Oh, what a weekend. Duncan is getting better every day although he still doesn't walk by himself. He can he just doesn't like to. We pretty much stayed home all weekend doing things around the house. We have to take Duncan over to his food and then to the box and to his water. We have a system of sorts. He meows or pets us with is paw when he wants to be moved. Once he's on the ground he can get around by himself, but he tires easily. I took him outside on saturday. He was very excited to sit in the grass and check out some stuff outside. He managed pretty well. But went inside quickly. Steps are easy for him. At least going up is.
Today he got his bandage off. Everything looks good the vet says. Duncan didn't cry once in the car like he normally does. I think he has completely acquiesced to his situation. I bought him a t-shirt that says Rock Star on it. It keeps him warm and hopefully keeps him from scratching his stitches. Poor guy. He used to hate wearing clothes, but again, he acquiesced. I'm hoping this week, he'll be more excited about walking around. I know he wants to explore. He just needs to get his energy back.
His scar is pretty gross. On one side he has lots of extra skin so he looks like he has a ruffle. He enjoyed being scratched where his bandage used to be. I'm still feeling guilty. I can only find 2 incidents of vaccinations so far, and probably only one of them in 1997 has a chance of being at that site. If not, we have no idea what caused the cancer. Which leads me to the question, can it come back? And it makes me think if it's not vaccine related, was it a controllable cancer? From all I read about liposarcoma, not just vaccine related cancers, the answer is no. Liposarcoma is aggressive and hard to control. But I will probably always wonder what would have happened if we had left it alone. You see, there are no correct answers in this game. Everyone loses. Of course, if Duncan gets another 2 years, then we all win. As long as he's OK having 2 years without a fourth leg.
At least he is very cuddly. I don't get the feeling that he no longer trusts us or feels resentment. I only get that he's very mad he can't walk around like he wants to. Yesterday was the first day I didn't cry in about 15 days or so. I think my eyes are starting to de-puff.
In spite of my ever-present guilt, I feel like this is all going to be OK.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Thursday, February 24, 2005
VAS Support Group
This past week would not have been possible without the support of my new friends in the VAS support group. Surprisingly, as much as I researched all the things about liposarcoma and cancers in felines, I only came across this on Friday. And not a moment too soon. The kind folks helped me though the final decision and the preparations before. Many cats in the group have been through the same thing and the owners have already faced the harrowing days and nights of crying, flopping around, pain patches, etc. Sadly, since I joined last Friday, 4 cats have "crossed the rainbow bridge." It's amazing how close the internet has made the world. And this is a group who shares in love and support. A welcome change from the usual BBs in which people find the most hurtful and cruel things to post. For what reason? It's great to know there are good people out there in the world.
It Takes Two to Heal
It takes two to heal
Thanks, Kate, for getting my butt in gear and back on the blog. Duncan is…OK. But this is still really hard.
I brought him home Tuesday night. He was so glad to see me. I was less shocked than I thought at the sight of his minus-one-leg. He’s bandaged up in a compression bandage, so it just looks like his arm is hidden. But he is so much lighter. That felt weird. And not just hasn’t eaten in two days lighter. This is something-is-missing lighter. The car ride was long. I had to go through Hollywood because the rains had made traffic a nightmare. It took about an hour and 15 minutes to get home. Duncan was so glad to be home. I carried him in and he struggled to get out of my arms. I set him down and he tried to walk. He looked like a fish in a boat, flopping around and so desperately trying to get somewhere. Anywhere. He finally gave up and just lay there, panting. It broke my heart. He glared at me. Something is terribly wrong. I picked him up and carried him to his food. He couldn’t stand, but he ate almost an entire can of food. I was relieved his appetite was good. At least we wouldn’t have to deal with upset stomachs and kidney issues. He lay on the floor to eat. Then he dragged himself over to the water. Paxton was very confused. He puffed himself up, big tail, the works. He didn’t recognize this floundering fur ball. And it smelled like fear and hospitals. Paxton lost his appetite and left. Duncan looked so confused. Later, I was in the office and I heard a thud-scoot, thud scoot. Duncan was determined to get himself from the food to the office. He couldn’t walk; it was more of a scoot. But he made his way to the litter box, stepped in and did his thing. But then he was so exhausted, he just lay there. At that moment, Russ came in from being on the road for a week. It reminded me of the moment Russ met Duncan. We had been dating for 2 months. I had picked up Duncan at a grocery store where a little boy was selling kittens for $5. I called Russ and told him to come over, I had a surprise. He walked in and Duncan, who had been hiding under a table, slid out. All 10 ounces of him. He was a skinny little runt kitten only six weeks old. And he stole our hearts.
We carried Duncan around some. And Russ kept trying to get him to walk by himself. He learned how to rollover. But walking is still difficult. Yesterday, I was still so sad and depressed. I stayed home most of the day and napped with him. He continued to eat and use the box. We all watched part of a movie all snuggled together. Today, the patch is starting to wear off. Duncan is in pain. This is killing me. I willfully decided to put my cat through this! Right now he’s under the bed hiding. He still eats like a champ. But he often crawls a bit, stops and then cries. It’s that plaintive loud cry that he uses when he’s in the car. I pick him up and cradle him. He purrs and cuddles and falls asleep.
