Get Cancer, Get a Dog
I didn’t intend to get a dog in the midst of also receiving a cancer diagnosis. My boyfriend and I had thought of it for months, if not years. We were edging closer and closer, working up the courage to take on the responsibility, when suddenly, astonishingly, I was diagnosed with cancer. But then I was un-diagnosed - “downgraded to a tropical storm,” as I like to say. During a joy-inducing call from my doctor, I was told by world-class hospital Memorial Sloan Kettering that their pathology team would actually *not* call the results of my first biopsy cancer. It was a scientifically nuanced call with a highly accomplished surgeon, but all I heard was: “OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE!!” and a clattering of cowbells in my mind.
Following the downgrade, my boyfriend and I believed that we had simply had a major scare. We thought the main takeaway was to eat kale and sleep more and, of course, to chase our dreams! Live our purpose! Carpe the diem! In the thick of this “no day but today!” phase, my boyfriend and I saw an absolutely adorable black fuzzball listed by a rescue organization. I replied to the post so fast that there may have been little puffs of smoke coming off of my fingertips. We made an appointment to meet her that weekend.
Two nights before the adoption appointment, I had a sudden episode of doubt. I turned to my boyfriend and said, “I know that this is just a scare, but what if it’s not? What if the diagnosis changes again, and then you have to take care of me and a puppy?” We looked at each other, blinking into each other’s eyes and the unknown. Then we laughed and said, “Nah, that’ll never happen!”
Reader, it did happen. But before it did, one night before we were to meet her, my parents were visiting. I had two quick, lil’ announcements to share: that I had to have some biopsies done for a pre-cancerous condition but that it was totally going to be fine, almost definitely, just overly cautious doctors (spot the lie), and that we were going to meet a puppy the next day but it was just a meeting, who knew what would happen (spot the lie). While I’m sure there was some concern by the first announcement, the joyousness of the second announcement gave us something happier to discuss. We overwrote fear with giddiness and spent our last night as non-dog owners eating homemade sandwiches with my parents.
The next day, the rescue organization brought a nervous baby dog out of a van and put her in my arms. She put one paw on either side of my neck and nuzzled in. I did not put her down for 3 hours. I knew she was mine. We signed the papers and walked off to hail a cab, leaving a wake of cooing strangers on the sidewalk. Eventually, we made it back to my apartment where my parents met their new grand-dog. Everyone was joyful, thoughts of scary medical tests and iffy lab results pushed from our minds by a fuzzball who might just pee at any moment, on any surface, no matter how stain-able.
Throughout the first 6 weeks of dog mom life, I continued to need more tests. More confusing appointments with the doctors. More chew toys. More bites from a sweet-but-vicious little badger in my apartment. We signed up for puppy kindergarten. I scheduled a lumpectomy for a pre-cancerous condition. I played on the floor a lot. I told every nurse at every appointment that I had a new puppy. I looked at pictures of her on my phone in waiting rooms. I pulled all kinds of foreign objects from her mouth. When I was lying face down in a clanging MRI tube, focusing on not freaking the fuck out, I thought of her wiggly little body waiting for me on the other side of a baby gate as soon as I got home. I thought of how tumultuous her short life had been, getting dumped at a shelter and then loaded in a van before finally finding a home. She was so brave. So resilient. So happy in the moment.
The denouement of this hectic and uncertain phase came when I went to an appointment to remove my lumpectomy stitches. Instead of a quick snip and a “see ya in 6 months!”, they informed me that I had cancer after all. I’d spent the last 2.5 months trying to outrun this fate, believing desperately in my youth and health and vitality. And I was wrong. I wept for three hours straight, going through whole boxes of rough hospital tissues as nurses went through processes and details that I could barely absorb. When I got home, puffy-eyed and hollowed out, I told my boyfriend we had to talk, but first we had to go to puppy kindergarten.
If you are wondering whether a puppy kindergarten graduation can overcome the most earth-shattering news of your life, I am here to tell you: yes, yes it can. I spent the next two hours transported from my troubles by the antics of 6 puppies, in a room full of adults mostly just focused on if someone was going to poop inside.
Of course, this was all just the beginning. I not only got the horrible news, but then I had to live the horrible news, too. Throughout both the discovery of bad things and the living of them, the transformative effect of my wiggly little mutt never failed me. She was always my portkey away from scary thoughts and towards simpler ones. Concerns over whether the cancer had spread were replaced by concerns over whether her playful exuberance made her a pest to other dogs. Heartbreak over not being able to have children when I wanted to was replaced by an urgent trip to the vet to find out if kitchen sponges, when eaten as snacks, were poisonous. Nights that I should have been lying awake with racing thoughts were replaced by nights where I collapsed into bed, exhausted by the effort of training and loving my new, furry dependent. Ultimately I found that raising a puppy is a consuming endeavor, always focused on the next nap, the next potty break, the next meal. It left little room to worry about the bigger picture, like if I’d get to live the life I wanted, or if I’d get to live much of a life at all.
It has been 18 months since that difficult time. The dog is now trained, the cancer defeated. Still, it can be hard to think back on those uncertain months. In fairness to myself, the uncertainty continues. It continues through imaging and check-ups and a buried fear that lurks beneath every ache and pain: could this be disastrous, too? To this day, though, every time I become fearful or uncertain, I think of my wiggly, joyful little dog. So brave, so resilient, so happy in the moment.
The moment I knew she was mine.
The only cure for heartbreak: puppy kindergarten
I made it to work the day after my diagnosis. Why? Because I told coworkers that I would bring her in on that day. She kept me going. (This is us in a cab, en route to the office.)
10 days post-mastectomy. I would barricade myself with pillows and she would come snuggle. My therapy dog <3