The Chemo Chronicles, Part IV: Uncharted Territory

Albuquerque, N.M., Aug. 7, 2014—Weighed down by an odd sense of trepidation and a congratulatory cake stashed in the cooler behind the seat, we drove out of Albuquerque with a weak, yet excited Henry dog, his faithful wiggly companion, Doodles, and the foreboding realization that we are now headed into unknown territory.

Like all good dogs, Henry waits patiently for permission before
attacking a cake, even if it is made especially for dogs.

After 20 weeks, Henry finally finished his last round of chemotherapy. It is a bittersweet relief. There is no doubt that the weekly treatments had been hard on him. At one point early on in his regimen, he had lost nearly 20 pounds—a quarter of his body weight—and we couldn't help but notice how, at the conclusion of each treatment, a marked lethargy and almost subliminal sadness would creep over our otherwise Gung-ho companion, leading us to question whether the monumental decision to put our six-year-old dog through an uncomfortable gauntlet of extremely costly biochemistry experiments was for his benefit or for ours?

When you can't see the forest for the trees, it's
always good to elevate your perspective to get a clear
view.

While chemotherapy has been shown to reliably poison the cancer cells within a host's body into submission—remission being the proper medical term for it—the collateral damage to the host can be monumental. The vet had told us that chemo for a dog is not nearly as horrible as chemo is for a human, but we're still not convinced. For days after each treatment, we could see real physical and emotional changes in our friend. His eyes would lose their shine, his shoulders would slump, and we could tell he had bad nausea and diarrhea. Thankfully, we noticed the latter early on, so adding some additional medications during the treatments made Henry feel better, and by the 10th week or so we were able to get the weight back on him.

 There ain't no cure for the summertime blues

As we headed into the Jemez mountains after Henry's final treatment in search of a scenic and serene spot where the doggies could enjoy the cake that the great folks at VCA Animal Hospital had given us upon Henry's "graduation" from treatment, we decided a dirt road to an unknown location would be a fitting adventure. Though 20 weeks of chemotherapy have led to "clinical remission"—no detectable cancer cells in Henry's body—there is nearly a mathematical certainty that somewhere inside Henry's 85-pound frame a lone cancer cell lurks. More than likely, there is a reservoir of such cells somewhere within his body. Like patients with HIV infections, disease cells retreat into parts of the body where they thrive despite the onslaught of therapeutic drugs. Once the chemo attack ends, the cells emerge again and begin doing their thing: reproducing and slowly robbing their host of life. Henry's cancer was extremely aggressive. If or when it returns, it probably will do so with a vengeance.

When feeling punky, it's best to go out and find flowers that are
taller than you are.

On the other hand, remission could last a year or two. Perhaps we could even see a miracle and Henry could live out the rest of his life. We just don't know, so we're treating every day as if it could be the last one for our dog. And that's not such a bad thing. I have grown convinced that dogs live their own lives with a similar spirit anyway. If you've ever seen a dog wake up after a night of sleep, you'll know what I'm talking about; they greet each new sunrise with what seems like a surprised exuberance that says, "Wow! I survived another night! How lucky I am!"

Living in the moment

 Even during the worst stretches of Chemo, Henry awoke with undiminished canine gusto. He was eager to see the sun, smell the events that had transpired during the night in our back yard, and taste his breakfast, even if it happened to be the same breakfast he's been eating over and over for six years. Dogs, it seems, rarely seem to dwell on what the future could bring, but instead live in the moment. If only we humans could embrace such unaffected appreciation of the joy of living.

Nothing beats a quiet nap in the shade.

We were winding treacherously along a steep, rocky and rutted dirt road when we saw a juvenile cougar. The beautiful cat took a moment to stare us down as we gawked. Our city dogs, hypnotized by other unfamiliar sights, sounds and smells of the wilderness, apparently did not notice the predator, or if they did, they didn't bark. Moments later, the magnificent animal slunk silently away into the trees, becoming invisible as quickly and unexpectedly as his appearance moments earlier.

At the bottom of a lush canyon, we searched in vain for a stream recorded on maps and believed by land managers to be permanent. Despite the abundant summer rains, the stream bed was dry. The waters apparently had retreated below ground and out of sight, like the bad cells inside of Henry's body had done. We took this as an auspicious sign. Drunk with the desperation that comes with terminal sickness, it's much easier to fall under the spell of magical thinking, to imbue ordinary events with meaning or to see the future in a pile of runes.

Quiet resolve

Near a field of one-eyed Susans, Henry and Doodles feasted on the cake they had been given. It was so quiet that it felt as if we were the only people in the world. The next day we found similar silence on Cat Mesa, where Henry and Doodles camped for the first time in their lives, while the heavens ramped up for the second Super Moon of summer.

Night falls on Cat Mesa and all is well with the world.

The area was eerily quiet. It was as if every other creature had retreated to make way for the namesake mountain lions that have claimed the area as their own.

A small crackling fire, hot cocoa imbued with peppermint schnapps, and a tent with some good mosquito netting made the warm evening even more comfortable. The area was so quiet that it felt as if someone had clapped their hands over both of my ears and were squeezing my skull. It was a heavy silence, but not foreboding. Caroline remarked that it was as if we had popped into a different dimension created specifically for us—one where we could ponder our place in the world without interruption.

At midnight the moon was so bright that the world was still in full color. Instead of staring at the usual gloomy grays of evening, we were seeing the vivid reds, greens and yellows of dusk. This unexpected visual acuity stood in stark contrast to the sobering silence. It was as if we were dreaming.

Inside the tent, our novice-camper dogs were of two different mindsets. Doodles immediately figured out what was going on, so she curled up in her bed instantly. Henry, on the other hand, fidgeted from place to place, finally settling upon the crevice between us. A few moments later, sleep held us all captive until sunrise.

Once the chemo wears off, it's business as usual: Tug-o-war!

In the morning, Cat Mesa was alive again with the normal sounds of the world. Although the difference between the previous day and the morning was not lost on us, we wasted no time pondering the runes that had been tossed by an unseen hand so obviously in front of us. Sometimes things just happen, I guess, and what it really boils down to is whether you trust the road that lies ahead or not. 

Despite having to clear one dead-fall along the way, we found our way out of the mountains and back home. 

See you on down the road.