I talked to the hospital and they offered to put on another patch. I was hoping to get some pills so he’s not drugged for another 3 days. They said as long as he’s eating, he’s OK. I’m going to let him sleep a few more hours. If he’s still miserable, I’m calling our regular vet tonight. I can’t let him be in pain. And I still think the owner should get a patch as well. Or at least some valium.
This feels like it will never end. I want my cat back.
Thanks, Kate, for getting my butt in gear and back on the blog. Duncan is…OK. But this is still really hard.
I brought him home Tuesday night. He was so glad to see me. I was less shocked than I thought at the sight of his minus-one-leg. He’s bandaged up in a compression bandage, so it just looks like his arm is hidden. But he is so much lighter. That felt weird. And not just hasn’t eaten in two days lighter. This is something-is-missing lighter. The car ride was long. I had to go through Hollywood because the rains had made traffic a nightmare. It took about an hour and 15 minutes to get home. Duncan was so glad to be home. I carried him in and he struggled to get out of my arms. I set him down and he tried to walk. He looked like a fish in a boat, flopping around and so desperately trying to get somewhere. Anywhere. He finally gave up and just lay there, panting. It broke my heart. He glared at me. Something is terribly wrong. I picked him up and carried him to his food. He couldn’t stand, but he ate almost an entire can of food. I was relieved his appetite was good. At least we wouldn’t have to deal with upset stomachs and kidney issues. He lay on the floor to eat. Then he dragged himself over to the water. Paxton was very confused. He puffed himself up, big tail, the works. He didn’t recognize this floundering fur ball. And it smelled like fear and hospitals. Paxton lost his appetite and left. Duncan looked so confused. Later, I was in the office and I heard a thud-scoot, thud scoot. Duncan was determined to get himself from the food to the office. He couldn’t walk; it was more of a scoot. But he made his way to the litter box, stepped in and did his thing. But then he was so exhausted, he just lay there. At that moment, Russ came in from being on the road for a week. It reminded me of the moment Russ met Duncan. We had been dating for 2 months. I had picked up Duncan at a grocery store where a little boy was selling kittens for $5. I called Russ and told him to come over, I had a surprise. He walked in and Duncan, who had been hiding under a table, slid out. All 10 ounces of him. He was a skinny little runt kitten only six weeks old. And he stole our hearts.
We carried Duncan around some. And Russ kept trying to get him to walk by himself. He learned how to rollover. But walking is still difficult. Yesterday, I was still so sad and depressed. I stayed home most of the day and napped with him. He continued to eat and use the box. We all watched part of a movie all snuggled together. Today, the patch is starting to wear off. Duncan is in pain. This is killing me. I willfully decided to put my cat through this! Right now he’s under the bed hiding. He still eats like a champ. But he often crawls a bit, stops and then cries. It’s that plaintive loud cry that he uses when he’s in the car. I pick him up and cradle him. He purrs and cuddles and falls asleep.
I talked to the hospital and they offered to put on another patch. I was hoping to get some pills so he’s not drugged for another 3 days. They said as long as he’s eating, he’s OK. I’m going to let him sleep a few more hours. If he’s still miserable, I’m calling our regular vet tonight. I can’t let him be in pain. And I still think the owner should get a patch as well. Or at least some valium.
This feels like it will never end. I want my cat back.
Monday, February 21, 2005
What Have I Done?
It’s over! The surgery is over and Duncan is fine. He’s sleeping with the help of some tranquilizers and morphine, which I imagine is going to irritate his kidney condition. Well, there goes the welcome home keg idea. We’ll have to stick with water.
Dropping Duncan off this morning was the most emotional part of the whole thing. The Hospital was very busy, especially for a rainy holiday. Patients were all abuzz about the “tornado” making it’s way from Huntington Beach to Anaheim. By tornado I think they mean, “wind.” It was a really bad storm that passed through. I wondered if the hospital had a generator. Thoughts passed through my mind of power outages during the operation. Or a mix-up in which Duncan accidentally gets an appendectomy. I only met with one of the office workers. I broke down in tears when I handed him over still wondering if this was the right thing to do. He’s 13!! He has kidney disease! He looked at me with so much trust and love. I think he was trying to comfort me. And I left him there to have a limb amputated. Will he hate me? Will he ever trust me again? Should he?
I cried in my car again. I’m starting to care less if I have big, black mascara streaks running down my face. But today, I was meeting my friend Bob at a mall in Beverly Hills (near the hospital). We needed to catch up and I needed to distract myself from reality. So I pulled out the makeup bag I brought with me and doctored my swollen face. It’s make-up, not magic. I did what I could and went into the just-opening mall. For some reason, I bought an obscene amount of moisturizer today. I don’t know why. Peppermint, Brazil nut, unscented, coconut, and a hair moisturizer. Maybe I feel dried out because I’ve cried so much. I wonder how many gallons of tears I’ve shed in the last 4 weeks? Maybe I just need a layer of something oily between me and reality. Like a protective shell. Turtle Wax, if you will, for the soul.
