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.

The Chemo Chronicles, Part I: Doggie Make-A-Wish and Father's Day Memories

Jemez Mountains, NM—About 10 weeks ago our dog, Henry, was diagnosed with an extremely aggressive Stage IV lymphoma. As he lay dying before our very eyes late one Saturday night at the emergency vet 100 miles away from home, the veterinarian told us that chemotherapy or euthanasia were basically our only options. When your dog is only six years old and he goes from being extremely healthy and happy one day to very sick and sad three days later, there's not a lot of time to consider options, particularly when the vet says she could see the cancer cells taken from his badly enlarged lymph glands subdividing before her eyes right there in the microscope. We had no good choices.

So we chose the chemo.

 The Canine Chemo Conundrum

Many of our friends thought we were nuts. "He's only a dog, a stray rescued from the pound," some would say.

"How much did you say that cost?" others would ask suspiciously, raising their eyebrows and wondering whether we had suddenly come into some kind of windfall that they didn't know about.

But to us, there was no other choice. Yes, Henry was a stray who ended up at the pound—a damaged  and otherwise unremarkable animal who had managed by sheer luck to escape from awful circumstances—and yes, when we decided to adopt him, he pretty much hit the jackpot: Already in his short time on Earth, Henry has had a life that some dogs might only dream of. He has been bathed in love; he has received the greatest care, with good long walks each day, a fine doggie playmate to romp with, a soft bed to sleep in, never-ending supplies of rubber bones and antlers to chew on, and two pairs of eager hands that are always willing to provide a good scratching around the ears or under the chin to remind him what a good boy he is.

Some people have told us that in itself is more than enough—that we should call it good, save some money, avoid some long-term pain, and administer an inexpensive and trauma-free dose of heavy barbiturate to dispatch our little friend off to wait beside the Rainbow Bridge. And maybe they're right. We will face that eventuality soon enough. It is pretty much a mathematical certainty that once Henry has completed his 20 weeks of chemo, it's only a matter of time before the lymphoma takes over again. He could have two weeks or a year or perhaps more after the conclusion of chemotherapy. But the odds for longer-term survival are not in Henry's favor. Probably a very short time after the veterinarians administer their final dose of poisonous treatment to Henry, the cancer will repopulate his body with a zeal and efficiency unseen in few organisms, and the invaders will take over and steal the light from his eyes, the joy from his perfect disposition and the softness from those wonderful ears of his. Once that happens, we will have but one humane choice.

And this is exactly why we have endeavored to compress an exciting, happy life into whatever time Henry has left. We have decided to create our own version of Make-A-Wish for our dog.

 Caution: Live Animals on Board!

Last week we had finally caught up on our credit-card payments (it is true that chemo therapy for a dog is ridiculously expensive) and adventure planning, so it seemed fitting that Father's Day would be our first big adventure. We loaded dogs, pancake batter, cooking utensils, water, orange juice, bug repellent, first-aid kits, phones, towels, sleeping bags, guns, doggie beds and pretty much anything else we could think of into the car and headed off for the woods.

My father and mother used to do the same thing when I was a kid. Except they had no pets. My brother or my childhood friends and I took on that role, and we happily rode in the back of the pickup truck more times than I can count. Mom was obsessive about eating and dad was obsessive about driving and shooting at things, so once a month we'd make a pilgrimage into the woods for blueberry pancakes and exploratory journeys down long, unmarked dirt roads. Those adventures have fed my memories for decades, so we figured they'd do the same for our dogs.

In the shadow of the Bald Mountain (Cerro Pelon) in Rio Arriba County and near the northern edge of the Valles Caldera National Preserve, we prepared pancakes in a meadow that had not been burned by wildfire. I had forgotten what live trees looked like, particularly fir and spruce varieties. While we dined on bacon and eggs, and pancakes dressed in enough Mrs. Butterworth's to draw in yellow jackets from points far and near, I pictured my father's smiling face. He would have been holding out his plate for another helping of pancakes with one hand, while using the other one to tuck a pant leg into the top of a cowboy boot. The hot June sun overhead would have caused him to squint, but even then, the light in his eyes would have still outshone the brilliant, golden orb floating in a sea of robin-egg blue sky high above the trees.

