Monday, June 4, 2012

So, it’s cancer


After the rains everything is lush and glowing. The undergrowth in our forest suddenly tumbles unhindered towards the house, spilling over from the edge of the trees, every shade of green imaginable.

I step down from the wooden chair, with its fine-bones and peeling white paint, onto the old laundry platform that balances precariously on a couple of rocks and some roughly cut wood planks. The laundry tub is empty at my feet and I sit for a moment on the chair and watch Bear. She has emerged from the woods and lies casually at the edge of the trail that winds away amongst the trees.

Her fur, a deep velvet black, is striking against the vibrant green; she is the colour of darkest midnight beneath the diffuse light of a brightly overcast sky. It is quiet except for a gentle breeze, warm and fresh, that stirs the leafy undergrowth and washes through the canopy. I watch as she lifts her nose to sniff at the air, her silky ears falling back from her perfect Lab face as she watches the world go by. There is utter contentment in that motion. I want to freeze this picture in my head.

Murdoch appears beside me, his line rattling against the wooden planks of the deck. He puts his front feet up on the platform and rests his head in my lap.

“Look at that baby,” I say to him as I ruffle the fur around his ears. “I need to get my camera.”

I try to move quietly, to leave and return unnoticed, but as I glance out the window from the kitchen with my hand on the camera Bear is already on her feet and meandering back to the house. I meet her at the door. “Beary, I was just coming to take your picture,” I say. Her tail sways and she tosses me a glance as she enters the house, “you already have a million pictures of me.”

That’s true. But I want a million more.

Morgan and I sat at the kitchen table just the morning before staring shiny-eyed at the words scrawled on the back of an envelope after the phone call; mast cell carcinoma, thyroid cancer, fairly aggressive, keep her comfortable.

The news wasn’t a total surprise. We expected there was something bad going on after she’d had those seizures, but there was also the raspyness in her throat when she panted heavily and a couple of suspect lumps on her body that seemed different from the various cysts attributed to being an eleven-year-old Lab. Even though we had talked about the possibility of cancer it was deflating to finally know for sure.

We sat numbly for a while with the news weighted heavily between us. And we watched Bear, lying on her bed, looking healthy and strong. She stared back at us with her beautiful brown eyes, that inquisitive wrinkle on her forehead, and stomped her foot impatiently in the direction of a half-peeled tennis ball that sat just out of reach. “If you guys are just going to sit there and stare at me you should really throw my ball.”

I went through the motions of that day as if I were underwater, removed somehow from the real world. That night we watched Bear through this new filter and questioned everything.

“Why is she so tired?”

“Why is she panting so much right now?”

“Do you think her eyes look different?”

Somehow we expected things to change overnight, for her to become frail, sad, now that we knew. But she awoke with her usual energy, her voracious appetite, the need to play ball after breakfast. And when I wandered up the trail into our woods to plant some two-year-old blue spruce seedlings, Bear skipped ahead proudly twirling a stick in her mouth. Later she wallowed in ditch water, green with duckweed, when I had to go across the road in search of a delinquent Murdoch.

I sit with Bear now on her bed in the kitchen, run my hands over her soft, shiny fur. I hug her and kiss her graying face and try not to think about life without her, try not to feel how tangible time has become, how it has tipped us up and we are sliding down a wet grassy slope with nothing to stop our descent.

What I do think about is how lucky we have been to share our lives with Bear, how lucky we are that this perfect dog should be ours. And I think about those million pictures I have of Bear traveling with us half way across Canada and back again, of swimming in each of the five great lakes, of canoeing on Lake Superior and countless rivers, of accidentally shooting rapids, of chasing sticks and gorging on peanut butter, of sandy beaches and rocky shores and of Bear wandering freely in our forest, lying contentedly in the shade beneath the trees watching the world go by.

14 comments:

  1. Oh Heather and Morgan...I am so sorry...
    It's just not fair. She's in the best hands to keep her comfortable and happy. Please let me know if you have any questions or need anything, and please give her a big hug from me. Love, Tina

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    1. Tina, oh my gosh it is good to see your name again! There is something comforting in knowing that you, who have known Bear from the beginning (even before I knew her) are out there thinking of her with such love. She truly is an extra special dog and such a huge part of our lives. Thank you for your kind words. We will most definitely pass along your hugs.