At 10:30, I meet Bob and we head for CPK pizza. Comfort food! At 11:30, Dr Owens (Dr Tuna) calls. We never really resolved if we were doing an amputation or not. We discuss. IF there is any way to get a fair margin AND leave the leg, that would be preferable. Also, if the CT scan shows any sign of cancer or disease other than the tumor, then don’t bother putting him through this. She agrees and heads off to consult again with Dr Creitin, the oncologist. At 1pm, she calls again. They COULD leave the leg and do radiation instead. I can’t accept this plan. Duncan’s kidneys can’t take too much sedative and radiation would require him to be put under every day for a week, or something like that. And I have very personal issues with radiation because of my Mom. That’s another blog for another day. So, here I am on the phone with the surgeon who is asking me again if I am sure I want to do the amputation. I almost changed my mind. Will I regret not calling her back? As I was trying to distract myself with the Spring 1 collection at the Gap (I don’t even remember what was there), I almost changed my mind. I thought to myself, “If I call right now I can catch her before she goes in.” Like a clemency from the governor at 11:59. And I let it go. I didn’t call. I left them take his leg. And right now I feel like that makes me a bad person.
At 2:30, I was sitting in the middle of the mall. I was tired and worried and the stores have bad reception and I was terrified of missing a call. I wished I could be home or at least somewhere more private. But LA is weird that way. I live 15 miles away, but it will take 1.5 hours to get there. And I wanted to be close in case anything happened. But the call came. Duncan is fine. It’s all over. Duncan is a tripod.
I felt the weight of 4 weeks of research and buckets of tears lifted. He made it. Dr Owen said he might get to come home Tuesday night. That would be great! He’d probably recover better at home anyway! I thanked her profusely. When I got home, it started to sink in. He’s not there. And the house felt so empty in spite of the fact hat Paxton was there waiting to be petted. I would hear creaks in the floor and look up thinking Duncan would saunter over. But as happy as I am that he is ALIVE, there are challenges ahead. I won’t hear a 4/4-time pattern to his footsteps. He will walk to the tune of a waltz. He will need help getting around. He won’t be able to jump to/from some places like he used to. Our lives are forever changed. And I realize that all those words that the vets said, “animals are so adaptable,” that doesn’t include humans. Because there is so much change ahead. And I for one don’t like it. And I for one don’t know if I can adapt.
What have I done?
Dropping Duncan off this morning was the most emotional part of the whole thing. The Hospital was very busy, especially for a rainy holiday. Patients were all abuzz about the “tornado” making it’s way from Huntington Beach to Anaheim. By tornado I think they mean, “wind.” It was a really bad storm that passed through. I wondered if the hospital had a generator. Thoughts passed through my mind of power outages during the operation. Or a mix-up in which Duncan accidentally gets an appendectomy. I only met with one of the office workers. I broke down in tears when I handed him over still wondering if this was the right thing to do. He’s 13!! He has kidney disease! He looked at me with so much trust and love. I think he was trying to comfort me. And I left him there to have a limb amputated. Will he hate me? Will he ever trust me again? Should he?
I cried in my car again. I’m starting to care less if I have big, black mascara streaks running down my face. But today, I was meeting my friend Bob at a mall in Beverly Hills (near the hospital). We needed to catch up and I needed to distract myself from reality. So I pulled out the makeup bag I brought with me and doctored my swollen face. It’s make-up, not magic. I did what I could and went into the just-opening mall. For some reason, I bought an obscene amount of moisturizer today. I don’t know why. Peppermint, Brazil nut, unscented, coconut, and a hair moisturizer. Maybe I feel dried out because I’ve cried so much. I wonder how many gallons of tears I’ve shed in the last 4 weeks? Maybe I just need a layer of something oily between me and reality. Like a protective shell. Turtle Wax, if you will, for the soul.
At 10:30, I meet Bob and we head for CPK pizza. Comfort food! At 11:30, Dr Owens (Dr Tuna) calls. We never really resolved if we were doing an amputation or not. We discuss. IF there is any way to get a fair margin AND leave the leg, that would be preferable. Also, if the CT scan shows any sign of cancer or disease other than the tumor, then don’t bother putting him through this. She agrees and heads off to consult again with Dr Creitin, the oncologist. At 1pm, she calls again. They COULD leave the leg and do radiation instead. I can’t accept this plan. Duncan’s kidneys can’t take too much sedative and radiation would require him to be put under every day for a week, or something like that. And I have very personal issues with radiation because of my Mom. That’s another blog for another day. So, here I am on the phone with the surgeon who is asking me again if I am sure I want to do the amputation. I almost changed my mind. Will I regret not calling her back? As I was trying to distract myself with the Spring 1 collection at the Gap (I don’t even remember what was there), I almost changed my mind. I thought to myself, “If I call right now I can catch her before she goes in.” Like a clemency from the governor at 11:59. And I let it go. I didn’t call. I left them take his leg. And right now I feel like that makes me a bad person.
