I didn’t even realize what I was experiencing had a technical name.

When my dog Winston was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer, grief strode right up to me, put on my clothes and makeup, and became me. But there Winston was wagging his tail, still standing in my kitchen begging for a piece of cheese, laying in his dog bed, or going for walks around the neighborhood. Alive.

Grief clung to me the moment the veterinarian said the words, “I don’t have good news. The tumors were cancer. Hemangiosarcoma. A very aggressive cancer. We usually lose dogs within three months after surgery. Even with surgery, it will metastasize quickly in other places. Chemotherapy prolongs life expectancy but won’t cure.”

And I couldn’t shake free of the feeling. I lay in his dog bed, hugging his neck, crying, and my husband Nathan would cautiously remind me, “But he’s right there. He’s still alive.”

I flooded Winston’s Instagram with sad, dying dog with cancer content, because it was the only thing on my mind. I counted down the days from three months. Nathan would say, “What if the cancer never takes him and you’ve worked up this whole thing in your head and convinced everyone he’s dying when he’s not?” The grief (me – we were one at this point) wanted to shake him, screaming “Why aren’t you feeling this, too!!??” The comments also constantly commented, “Stay in the moment. Enjoy every day. Don’t waste it being sad. He knows you’re sad. Don’t show him that.”

I absolutely understood what everyone was saying. Winston wasn’t showing any signs of decline. Every evening he would stand in front of us on the couch and waiting for a bone or treat. Stomp and bite the air for a walk or to do something. He was completely normal. But I couldn’t help it. My anticipatory grief would retort, “The cancer IS going to take him. I’m not just being dramatic. It’s just the reality.”

I started reading everything I could on Hemangiosarcoma. I read study after study. I followed every dog I could find with the disease as some kind of tracking comparison (when did they do chemo, when did they catch the tumor, was it already internally bleeding, what medications did they start on … when they died because they all eventually died). I joined all the Facebook groups with owners facing the same disease. I convinced myself I was going to control what I could control and let the rest go. But the other half of me sank deeper into a depression.

I started visualizing how and when his death would happen. I struggled to commit to any future plans adding up the time it meant I would be away from him. I started withdrawing and isolating myself from social settings. I analyzed every single move Winston made anticipating it would be the beginning of the end. I hyperventilated on a drive home from my parents’ farm pointing the car toward the emergency vet one afternoon when Winston threw up (he was fine). I documented everything in case it was our last. I would say “final goodbyes” over and over again every time I went to sleep at night or left the house. I felt extreme guilt for leaving him for any amount of time. And I felt extreme guilt when we were together but we weren’t busy making memories together. On one particular sad night, I made Nathan watch the incredibly sad movie Our Friend about a woman who is dying from cancer and sobbed the entire time relating the entire film to Winston. I was stalked by anxiety waiting for the bomb to go off that would be his death.

It was impossible to shake. Here are the things that helped me during this process or at the very least took my mind off of it temporarily:

1. Made a Dog Bucket List – I made a list of activities I wanted to do with Winston before the end. This kept me busy and kept me planning for Winston’s life and not his death.
2. Grief Counseling – A friend gifted me my first session to Pet Loss Community grief counseling and I started seeing a therapist virtually one on one and a Zoom support group to talk about my anticipatory grief. It immediately felt like I “wasn’t crazy” feeling this way over “just a dog.” It was a safe space to talk about my grief without judgment and with people who were facing it as well. I later learned the fantastic organization Like Like Roo sponsored pet parents whose dogs have been diagnosed with cancer and reached out to them to use this.
3. Asked for Help – I struggled the most after Winston’s diagnosis being away from him and on those days especially I asked for help from my parents or friends to let the dogs out or to host “doggie daycare” keeping him busy to ease my guilt of not being there with him. One day in particular I felt the anxiety over Winton’s health engulfing me and I could not get back to the house from work to pick him up to take him to the vet with my schedule (he was fine) and my parents drove him to me. Nathan became well-versed in all his medications and diet so we could split the morning duties before work.
4. Discussed End-of-Life Options – I met with my regular veterinarian, talked with a friend, and planned Winston’s euthanasia. She went over the questions and options I would be presented with when the time came so I could be prepared. Did we want him cremated? Where? Individual cremation? Wearing a collar or no? Who is there with us during? Do you include your other dogs? In retrospect, I am so glad I did this.
5. Tried to Memorialize Him – I bought a memorial brick at a new dog park in my hometown. I wrote to my alumni magazine about him and had him included in the publication. I continued to tell everyone I could about him and how special he was.
6. Booked Family Photos – I was always documenting his every movement, but having photos with myself included in them of him is something I still treasure today.
7. Talked to Those Going Through It, Too – The owners with dogs diagnosed with the disease living or dead truly “got it.” They understood what I was feeling as they went through it, too.
8. Was Open & Honest About my Feelings – For me, it was impossible not to be. I told my husband, family, friends, boss, coworkers, strangers on the Internet.

If you’re experiencing anticipatory grief, I am so sorry. I can confidently say it was the hardest year of my life. Please feel free to reach out to me through this site or through Instagram. My thoughts are with you.