We are never ready…

I’m staring blankly at the wall while I lay on my side. A pillow between my legs, another between my arms and one under my head I feel cozy but not comfortable. Something is wrong. I feel this overwhelming, tangible, thick weight of sadness and disbelief.

I have woken up feeling this way for the past three mornings. Why am I feeling so heavy with sadness? It’s like I’ve put on twenty pounds in three days. If only we could measure our feelings in pounds.
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Then it hits me after being awake for about ten to 15 seconds. The phone call I received Friday night replays in my head.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Dr. Corey. Is this Sam?”

“Yes, it is”

“Hi Sam, how are you doing?”

“I’m okay, I’m glad it’s Friday.”

There’s a moment of silence, it hangs heavy and low, and I know. I could tell from the moment he spoke, the tone in his voice, this was not a phone call to deliver me the good news I was hoping.

“Well, I just heard back from the radiologist.”

“Okay.”

“They confirmed what I thought. It looks like an osteosarcoma, bone cancer.”

“Okay.”

The rest of the conversation fades away but something about calling New England Veterinary Oncology Group (NEVOG) and making sure they have radiation therapy available.

I hang up the phone. Staring blankly at my laptop. I search for NEVOG. Call the number and leave a message. Of course they aren’t there, it’s 5:30pm on a Friday night. I must wait.

I look at Cory and burst into tears, “She has cancer!” I can’t believe these words. They seem wrong. It can’t be. She’s only five. I want five more years but if I must take less then I’ll bargain for three.

Cory’s shoulder is now wet – a combination of tears, spit and snot. It’s moments like these that those who truly love you and whom you truly love and trust see you at your most raw, weakest, and vulnerable moments.

I look at Maggie, laying on her bed, head between her legs breathing heavily. She’s content and cozy right now. But for how long? I worry. I don’t want her to be in pain. But I also don’t want to say goodbye yet.

She’s been my copilot, my girl, my best friend, my goofy shadow for five years. Even at 150 pounds you’d think she couldn’t fit in some places but she finds a way to be near me. Wherever I am you can be sure Maggie is no farther than ten feet away. How can this sweet, loving, healthy, active beast of a dog already have cancer? Is it true? What’s next? A biopsy? Radiation?

I don’t know but what I do know is I’ll be journaling a lot because I think it will be the only way I can cope with the overwhelming heartache, grief and sadness that the end of 2018 and beginning of 2019 is bestowing upon my pup and my family.

I know I’m not alone in this feeling and many have loved Maggie from afar. Many have never met her. Many have. But she is loved far and wide so I figured I owed my friends and family a record of this journey.

There’s a glimmer of hope that it’s nothing and the radiologist misinterpreted but I can’t hang on to that. For now… I’m waiting for the oncologist to review her records and call me this afternoon to schedule a consultation.

8 thoughts on “We are never ready…

  1. Thanks for sharing the journey with us, Sam. It is not easy to share and you, my friend, are brave. I will be here to support you and Maggie. I hope for better days to come very soon. ❤

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  2. Oh Sam, I was tearing up just reading this. It is a moment that no one wants to hear. My only advice is to be with her and give Maggie the love she needs during this trying time. When we lost Sierra last fall at 5 it was extremely difficult, very gut wrenching and very hard on us. Do what you think is right Sam and don’t let any one tell you otherwise. We love you guys!!!!

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