At 2:30, I was sitting in the middle of the mall. I was tired and worried and the stores have bad reception and I was terrified of missing a call. I wished I could be home or at least somewhere more private. But LA is weird that way. I live 15 miles away, but it will take 1.5 hours to get there. And I wanted to be close in case anything happened. But the call came. Duncan is fine. It’s all over. Duncan is a tripod.
I felt the weight of 4 weeks of research and buckets of tears lifted. He made it. Dr Owen said he might get to come home Tuesday night. That would be great! He’d probably recover better at home anyway! I thanked her profusely. When I got home, it started to sink in. He’s not there. And the house felt so empty in spite of the fact hat Paxton was there waiting to be petted. I would hear creaks in the floor and look up thinking Duncan would saunter over. But as happy as I am that he is ALIVE, there are challenges ahead. I won’t hear a 4/4-time pattern to his footsteps. He will walk to the tune of a waltz. He will need help getting around. He won’t be able to jump to/from some places like he used to. Our lives are forever changed. And I realize that all those words that the vets said, “animals are so adaptable,” that doesn’t include humans. Because there is so much change ahead. And I for one don’t like it. And I for one don’t know if I can adapt.
What have I done?
That Morning
I awoke with a start at 7:15. The manual alarm clock had stopped at 2:30. Piece of crap. My dad always talks about his uncanny ability to wake up ay any given time he chooses without an alarm, although I always suspected a backup was in place just in case. Today, heredity was on my side.
The cats are wondering why I'm so STUPID, forgetting to feed them! Duncan is scratching on the post. He never used to do that! Good thing he's getting a good scratch in today! I think I might put him on the counter a couple of times so he can jump down one last time.
I bought myself a battery operated toothbrush, thinking it would distract me. It's purple. A purple, noisey wiggly toothbrush. Duncan popped up on the sink to inspect it and promptly smacked it. It's too loud, he decided.
The weatherman says to stay at home today, the storms are going to be bad this morning. I wish I could stay home today. But we have to go get the bad-dog cancer removed.
(No offense to dog owners. We named the cancer something he doesn't like, which happens to be dogs.)
The cats are wondering why I'm so STUPID, forgetting to feed them! Duncan is scratching on the post. He never used to do that! Good thing he's getting a good scratch in today! I think I might put him on the counter a couple of times so he can jump down one last time.
I bought myself a battery operated toothbrush, thinking it would distract me. It's purple. A purple, noisey wiggly toothbrush. Duncan popped up on the sink to inspect it and promptly smacked it. It's too loud, he decided.
The weatherman says to stay at home today, the storms are going to be bad this morning. I wish I could stay home today. But we have to go get the bad-dog cancer removed.
(No offense to dog owners. We named the cancer something he doesn't like, which happens to be dogs.)
Sunday, February 20, 2005
The Choice
This has been the hardest week of my life.
Duncan had his CT scan on Monday. That was hard because I was afraid the anesthesia would kill him, and I think I’m starting to deal with the emotional weight of the issue. So I cried all day. After I dropped him off, I went to get coffee and I sat in the car for 20 minutes just crying. I couldn’t stop. Around noon, we went to visit him. He was dopey, but happy to see us and he clearly wanted to leave. He kept trying to get out of his cage, tripping over his various ivs. I was glad he was OK, but I hated leaving him there even though it was just for 2 hours so he could hydrate. The anesthesia is hard on his already diseased kidneys. So, they flush his system with plenty of fluids.
Tuesday, Russ left for a weeklong shoot about prizewinning bulls or something like that. That evening, I had a consult with a holistic vet. She was wonderful. And to my surprise, she recommended amputation. This cancer is so aggressive particularly if it is partially excised. She mentioned that she had one patient who had one surgery and the tumor grew back, but they were able to keep her going for nine months. That was the greatest success she had with holistic therapy and this cancer. Amputation however can successfully remove all of the cancer so the cat can enjoy a cancer free life. Survival rates are highest with radical surgery alone. Partial surgery has the lowest survival rates and radiation and chemo have rates in between. Of course it depends on which study you read. And it depends where the cancer is. But the holistic vet felt strongly that amputation would be the way to go. She assured me that animals don’t have the same emotional attachment to their limbs that people do. Duncan won’t wake up and think, “AHHHK! Where’s my leg?!???!?” He will wake up and think, “Hmmm. I have to figure out a way to stand.” And then he adapts. And his human freaks out.
Wednesday, the surgeon called. She consulted with the oncologist, who is reported to be one of the best in the west. They reviewed the scan and felt that amputation is the way to go. BUT she did give us the option of NOT amputating. Well, this throws a wrench into it. Now there is a choice. Another choice. We could leave the leg. I didn’t think she would offer that as an option. She could scrape out as much of the cancer as possible. He wouldn’t need as much recovery time. He would still be my same little Duncan. BUT. There is always a but…. The tumor mass is so close to the shoulder blade that they feel the need to take that. This cancer likes to grow along connective tissue and muscle fascia. If anything is left, it will quickly invade the shoulder and the chest cavity and ultimately the lungs. Operations would not be an option at that point, nor would any other treatment. We’d make him comfortable. He would have a few weeks. He would be in pain. And his human would freak out.
