Each morning I awaken, convinced I’ll live to a ripe, old age. And, so will everyone I love.
I cling to this belief, despite having worked 20 years in an acute hospital setting where life expectancy can shrink in an instant.
Longevity outside hospital walls is not guaranteed, either. Every day, burst aortic aneurysms and bathtub slip-and-falls claim lives in their prime. Or before. Pets may get diagnoses that stop us in our tracks.
That conspicuous little lump on our Lilly’s right elbow could be a benign lipoma, the vet told us during a follow-up examination in late January. Monitor it, she said. And we did, my loving wife and I.
Three weeks ago, while on a trip to visit family and friends, the lump on our 12-year-old Boston terrier ballooned. I called our vet and made an appointment shortly after our return. The vet took a needle biopsy. Initial review uncertain. Sent to pathology for analysis. The results popped up on our phones as my wife, Lilly, and I returned from a soggy afternoon walk.
My heart dropped, then flew into my mouth. Sarcoma. Locally aggressive. A list of cancer clinics followed. Together with my stomach, the words whorled together and spun off the page. Except for one: CANCER.
That night, as planned, we met friends for dinner, then attended the symphony. I struggled staying present much of the night, misery snaring me between bites of chicken shawarma and the 64th notes of Mozart’s piano concerto #22. Mentally, I replayed beloved experiences before “getting the news.” The last time I swayed to a song, put on my shoes, smelled fresh, wet mulch in a neighborhood garden, and watched Lilly roll and grind in it with abandon. Lilly slathering my wife and I with kisses moments before the vet’s email lanced our bliss.
A fitful night’s sleep followed. Visions of cancerous tendrils gripping the blood vessels in her foreleg snaked through restless dreams. Without any radiographic evidence or further testing, I surmised Lilly’s chances of survival and quality of life. At her age, could she handle an amputation? Or thrive afterward? Would we put her through chemo and radiation to squeeze out a few more months together?
I succeeded only in putting the cart before the horse. We need more information. We scheduled her first appointment with an oncology team next week. Whatever the work-up’s results, my wife and I agreed: Lilly would not suffer. Her two human parents? That’s another story.
My wife’s brother-in-law recently shared Buddhism’s Five Remembrances with her. She, in turn, shared them with me:
This body will become old.
This body will become ill.
This body will die.
All things will pass. I will lose everything that is dear to me.
My life will proceed according to my actions and the vagaries of nature, not according to my wishes.
Some dogs can smell cancer. Does our Lilly smell the pernicious cells multiplying in her elbow tumor? Possibly migrating up and down her foreleg? What she can smell is out angst. Our two hearts flopping in the hollows of our chests like two fish washed ashore. She stares at us, eyes widening, and whines.
And, so, as we grapple with Buddhist Remembrances, we mask with happy inflections, games of fetch, and business as usual. Thin veils Lilly might easily see and smell through.
Lilly’s not let on whether she’s got the cancer news. But she’s doing what dogs do best in the face of everything: enjoying her life now.
Because now is all there is.