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

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 

Metastasis

From Greek methistanai, to change, metastasis, removal or change.

Change, it’s been 3 days since our journey changed. We knew it was going to happen. We just didn’t expect it to be so soon. Five months after her first chemo treatment. Yesterday I was second guessing:  Did we take the right decision with metronomic chemotherapy? And if I had changed her diet?  And all the “ifs,shoulds, maybes” were all over my head. In the evening I got the phone call from the vet with the remaining results: blood work was OK, nothing relevant. Maybe a little out of range the liver results, but she didn’t consider it very important, that gives us some relief, the rest of her organs seem to be fine. The main concern is the lesion in the lung. Dr. Buxton was so caring, she said “I’m sorry” several times. She sounded truly concerned. I’m so glad we made the decision to go back with her, and I will be always grateful that she accepted to take Frida back as a cancer patient, instead of having to take her to the impersonal, cold, oncology clinic.

Last night Mark and I talked and talked. He said he wouldn’t have done anything different. He said Frida didn’t deserve to be separated from us, knowing that she gets so anxious about that, and to be tortured with an intravenous chemotherapy. She had a very invasive surgery and it took a month to recover.  He also said that she doesn’t understand anything, so why give her more suffering, if at the end, she isn’t going to be cured from this?  And he was right. We have taken the right decisions, at least the ones that work for us. The ones that make me feel that we have done the right things for Frida, and that I haven’t failed as her protector and guardian (she thinks she’s my guardian, I will let her believe that)

I’m not afraid of seeing Frida die. I have been with my grandparents, my mom, my brother, at the time of their death. Actually, the moment of dying is so beautiful, so peaceful. It’s not scary or traumatising. At least it was not for me. I’m not afraid of seeing Frida die. I’m concerned about having to put her to sleep. I hope God will grant me with the gift of Frida dying in her sleep. But I also know that given the moment, God will give me the strength to help her. Frida deserves to leave this world with dignity, without pain, and surrounded by love. I know it will hurt, I know how much we will cry, but I also know that in time we will be fine.

I’m here, I’ve got you.

It’s impossible not to think about those things. But that’s not all we think about. We are truly enjoying our time with Frida. She’s that dog of a lifetime, that dog so close to our heart, that brings a river of happiness to our soul. Frida came to our lives to give us the present of joy, unconditional love and she has taught me to live the moment, the now.

So yeah, metastasis, everything has changed. The prognosis has changed, the ride has changed. Our emotions change. The constant is our love for Frida, our promise to protect her, and give her tons of love! I know that there will be bad days. But I also know I won’t be alone.

“Life is a journey to be experienced, not a problem to be solved” ~ Winnie the Pooh

Each day brings its joys and its challenges

Yesterday was a good day for Frida.  For me it was not.  I was feeling so sad, that after some time I started to feel that it was difficult for me to breathe. I needed air.  I took a moment to feel and see what was really going on with my body. And I knew what I needed.  I just started crying.  I cried, and cried.  After a while I felt better, so I decided to take a shower. The warm water just opened the dam. I cried so much in the shower. I was sobbing like a little girl. And I told myself out loud that I was very sad, and that it was OK to be sad, that I had the right to be sad, and that I could cry as much as I wanted/needed.  I hugged myself, and told my inner little girl, that she could cry, that I was there for her. After all, my inner child is losing her puppy too. I’m glad that all the time and money I invested in therapy many years ago, are paying off today. I’m not 100% OK, but I feel that  I have more tools now to take care of myself.

After my morning meltdown, I had a better day.  I was sad most of the day. But not devastated.  I feel quite sensitive, and sometimes fragile, so be careful around me!

What was triggering my emotions?  The morning phone call I received from the oncologist office.  They wanted to re-schedule our 11:00 am appointment, to 9:00 am,  if we wanted the ultrasound.  So we re-scheduled.  And I asked them to perform X-rays too.  And I asked if I could have the results right away. They said yes. And then I said, “If the ultrasound or X-rays show that it has already spread to somewhere else, we won’t do any treatment”  Her answer ” That’s a wise decision”.  Mark and I had already discussed this and agreed it is the best for everybody. But it was until I heard myself saying it to the vet, that I felt the impact of our decision. Tomorrow is a big day.

Today after her bath, and last night playing with me our favourite game: “the biting game”

Today, it has been a cloudy, rainy day.  I went for a late run, and Frida is feeling great. I gave her a much deserved bath this afternoon, she was a doll, as usual!  And after that she just wanted to play like crazy.  Of course we played!

Every night I thank God, because Frida spent one more day with us.  I’m trying hard to learn this one. I’m really trying.

“Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow. It empties today of its strength.”

Corrie Ten Boom

The true ride starts

Cancer is like a roller coaster.  It doesn’t matter if it’s human cancer or canine cancer. This terrible disease is capable of destroying bodies, minds and spirits. Feelings and emotions might be high, and suddenly you find yourself  going down, with that sinking feeling in the stomach, and then it’s like being submerged under panic and fear, and one more time you will go up.

Yesterday we boarded our ride for real.  We visited the oncologist who mainly confirmed what we already knew.  There is no cure for Frida’s cancer and the only option to buy her some months (9-12, of course statistically speaking)  is chemotherapy. The doctor explained our options, pros and cons, side effects, warnings, costs, and  answered ALL my questions ( I was so happy I had done my homework!).  We were not surprised by the news, not because we are a pair of negative people, but because since February 8th, I have researched, read, devoured any information available, and sadly the doctor just confirmed everything I knew.

So medically speaking, where are we?

a) Frida has splenic sarcoma, which might be histiocytic (we are still waiting for a test)  or Nonangiomatous/Nonlymphomatous ( another rare one) Both are aggressive and with poor prognosis.  Hemangiosarcoma was negative (aggressive, lethal but more popular and at least would have given us more sources of information)

b) The option is to treat her with chemotherapy.  We are evaluating the protocols that the doctor gave us.

c) The cancer will metastasize very probably to the liver or lungs.

As you can see, yesterday the ride was fast and furious. We are not going to let her go without a fight.  However, we will also take care of Frida, and we will try to minimize any discomfort, stress, or anxiety.  We will give her the best treatment we can, as long as she keeps her happiness and dignity.  Right now she’s eating, drinking, behaving normally, still sleeping a lot.  Today she’s fine.

So the ride started yesterday. We don’t know how long it will take, and we know that at some point we will want it to stop. But Mark and I are together on this.  We are going to do what we think is best for Frida, and what makes us feel happy.

Frida has brought to our life lots of happiness,  and we will cherish every moment we have left with her.  Again, and again we do the same thing:  We take life for granted, we worry about everything but living the moment.  Frida is now a reminder of that lesson so many times taught and still not learned.  On the other hand, there are two things that I have learned very well:

a)Nothing happens without God’s will ( o como decimos nosotros: No se mueve la hoja de un arbol sin la voluntad de Dios)

b)At the end, we all will be OK.

Yesterday, on our way to the vet. Isn’t she beautiful?

“Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.”

Buddha