Thursday, our regular vet called. He was unusually down. “I’m sorry you have to go through this. It really sucks.” I asked him about his experience with tripods and cancers. He told me the same thing about animals adapting to their new stance. That, apparently, is not a big deal. For the animal. This human, however, is having a really hard time with it. He also told me that most people opt for the lumpectomy, which never works. It always comes back, fast and nasty. He told me he always wishes they had done an amputation the first time around. Always. Wow. That’s 3 vets and an oncologist telling me that amputation is the right thing to do. And still I question it.
Friday, I go to a therapist to talk about how guilty I feel and the fact that I can’t stop crying. She has pets too. She cries. She asks a lot of questions about vaccine-associated sarcomas. She didn’t know. She assures me Duncan will be happy to see me no matter how many legs he has and that I’ll feel better once I see that his personality hasn’t changed. He is still the same cuddly kitty. In the car as I drive back to work (minus all my eye makeup), I beg for a sign that this is OK, that I’m not subjecting something I love so much to needless pain and suffering. I mean I don’t believe in declawing, how could I believe in AMPUTATION? It doesn’t make sense.
That night, I get into my car and flip on the radio. “…who lost his arms, both of them, to landmines. But he still defuses them with his teeth.” It was NPR. I don’t know if the speaker was talking about a book, or a real person. It doesn’t matter. The point was made. I drove to Hollywood to see my friend Herschel in a play. In the parking garage, there were numerous traffic directors since it’s the site of the Oscars. Even though they are a week away, there are rehearsals and pre-event dinners and parties. Security is everywhere. I search for the correct route for a non-oscar-related-freaked-out-owner-of-cancer-cat. They didn’t have a sign for that. But a guard lazily pointed the way with a sweep of his right hand. Wait! Is he cold and has his left arm tucked in his shirt like I used to do on cold nights at football games in high school? No. That’s an empty shirtsleeve. His left arm is missing. It was not lost on me that he was pointing to the right. I wondered if it bothered him to be stationed on left-pointing duties. He seemed fine, if bored. Maybe Duncan would be fine, too.
Saturday proved to be nice relaxing day full of lots of rain. It rained as I have never seen it rain in California before. It stormed. All night, there was lightning and thunder, which is very unusual. They were storms of mid-west proportions! Around 12:30, I was awakened by gunfire. I had just convinced myself that it was the heater warming up when I heard it again. Nope, that’s gunfire. And it’s really close. Five shots. I froze waiting for the next sounds. Tires screeching? Police cars? Ambulance? Six minutes later, helicopter. For some reason, LA police like to respond with helicopters. Even to noise complaints. No sirens, no screams. I lay awake terrified, yet enjoying one last night snuggling with Duncan and his four paws. This last night ends with a bang. Lots of them. The human is going to need lots of anti-anxiety drugs if this continues.
Tonight, he must fast after 10:30. Which means I sleep in the external bonus room. He and Paxton like to eat several times a night and they just won’t take no for an answer. We found the best solution is to leave them in the house alone then whisk Duncan off to the vet first thing in the morning. Since this will be the third time in so many weeks, I’m sure he’ll know something’s about to happen. But he’ll have no idea how monumental. And his human freaks out.
Duncan had his CT scan on Monday. That was hard because I was afraid the anesthesia would kill him, and I think I’m starting to deal with the emotional weight of the issue. So I cried all day. After I dropped him off, I went to get coffee and I sat in the car for 20 minutes just crying. I couldn’t stop. Around noon, we went to visit him. He was dopey, but happy to see us and he clearly wanted to leave. He kept trying to get out of his cage, tripping over his various ivs. I was glad he was OK, but I hated leaving him there even though it was just for 2 hours so he could hydrate. The anesthesia is hard on his already diseased kidneys. So, they flush his system with plenty of fluids.
Tuesday, Russ left for a weeklong shoot about prizewinning bulls or something like that. That evening, I had a consult with a holistic vet. She was wonderful. And to my surprise, she recommended amputation. This cancer is so aggressive particularly if it is partially excised. She mentioned that she had one patient who had one surgery and the tumor grew back, but they were able to keep her going for nine months. That was the greatest success she had with holistic therapy and this cancer. Amputation however can successfully remove all of the cancer so the cat can enjoy a cancer free life. Survival rates are highest with radical surgery alone. Partial surgery has the lowest survival rates and radiation and chemo have rates in between. Of course it depends on which study you read. And it depends where the cancer is. But the holistic vet felt strongly that amputation would be the way to go. She assured me that animals don’t have the same emotional attachment to their limbs that people do. Duncan won’t wake up and think, “AHHHK! Where’s my leg?!???!?” He will wake up and think, “Hmmm. I have to figure out a way to stand.” And then he adapts. And his human freaks out.
