Cancer doesn’t wait until you’re ready. If anything, it comes when you least expect it. And then it’ll proceed to take all it can from you.

The news my dog Winston was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer called Hemangiosarcoma flipped my world upside down. For seven days after a phone call telling me that news, I was stuck frozen in my grief. Paralyzed. The days passed in a blur. I know I cried every single one of them, but other than that, I don’t remember them.

I made a bucket list but with Winston still recovering from his splenectomy, we couldn’t start the “living like you’re dying” or I guess in this case “living like you’re dying, because you actually are” yet. I had an oncology consult scheduled for Winston the next week at Cincinnati MedVet, the group that had removed his tumor. It was three and a half hours from us and logistically I knew it couldn’t work long-term. Whatever this grief state I was in wouldn’t allow me to function, wouldn’t allow me to call them back and say I couldn’t make it there, and then make another plan elsewhere. I could have started researching and finding a more logical place of treatment, but I remained frozen for seven days. Precious time continued ticking by.

And then I got a text from Winston’s internal medicine specialist Veterinary Specialist Partners (the ones that found the tumor in the first place). They said they heard the results of his tumor, that they were so sorry, and were ready to help with chemo, if we needed it. In the blinding depression, it never occurred to me to ask them about the treatment. They said if there weren’t openings they would make them and that they would be honored to lead us through this last chapter of Winston’s life.

The last chapter? I read aloud to myself. How strange that sounded.

The odd thing about anticipatory grief is that you can feel their future death so intensely, and yet somehow still harbor a hope, deep inside you, that they will somehow be the exception to the rule and everything will turn out OK after all. And the worst part about it all, is you don’t even realize you had that hope until they die when your anticipatory grief becomes just plain, old-fashioned, horrible grief.

I’ll always be thankful VSP sent this text. It got me unstuck. It got me moving again. I finally worked up the courage to call back Cincinnati MedVet and let them know we found treatment closer to home. I scheduled an oncology consult with VSP only a few days out from when they had texted.

Winston and I loaded up in my car and drove to nearby Evansville, Indiana, for the appointment. They asked me to come inside with Winston to sit with Dr. Rizzo. It was the first time I had met him face-to-face and I thought to myself, “Ah, so things are that bad, huh?”

He sat with me a while and explained the cancer he had, the chemotherapy process, the side effects, the prognosis, and the cost. He said that because we caught it early before the tumor ruptured and had the splenectomy performed, we could maybe get a year left. But because Hemangiosarcoma is a tumor of the blood vessels that can occur in any part of the body, the tumors can leak, rupture, and eventually result in significant bleeding. Microscopic spread is common. Chemotherapy after surgery is recommended to slow down the spread, but not a cure. The goal with chemo is to extend and maintain quality of life.

We settled on a date to start Winston’s first chemo. He would do five rounds with one every three weeks in Georgetown, with a recheck appointment a week after every chemo locally in Evansville. We would go on a big road trip with the dogs the week before it would start so we could soak up some quality time together before another recovery from another health treatment started. They also sent me off with I’m Yunity Turkey Tail mushrooms – the first I had ever heard of it. Dr. Rizzo shared about the median survival rates of dogs taking this supplement were so much longer than those who didn’t. Little did I know, I would grow to worship those mushrooms. I’m convinced they gave us so much more time.

The bill came for the consult, mushrooms, and a preorder for the first round of chemo, and I handed my credit card over. Bills like this were shocking at first (eventually they became a given), but we would have paid or figured out a way to pay whatever total to keep him alive.

As I write this, I have to pause to cry. I’ve learned guilt and regret are all very much apart of the grieving process and are two things my husband and I have been feeling since eventually having to say goodbye to Winston (spoiler alert). When that bill came, I’m not sure how many would have (or could have) paid it. Or paid the next one, or the next one, and so on and so on for the next 10 months. We have to remind ourselves we gave him a chance that so many people wouldn’t (or couldn’t) have.

After an incredible trip to Arkansas, we settled in back home and prepared for Winston’s first chemo. It was scheduled for early morning in Georgetown, Kentucky – on eastern time and a good drive for us. I took the day off work and woke up at 4 am to drive Winston in the dark most of the way. Receiving the chemo didn’t take long and eventually we loaded back up and made the trek home. I remember thinking, “Wow, Winston is handling this so well. No side effects at all.” How naive I was.

The next couple days Winston’s energy seemed zapped. That I could deal with. But by the third day, Winston was sick sick. He couldn’t stop throwing up. He couldn’t and wouldn’t eat. He had diarrhea. For the first time ever, he looked frail to me. Nathan, myself, and VSP all talked and agreed we had to make some changes to his treatment or we wouldn’t keep doing this. We didn’t want the last days he had remaining to look like this. It took Winston about two weeks to rebound from that first round, all while the second round in the third week was quickly approaching.

To balance how many vacation days each of us were using, Nathan drove Winston to his next chemo in Georgetown. My anxiety is always off the charts when I can’t attend a vet appointment, but especially for this chemo round. If he didn’t tolerate it well, we would have to make some tough calls. They decided to give him a lesser dose of the chemo, a shot of Benadryl, and I’d preemptively give nausea and diarrhea meds, before any signs of either.

Winston’s second round went so much better and he never threw up. After only about five days, he started eating full meals again and wanting to go for walks again. We were doing our rechecks appointments in Evansville and received the good news VSP was moving our chemo treatments to Evansville. We were thrilled we would no longer have to take days off or make the long drives.

But just as we were least expecting it, a new side effect started to appear. Winston could not stop itching and I was finding clumps of white hair all over the house.

Read Chemo: Part 2 here.