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  2. Heather, we are so very sorry to hear this news about Bear, and our thoughts are with you. Dogs are so incredible, aren't they? They are always in the moment, and they aren't burdened by the fears engendered by words like "cancer." We fervently hope that she will remain comfortable and happy, chasing her ball and being the perfect dog, for as long as possible. Lots of hugs.

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    1. Yes, dogs ARE incredible. Bear just continues to be Bear, demanding peanut butter, expecting a game of stick, sneaking in to eat the cat food... definitely, completely in the moment. I love that.
      Thanks for your caring thoughts and hugs.

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  3. I hope she will be comgortable and happy for a long time. It being cancer of her thyroid is going to cause many kinds of symptoms because the thyroid is responsible for so many functions in the body. You may want to find out more about that. Give her a big hug from me and one for you to of course. xox

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    1. I hope so too. And you make an excellent point about the thyroid. We are just starting to research and learn more. Thanks for you input.
      Hugs gratefully received. :)

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  4. I'm still upset and so sorry to hear about Bear and her illness. The quiet passion and the loving sentiment in your beautiful prose is a testament to the very nature of Bear. With her nobility of soul, woeful brown eyes, and sunny character, she brings out the best in those that know her. In fact, the answer to life, with all its various stings, can be found in her even and calm temperament, her stoical personality, her love for life. She will leave life as she lived it: with quiet dignity, with love in her heart, with thanks for the home that you gave her, with that gleam in her eye.

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    1. If there ever could be such a thing, Bear definitely is the perfect dog. She fills our days with her presence - even those days when things are busy and we don't get to spend enough time with her, she's just there, always. I am so lucky to have found a soul mate in Bear and to have spent the last nine years enjoying everything about her. I'm glad you have had the chance to meet her - mostly so that when I gush about her you get it.

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  5. My darling Bear, as you stare at me now from your scrunched up blanket on the floor, I am numbed by the above words and replies

    Tina...I have known you for probably over twenty years (ok I should not have counted), and I just want to say that when Bear and I attended puppy school, I learned how to love more fully and breathe more deeply, by not trying to control Bear's berhaviour on a two dimensional level. With you and Jocelyn at the helm of those classes I learned understand Bear on a cognitive level, rather than developing a short list of behaviours controlled on command.

    Bear and I built upon the premise that began in those classes, when she was a growly, snotty little brat, that had been the bully of two litters. She was the quiet one I chose out of a double batch of puppies...little did I know that she wasn't quiet, she was plum tuckered from ruling the roost all day.

    She and I went on to meet the love of our life (Heather) and adventure all over most of Eastern Canada. As the true adventure woman she is, she has swam in all the great lakes, and been camped out on many shorelines, and green spaces a lot of people and dogs will never see.

    She never complains, (unlike me), and she is always smiling and ready to go. Whatever issues she had as growly fat bellied little black pup, were perhaps the sounds of a heroine in the making, getting ready to rock and roll from the get go, with adventure and time for the simple things in life blended the way that only Bear could do

    My emotions are running away with me now, as I feel the pull to overwrite, and talk about how cutie Bear the innocent puppy was actually the genius behind my clever plot to win Heathers love... and on it goes :)

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  6. oh god i am crying for you. oh, i am so sorry. and i'm glad she's hungry and wants to play.

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    1. Thanks Laurie. We are glad of that too - and have never enjoyed playing ball quite so much.

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  7. Hi Heather and Morgan. I just signed on to your Blog. Morgan mentioned the cancer and I want to join in with the other comments. I am so sorry. It is no suprise to me and I hope to not presume, but it does appear that Bear has lived a rich life of love and compassion and just being wanted. Oh so wanted and loved!!! I will send loving thoughts for this journey you are on..this journey of love and letting go while still holding on.

    colleen

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    1. I am just reading this comment now Colleen, I have not been checking in on the blog world a lot lately. Thank you so much for your kind words. You are not presuming at all, Bear has lived a rich life full of love. She means the world to us and always will. Thanks for sharing in her story.

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