Wednesday, the surgeon called. She consulted with the oncologist, who is reported to be one of the best in the west. They reviewed the scan and felt that amputation is the way to go. BUT she did give us the option of NOT amputating. Well, this throws a wrench into it. Now there is a choice. Another choice. We could leave the leg. I didn’t think she would offer that as an option. She could scrape out as much of the cancer as possible. He wouldn’t need as much recovery time. He would still be my same little Duncan. BUT. There is always a but…. The tumor mass is so close to the shoulder blade that they feel the need to take that. This cancer likes to grow along connective tissue and muscle fascia. If anything is left, it will quickly invade the shoulder and the chest cavity and ultimately the lungs. Operations would not be an option at that point, nor would any other treatment. We’d make him comfortable. He would have a few weeks. He would be in pain. And his human would freak out.
Thursday, our regular vet called. He was unusually down. “I’m sorry you have to go through this. It really sucks.” I asked him about his experience with tripods and cancers. He told me the same thing about animals adapting to their new stance. That, apparently, is not a big deal. For the animal. This human, however, is having a really hard time with it. He also told me that most people opt for the lumpectomy, which never works. It always comes back, fast and nasty. He told me he always wishes they had done an amputation the first time around. Always. Wow. That’s 3 vets and an oncologist telling me that amputation is the right thing to do. And still I question it.
Friday, I go to a therapist to talk about how guilty I feel and the fact that I can’t stop crying. She has pets too. She cries. She asks a lot of questions about vaccine-associated sarcomas. She didn’t know. She assures me Duncan will be happy to see me no matter how many legs he has and that I’ll feel better once I see that his personality hasn’t changed. He is still the same cuddly kitty. In the car as I drive back to work (minus all my eye makeup), I beg for a sign that this is OK, that I’m not subjecting something I love so much to needless pain and suffering. I mean I don’t believe in declawing, how could I believe in AMPUTATION? It doesn’t make sense.
That night, I get into my car and flip on the radio. “…who lost his arms, both of them, to landmines. But he still defuses them with his teeth.” It was NPR. I don’t know if the speaker was talking about a book, or a real person. It doesn’t matter. The point was made. I drove to Hollywood to see my friend Herschel in a play. In the parking garage, there were numerous traffic directors since it’s the site of the Oscars. Even though they are a week away, there are rehearsals and pre-event dinners and parties. Security is everywhere. I search for the correct route for a non-oscar-related-freaked-out-owner-of-cancer-cat. They didn’t have a sign for that. But a guard lazily pointed the way with a sweep of his right hand. Wait! Is he cold and has his left arm tucked in his shirt like I used to do on cold nights at football games in high school? No. That’s an empty shirtsleeve. His left arm is missing. It was not lost on me that he was pointing to the right. I wondered if it bothered him to be stationed on left-pointing duties. He seemed fine, if bored. Maybe Duncan would be fine, too.
Saturday proved to be nice relaxing day full of lots of rain. It rained as I have never seen it rain in California before. It stormed. All night, there was lightning and thunder, which is very unusual. They were storms of mid-west proportions! Around 12:30, I was awakened by gunfire. I had just convinced myself that it was the heater warming up when I heard it again. Nope, that’s gunfire. And it’s really close. Five shots. I froze waiting for the next sounds. Tires screeching? Police cars? Ambulance? Six minutes later, helicopter. For some reason, LA police like to respond with helicopters. Even to noise complaints. No sirens, no screams. I lay awake terrified, yet enjoying one last night snuggling with Duncan and his four paws. This last night ends with a bang. Lots of them. The human is going to need lots of anti-anxiety drugs if this continues.
Tonight, he must fast after 10:30. Which means I sleep in the external bonus room. He and Paxton like to eat several times a night and they just won’t take no for an answer. We found the best solution is to leave them in the house alone then whisk Duncan off to the vet first thing in the morning. Since this will be the third time in so many weeks, I’m sure he’ll know something’s about to happen. But he’ll have no idea how monumental. And his human freaks out.
Monday, February 14, 2005
The Cat Scan
I suppose there are not called cat scans anymore, but it is a scan of a cat. So, perhaps a more accurate term is a cat CT scan. Whatever you want to call it, Duncan had one today - Happy Valentines Day - at 10am. We're now at home, resting comfortable. Meaning Duncan is sitting in front of the heater. He's not quite ready to take a nap. He wants to make sure everything is still in it's right place. Anytime the cats go to the vet, they are convinced that all the stuff at home, the furniture, the cat toys, especially the food has shifted around in their absence.
So, the scan. It showed that the cancer, while HUGE is pretty superficial. And not spread. It's pretty contained. The trick will be to remove all the cancer without having to dig into the underlying muscle. What I didn’t understand before is that the muscle underlying the tumor holds the arm into the shoulder. So removing that is removing the arm per se. We're waiting to hear from the surgeon on that. And I'm waiting to hear from the holistic vet too.
The car ride wasn't quite as exciting today. I didn't have the energy to give the running commentary I did last time we drove to West LA for the biopsy. I think this is wearing me out more than Duncan. He is still fascinated with trucks, which makes the ride a bit more enjoyable for him. In his past 13 years, his car rides have been limited to a 3-mile ride to the vet. He cries the whole way there and part of the way back. But on these 45 - 80 minute car rides, he's been crying intermittently with bouts of truck watching. As he pops his head up on the passenger side window, I see other drivers smile at the site of a cute cat pressed against the glass in a silent meow. Duncan has always made us smile, and now he's bringing a smile to the generally unhappy drivers of the 405. Good kitty!
