Category Archives: health

November 5, 2013 · 9:40 am

Extraordinary

When Harry first got sick, and when his herniated discs turned into insulinoma, surgery, hypoglycemia, and herniated discs, I secretly wished – but didn’t dare write it or say it – that Harry would be here for Halloween.  Because I honestly wasn’t sure if he’d make it.  And because on every Halloween, I delighted in squeezing Harry into a bee costume that I bought when he was a puppy.  I’m positive it made him want to flip me the bird, but he let me do it every year because he knew it made me the happiest Mama on the planet.  Harry the Bee was my anchor.  Harry the Bee reminded me that if a black & white, smush-faced dog with tall, pointy ears could dress like a bee, then everything would be okay.

Harry the Bee

It happened to be Halloween morning when we finally took Harry to see our beloved vet in Miami for the talk – an honest conversation about his health, his quality of life, what we could do, and how much time we had left.  The first thing he said when he walked in the room was, “What has happened to your dog is extraordinary.”

He told us insulinoma is rare.  He saw about one dog every other year with the disease.  He told us insulinoma in a young dog is rare.  Harry was only eight years old.  He told us fast and aggressive metastasis of insulinoma after surgery is rare.  Harry’s insulin to blood sugar ratio was through the roof just a few weeks after surgery.  He said he’d never seen anything like it.

Dog gets insulinoma.  Dogs gets surgery.  Dog gets better.

That’s how the story was supposed to go.  Instead, Halloween ended up being Harry’s last night here on Earth.  After we returned from Miami, Harry was too sick to wear the bee costume.  He was too sick to eat or even stand up.  I can’t tell you how many times the doorbell rang with trick-or-treaters that evening and he didn’t even lift his head.

Harry fought like hell to stay with us, and we fought like soldiers to keep him here, but his body was too weak to fight anymore.  He told us he was done, and we listened.

After a long, arduous, and heart-wrenching night, we drove back to Miami to say goodbye to our extraordinary friend.  I rubbed his front legs to help him fall asleep just like I did when he was a puppy on my lap, and with my tears dripping on his legs, I wished him sweet dreams as he drifted away, finally free of the disease and suffering that unfairly plagued his body.

I could tell you about how extraordinarily awful the last few months have been.  About how our birthdays were marked with fear and anxiety.  About how my heart leapt out of my chest every time the phone rang.  About how I cried every day.  About how we raced to the animal hospital at least once a week.  About how we bought pumpkins at the pumpkin patch but never got around to carving or decorating them.  About how we never got more than a few consecutive hours of sleep.  About how we fed Harry every two hours, even at night, to prevent hypoglycemia-induced seizures.  About how I never left him alone for more than a few hours.

Do you remember the season of “Lost” when Jack and the group discovered they had to type a code and press “execute” on the computer every 108 minutes to avoid worldwide catastrophe?  That’s what feeding (or not feeding) Harry was like.  In my mind, if he didn’t get that small, frequent, high-protein meal, disaster was imminent.  His life became a burden that I carried as any loving Mama would do, but the pace at which we all, including Harry, worked to keep up was ultimately unsustainable.

Losing Harry, who we loved like one of our children, was agonizing.  Having to explain to the boys that their Bo Berry was gone forever was equally unbearable, but what was truly extraordinary was the way they handled the news – with grace, courage, honesty, and love.  My job is to educate my children, but as usual, they teach me.

Just like Harry did.

When I wrote a letter of gratitude to Harry earlier this year on his eighth birthday, I had no idea it would become his eulogy.  What happened to Harry was extraordinary, but then again, he was an extraordinary dog, and we were extraordinarily fortunate to have him in our lives.

harry3

Sweet dreams, Harry. 

I will carry you forever in my (broken) heart.

Love,

Your Mama

 

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Filed under death, Halloween, Harry, health

October 26, 2013 · 2:31 pm

Deal

Earlier this week, I took the boys with me to the animal hospital with Harry. It wasn’t ideal – I would’ve preferred not to take them – but the doctor only had late afternoon appointments, so I had no choice but to bring them along.  I made a deal with them in the car.  “Threat” might be a better word to describe when I said quietly and slowly with a finger pointed toward them for effect, “When I’m talking to the doctor and when the doctor is talking to me, you must be quiet. Or else.”  No exclamation point.  Threats are most effective with periods.  Occasionally questions marks work, too.  For instance, “Threat threat threat, blah be-dee blah blah.  Do you understand me?”  But, periods are best.

It worked.  They were quite good, actually.

We were at the hospital for an internal medicine check-up, and since Harry looked better and more energetic, I expected good news.  I could tell his back felt better, and I hoped the same would be true for his blood sugar.  If it was high enough, I also hoped they would lower his prednisone dosage because the side effects – extreme hunger and thirst, excessive urination, and weight gain in the abdomen – came on hard and fast.

I was right and wrong.  The doctor agreed that Harry’s mobility and coordination were better.  His blood sugar, however, was not.  Normal glucose levels in a dog are 75-120.  A dog with insulinoma after a successful surgery might find a “new normal” in the 50s or 60s.  Harry’s blood sugar was 29 that afternoon.  According to our doctor, a number that low almost a month after surgery indicated that the cancer had most likely metastasized.  While Dylan and Riley quietly drew pictures (for Harry) next to me on the couch, the doctor suggested an increase in prednisone and gave me the names of two well-regarded oncologists in the area that had some success with chemotherapy on insulinoma patients.

I was caught off guard.  I  couldn’t hold back my tears.

Girl wants a baby.  Girl gets cancer instead.

Girl can’t have baby.  Girls gets dog.

Girl desperately wants to save dog.  Girl can’t.

Riley kept coloring, but Dylan asked, “Mommy, why are you crying?”

I looked him and said, “I’m sad because Harry still doesn’t feel good.  His boo boo isn’t better.”

At the tender age of almost seven, this precious boy of mine doesn’t know what to do with the swell of emotions he’s capable of feeling.  As a coping mechanism, he hones in on something – anything – concrete. When Harry first came home from the hospital, it was the long line of black stitches down his belly.  He was terrified of them.

“Mommy,” he said, “I don’t ever want Harry to have stitches again.”

“Me neither,” I said.  “I promise you, he won’t.”

Now, it was his distended abdomen.  “Mommy, I don’t like Harry’s belly.”

“Dylan,” I said, “It’s the medicine that’s making his belly big, but no matter what he looks like, he’s still our Harry.”

On the car ride home, I cried quietly in the front seat.  In the back seat, Dylan began to sob.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m sad,” Dylan said.

“I know.  Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

“I don’t want Harry to be sick,” he said.

I’ve never done this before – this having a dying pet with two small children thing.  Honesty seemed like the best – and only – strategy.  “I don’t want him to be sick either.  It’s okay to be sad,” I said.  “It’s okay to cry.  I’m sad, too.  I’m crying, too.”  We cried together as we sped down I-95 towards home.

Then Riley, who’s four years old and way less concrete and wants to turn into a unicorn after he turns five and loves Harry more than Kefir and all the way to the moon and back said, “Let’s make a deal.  No crying in the car or you will lose your Kindle at bedtime.”

Deal.

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Filed under boys, Harry, health, parenting