I don't even have a photo of my father. The Cerro Grande fire robbed me of all of those, as well as countless other tangible reminders of bygone days. But memories are powerful and they create their own snapshots—the kind that don't yellow or fade with age. Unlike Polaroids or scrapbooks, memories become more saturated and colorful with each passing day. As I looked down at my canine companions, who were covered in a layer of dust that had been kicked up during a mad dash after some kind of forest-dwelling rodent, and fed them each a tiny scrap of bacon, I wondered whether dogs remember things, or do they simply live out each day as if it's the only one there is?

As we loaded back up for the rest of the trip, I reckoned that if none of us woke up tomorrow, we could say we'd had a pretty great last day on Earth. If we did wake up tomorrow, then we'd be able to remember one heck of a time. Either way, we had been successful.

 Swimming in Fun

 As we drove down out of the mountains, which were surprisingly uncrowded despite the fact that it was Father's Day, we stopped at Abiquiu Lake. I thought of what Henry might say if he could ask the Make-A-Wish people for something, and I swear I could hear his voice in my head, plain as day, saying, "Well, Mister, I've never been a very good swimmer, and I could stand a bit more practice before I go."

Heavy waves from high winds began to take over the lake, and representatives from the Army Corps of Engineers took up megaphones to coax boaters out of the water just as we rolled up to the lake's edge. Henry wasted no time channeling his inner Labrador and wading out into the waves. Once his feet could no longer touch bottom, we saw how painfully awkward his swimming style was. He began to yaw in the heavy surf, and for a moment I contemplated whether I would need to play lifeguard to an 80-pound dog. But he recovered nicely and was game to retrieve a stick several times from deep water.

Although the dogs had been restless and pacing in the back of the truck earlier in the day, there was nary a sign of them as we made our way home. A tired dog is a good dog, and both of them were on their best behavior somewhere in the heart of dreamland.

Back home, we enjoyed a beer while reflecting on a satisfying day. Henry enjoyed chips and salsa while our backs were turned. He seems to know he can get away with a lot more stuff these days now that he's dying of cancer. I don't fault him a bit.

See you on down the road.

Thunder Mountain breakdown

RED CANYON, Utah—Someplace about halfway into our ride on the Thunder Mountain trail, perhaps our most favorite place to ride a bike, we had joked about how the skin thins and the body gets a little more fragile as the years wear on. A few miles down the trail I proved my point.

If you've never ridden Thunder Mountain, you should.

We take it for granted that mountain biking is inherently dangerous. We really do. Riding around town is far different than riding on unfamiliar trails far away from home. If something goes wrong out here, a person is left to rely upon his own wits and resources. Contrasted with riding on your home turf—where every bail-out point is well known, every water fountain nearby, and nearly every technical feature of the trail is well rehearsed—riding out in the wilds does present a modicum of danger and risk. But we weren't thinking about that when we hit Thunder Mountain at midday for a nice ride.

We are on the backside of our vacation journey. We were out here ostensibly to celebrate my passing into the second act of life. Such a thing sounds sad and staid when I commit it to the page, but that is not the idea at all. Every stage of life is wonderful! There is still much mystery to be had, adventure to endure...life to be lived. Being out on the road, riding bikes in exotic locations, trying new things. Aging doesn't relegate us to reliving safe prior experiences and ceasing to live. For us, we feel as curious and rebellious as we did when we were two-year-olds testing the surface of a hot burner with our fingers or teenagers exploring the boundaries of free expression and good taste with our words and deeds. We are full of life and relish each new day as if it were a cold glass of water drawn from a good aquifer or a fine cut of Country Fried Steak like the one we ate last night at the Bryce Canyon Pines Inn.

Blood on the ground is never good.