And the holistic vet JUST called to make an appointment for 6pm tomorrow night. All the information is coming in this week.
So, the scan. It showed that the cancer, while HUGE is pretty superficial. And not spread. It's pretty contained. The trick will be to remove all the cancer without having to dig into the underlying muscle. What I didn’t understand before is that the muscle underlying the tumor holds the arm into the shoulder. So removing that is removing the arm per se. We're waiting to hear from the surgeon on that. And I'm waiting to hear from the holistic vet too.
The car ride wasn't quite as exciting today. I didn't have the energy to give the running commentary I did last time we drove to West LA for the biopsy. I think this is wearing me out more than Duncan. He is still fascinated with trucks, which makes the ride a bit more enjoyable for him. In his past 13 years, his car rides have been limited to a 3-mile ride to the vet. He cries the whole way there and part of the way back. But on these 45 - 80 minute car rides, he's been crying intermittently with bouts of truck watching. As he pops his head up on the passenger side window, I see other drivers smile at the site of a cute cat pressed against the glass in a silent meow. Duncan has always made us smile, and now he's bringing a smile to the generally unhappy drivers of the 405. Good kitty!
And the holistic vet JUST called to make an appointment for 6pm tomorrow night. All the information is coming in this week.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Holistic Vet info for the SF Valley
I finally got the holistic vet info for the SF valley today. You'd think being in LA they would be EVERYWHERE!!!! I hope to talk to these guys before we do any surgery.
This comes from a friend of a friend:
Megan Bamford (works from home in Sun Valley)
818-768-0954
She has a website too. Paper-work needs to be filled out first, than a phone consult than an appointment. She is super thorough and gentle and each appointment she makes is for an hour long so she gives you all the time you need. She lets the cats walk around the room and smell and get comfortable while you're talking with her so they get so relaxed. Daphne didn't even realize she was getting examined. She thought it was just a nice lady petting her and telling her how beautiful she was.
Dr. Bamford is really sweet and you can tell animals love her.
If your friend lets them know how urgent it is due to the cancer, I'm sure they'll see them as soon as possible.
www.redrowan.com
There is also Dr. Nancy Scanlan at Sherman Oaks Vet. 818-784-9977. She's
holistic and does acupuncture and Chinese Herbs. (It can be very crowded
and crazy there). When Jemima got her Cancer I worked with Dr. Scanlon and
via phone consults with me and Dr. Scanlon with a Doctor in upstate NY that
my friend recommended. She was really insightful. Her name is Dr. Michele
Yasson. Her number is (845) 658-3923 I credit her to helping give Jemima
more time with us. We actually got rid of the cancer!
This comes from a friend of a friend:
Megan Bamford (works from home in Sun Valley)
818-768-0954
She has a website too. Paper-work needs to be filled out first, than a phone consult than an appointment. She is super thorough and gentle and each appointment she makes is for an hour long so she gives you all the time you need. She lets the cats walk around the room and smell and get comfortable while you're talking with her so they get so relaxed. Daphne didn't even realize she was getting examined. She thought it was just a nice lady petting her and telling her how beautiful she was.
Dr. Bamford is really sweet and you can tell animals love her.
If your friend lets them know how urgent it is due to the cancer, I'm sure they'll see them as soon as possible.
www.redrowan.com
There is also Dr. Nancy Scanlan at Sherman Oaks Vet. 818-784-9977. She's
holistic and does acupuncture and Chinese Herbs. (It can be very crowded
and crazy there). When Jemima got her Cancer I worked with Dr. Scanlon and
via phone consults with me and Dr. Scanlon with a Doctor in upstate NY that
my friend recommended. She was really insightful. Her name is Dr. Michele
Yasson. Her number is (845) 658-3923 I credit her to helping give Jemima
more time with us. We actually got rid of the cancer!
Duncan's Histopathology report
Here's the nuts and bolts of the cancer report for you science buffs:
HISTORY: Masses noticed three weeks ago.
DESCRIPTION:
Sections of all tissue from both containers is similar. Multifocally
there is a small amount of benign appearing fat and of fibrous tissue.
Much of the tissue has fairly high cellularity. Multifocally there
are considerable numbers of scattered small lymphocytes in follicular
or nodular aggregates. Many of the cells are rounded to spindle to
stellate shaped cells that vary mildly to moderately in nuclear size.
Some of them contain variably-sized single or multiple round clear
well-defined lipid type vacuoles. Mitotic figures are fairly
difficult to find. Multifocally there is mild necrosis occupying
approximately 10-20% of the section area evaluated. Agents are not
found.
MICROSCOPIC FINDINGS: LIPOSARCOMA. INFLAMED. ALL TISSUE.
PROGNOSIS: Guarded.
COMMENTS:
Given the location and the scattered inflammatory cells, this may
represent a vaccine-associated sarcoma with liposarcomatous type
differentiation. This would be an unusual manifestation in my
experience but vaccine-associated sarcomas may develop multiple
different tissue types. If there has absolutely never been a
vaccination in the region, then the cause would be unknown. The
neoplasia appears consistent with intermediate grade neoplasia.
