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.

A quarter mile visibility

Sooner or later, I hate to break it to you, you’re gonna die, so how do you fill in the space between here and there? It’s yours. Seize your space. – Margaret Atwood

It’s 5:45 in the morning. It’s still dark. The sun won’t rise for another hour or so. The fog is thick – they say a quarter mile visibility or less. Maggie is walking by my side. She stops every so often to smell a light post, a sign post, a pile of leaves or sometimes just the ground. As I gain ground ahead of her I turn around, shine my flashlight and beckon her back to me. There’s hardly anyone around. Sometimes a car passes. It’s probably someone heading to work. The air is still and quiet. I can hear everything but nothing because there are no birds calling, no dogs barking and no one nearby. This… this is peace and I am lucky to experience it as often as I do.

I look up ahead to a veil of dense fog and think to myself… that’s my future… a quarter mile visibility. I have no clue what is in front of me. There’s safety and assurance in the short term but what lies beyond… that is a mystery to me.

As I continue to walk into that fog I begin to mull over changes at work… or lack thereof… and changes coming in the next year. Cory is going to grad school. But where… we don’t know. The uncertainty is sometimes exciting but as of late it’s unsettling. As I go through the emotions of what all this uncertainty means I feel like pinball of emotion bouncing from anger to frustration to excitement to sadness.

I look down at Maggie who’s just bumbling along happy to be alive… happy to be in this moment. I realize at that precise moment that my time is precious. Of course, we hear this all the time. It’s an overused phrase which means it loses all of its meaning. But time is, in fact, now. It’s not tomorrow and it’s not yesterday. It’s now. It’s finite and it’s immediate. It cannot be banked and spent later. You cannot invest your time for a greater return in the future. My time is now. I think that these moments of peace that I experience with Maggie are finite. Someday they will come to an end. Someday she won’t be able to walk three miles in the morning. Someday she will only be a part of my heart… forever remembered as, quite possibly, the best dog that ever lived.

Beyond my time with my dog I realize that I need to utilize my time wisely, effectively, with determination and with purpose. How I go about that – I’m still figuring out. Maybe it’s this blog and putting my thoughts out into cyberspace whereby my computer becomes my counselor… helping me to see what is important and what is not. I do know that moving forward I won’t spend my time on things that don’t matter. I will value my time with Cory, with Maggie, with my friends, with my family and so on. I won’t let anyone rob my time… and I will call them out for having the audacity to spend my time. I will, in fact, seize the day!

So here’s to 2018… starting a blog… seizing my time… and learning.