Backing up a bit, I didn't feel like that so much when I was writhing on the ground at the bottom of the Thunder Mountain Trail while crimson droplets of my life essence were pouring out of my arm onto the crazy orange rocks that had shattered and torn me open. I had taken a turn too fast. The sound and feel of my rear wheel washing out barely registered in my head before I found myself on the ground in a dusty heap. The last thing I heard before I felt the sickening rush of pain overwhelming the right side of my body was a loud report—like two big rocks smacking together or a pair of bamboo rods colliding. 

When I looked down at my arm, I could see a deep hole with some white sticking out. A wave of queasiness rippled through me. I asked Caroline if my bone was poking out of my smashed forearm. She answering in the negative. I moved my arm around, searching for the characteristic hot pain that accompanies the fracture of a calcified frame. Thankfully it was not there. 

But there was plenty of blood, and a giant fissure about the size of a quarter that was cradling the giant flap of torn skin and meat that had been ripped by the jagged rocks when my speeding body was rudely hurtled to the ground.

We have learned from experience that it's always good to have a first-aid kit in our Camelbaks when we are riding away from home. But we had gotten rusty. Tragedy was a fuzzy dot in memory past. The last few years of riding conservatively and a boost in our skills have made such things irrelevant in our world. But as the rocks below were stained by the big dark red drops pouring from my damaged arm, we suddenly realized why they were there. Although Caroline's backpack had been emptied of its first-aid kit, mine still had one. And all of its contents were in good shape.

Kissing rocks remind us that love is the greatest good.

Caroline rinsed the wound with a generous amount of water and we covered it with gauze and tape. We still had two miles to go. My knee and shin had also taken the brunt of my fall, and truth be told, my leg hurt a hell of a lot worse than my arm. Needles of fire tormented my lower extremity, as if someone were going to work on it with a red-hot Brillo pad.

Shock and adrenaline are our body's way of helping us get out of danger. But their effects are temporary. I was able to remount my undamaged bike and ride back to the car under the close watch of Caroline. But once we got back to our starting point, I was racked with confusion and pain, and I circled about uselessly back and forth, unable to concentrate on necessary tasks like changing out of my bike clothes and getting the bikes up on the rack.

The Nice Ranger at the Red Canyon Visitor Center pointed us toward the hospital in nearby Panguich and we drove there mostly in silence. The buzz of pain was all I could really hear inside my head anyway.

At the Garfield Memorial Hosipital, Dr. Colin Marshall and Nurse Susan cheerfully treated me while I spewed wisecracks pretending to be brave and robust. Everyone should be thankful for excellent medical personnel in small, unfamiliar towns. Conversation lagged a little bit as the doctor took his needle and injected the giant hole—which was about the size of a bottle cap and probably just as deep—with numerous doses of topical anesthetic. Yes, it hurt as badly as it sounds. And no, even lidocaine doesn't make debriding a deep, jagged wound any more pleasant. 

Although I felt stupid at needing to go to the emergency room for a mountain biking boo-boo, Dr. Marshall made it clear that we had done the right thing. The wound required five stitches in the meat below the skin and five more at the surface. When all was said and done, my little corner of the otherwise empty emergency room was home to a good-sized pile of blood-soaked gauze and wisps of the blue monofilament that had been used to draw the edges of my wound together.

Even the hardest climb is surmountable.

It sounds bad now, but about 45 minutes before the crash, Caroline and I had proclaimed ourselves the luckiest people in the world as we stood at the top of the trail overlooking the insane orange hoodoos that dot Red Canyon and the outstanding ribbon of swooping singletrack trail ahead. And I still believe that.

What is life without adventure and crashes and pain? What is life without triumph and passion and love? What is life without fun? 

Long after the pain has subsided and my scar has mellowed into a barely recognizable aberration of my skin, I hope to be living with as much gusto as I have enjoyed during this first half-decade, and I can only hope that Caroline and I have many more adventures to share.

See you on down the road.