HISTORY: Masses noticed three weeks ago.
DESCRIPTION:
Sections of all tissue from both containers is similar. Multifocally
there is a small amount of benign appearing fat and of fibrous tissue.
Much of the tissue has fairly high cellularity. Multifocally there
are considerable numbers of scattered small lymphocytes in follicular
or nodular aggregates. Many of the cells are rounded to spindle to
stellate shaped cells that vary mildly to moderately in nuclear size.
Some of them contain variably-sized single or multiple round clear
well-defined lipid type vacuoles. Mitotic figures are fairly
difficult to find. Multifocally there is mild necrosis occupying
approximately 10-20% of the section area evaluated. Agents are not
found.
MICROSCOPIC FINDINGS: LIPOSARCOMA. INFLAMED. ALL TISSUE.
PROGNOSIS: Guarded.
COMMENTS:
Given the location and the scattered inflammatory cells, this may
represent a vaccine-associated sarcoma with liposarcomatous type
differentiation. This would be an unusual manifestation in my
experience but vaccine-associated sarcomas may develop multiple
different tissue types. If there has absolutely never been a
vaccination in the region, then the cause would be unknown. The
neoplasia appears consistent with intermediate grade neoplasia.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Duncan has liposarcoma
We found out yesterday that Duncan, out 13 year old cat, has liposarcoma. It's a cancer. Not that there is a good cancer, but this one is a bad cancer. It's in the fatty tissue. It's pretty aggressive. When the vet called yesterday, she mentioned that his best chances lie in a radical surgery, including amputation of the limb. Since Duncan's tumors are on his side, I wasn't sure which limb she was referring to. I've seen many a 3-legged cat in my day and they are all cute and seem to adapt to their tri-ped siuation well. But a 13 year old cat that might not live that long? I just picture Duncan giving me the eye-darts and trying to flip me off with his no-longer-there-south-paw.
I was so spun up about the whole thing, I went to a psychic who had healed a friend's cat. Desperate times call for desperate measures. As I walked in, Kimberley told me to shuffle the tarot deck. "Do you have a general question or a specific...oh, a specific. (correct!) OK, then just tell me your birthday and month...oh, wait you're a libra. (correct again!) OK, just tell me the day. Hmmm. You're in a relationship (yes) with a great guy (yes) he's an Earth sign (yes!)." And so it went, with Kimberly telling me all about myself and Duncan and my just sitting with my jaw on the floor. She also knew that Duncan is gray and white and that he's had 2 tests so far. I was impressed. But according to Kimberley, Duncan has 4 months, regardless of the course of treatment. As I left, she kept saying, "I hope I'm wrong." I hope she's wrong, too.
The idea that 4 months may be all that's left gave me a sinking feeling that I hadn't had before. When I first heard that Duncan MIGHT have cancer, that was a sinking feeling, but sinking as in letting yourself drop to the bottom of the deep end of the community swimming pool and watching all the jocks dive in (or belly flop.) But this sinking, the 4 months left sinking, this is like the Titanic, slowly sinking into icey waters and everything you know around you disappears and you break in half and fall to the bottom, as the band plays a jaunty tune.
I went home and told Russ after which we both hugged Duncan and cried. Now, Duncan is completely happy and feels great. Twice now, his parents have been hystercal all over him on a Monday night. He's probably confused. Maybe he thinks we're getting a divorce and it's all his fault. I don't think he understands he has a mass of flesh growing inside him at an alarming rate, uncontrolled.
I was so spun up about the whole thing, I went to a psychic who had healed a friend's cat. Desperate times call for desperate measures. As I walked in, Kimberley told me to shuffle the tarot deck. "Do you have a general question or a specific...oh, a specific. (correct!) OK, then just tell me your birthday and month...oh, wait you're a libra. (correct again!) OK, just tell me the day. Hmmm. You're in a relationship (yes) with a great guy (yes) he's an Earth sign (yes!)." And so it went, with Kimberly telling me all about myself and Duncan and my just sitting with my jaw on the floor. She also knew that Duncan is gray and white and that he's had 2 tests so far. I was impressed. But according to Kimberley, Duncan has 4 months, regardless of the course of treatment. As I left, she kept saying, "I hope I'm wrong." I hope she's wrong, too.
The idea that 4 months may be all that's left gave me a sinking feeling that I hadn't had before. When I first heard that Duncan MIGHT have cancer, that was a sinking feeling, but sinking as in letting yourself drop to the bottom of the deep end of the community swimming pool and watching all the jocks dive in (or belly flop.) But this sinking, the 4 months left sinking, this is like the Titanic, slowly sinking into icey waters and everything you know around you disappears and you break in half and fall to the bottom, as the band plays a jaunty tune.
I went home and told Russ after which we both hugged Duncan and cried. Now, Duncan is completely happy and feels great. Twice now, his parents have been hystercal all over him on a Monday night. He's probably confused. Maybe he thinks we're getting a divorce and it's all his fault. I don't think he understands he has a mass of flesh growing inside him at an alarming rate, uncontrolled.
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