the perfect trip, with Frida.  Once again, I was reminded that it’s good to have dreams and illusions, but not to rely totally on the expectation you have built in your mind.  Suddenly we realized that we were going to be there in the middle of a heat wave that was bringing temperatures of above 30 degrees (Celsius)  and Frida hates the hot weather. It’s overwhelming for her.  To make things worse, we tried to book a last minute appointment with a groomer, to try to help her a little bit, and guess what? Totally booked, no appointments available. And last but not least, the hot temperatures brought terrible wild fires, and Pemberton, the closest town to Whistler, was dealing with a wild fire.  We arrived to find Whistler surrounded by smoke! The first day we were there we all smelled like if we had been around a camp fire! The smoke created a fog like effect, so we could not see the mountains, the trees, or any of the things that usually are part of the landmark.  For a moment I thought:  Is this really happening? My dreamed trip with Mark and Frida, and it didn’t seem to be perfect!  But you know what? It was perfect!

The temperature didn’t seem as hot as we had thought. Everyday we went to the lake, and yes, there was some smoke, but as the days went by it started to get better. Frida was so happy, she played with her ball all day, she guarded our “territory” perfectly, and she was confident fetching sticks from the water (of course, if she’s touching bottom!) We had wonderful breakfast , delicious picnics by the lake, nice walks in the evenings  and I felt really blessed.  We were able to make it to our summer trip. Our summer week at Whistler was perfect, because the three of us were there. Because Frida recovered from her surgery and has responded very well to her treatment, happily reporting that she’s been on remission for 5 months!

Yes, we were in our happy place and we are now living a happy moment: Frida is OK.  We are embracing it, and trying to make every minute count.  The perfection of a moment is not the dream we build in our head. Sometimes that dream only creates frustration. The perfection of a moment  is being able to enjoy the now, the day, the moment just as it comes, knowing that our fondest memories are built by each moment we cherish.

“It’s great to reminisce about good memories of my past. It was enjoyable when it was today. So learning to enjoy today has two benefits: it gives me happiness right now, and it becomes a good memory later.” ~ George Foreman