Another alternative

I found a new alternative medicine veterinarian for Cas (months ago!). I decided on Coastal Holistic in Pacifica, CA after a few referrals. We've been to about 6 acupuncture appointments there so far. I take him once a month; they advised treating him two weeks after his chemotherapy treatments.

The first vet we saw was Dr. DeLeeuw. I was recommended to see Dr. Molly Rice, but unfortunately, she was out of town and booked until early December. I didn't want to keep Cas waiting that long, so we took a chance on Dr. DeLeeuw.

She was very sweet, and I felt comfortable talking with her.

Starting with our next visit, we saw Dr. Rice. She likes to treat him with acupuncture followed by chiropractic adjustments.

Aside from that, I discussed alternative medicine options for Castor with Dr. Rice. She prefers to wait until her patients are finished with chemotherapy to use alternative medicine options (herbal chemo's).

So, we waited.

In the meantime, she had us give him probiotics (Jarro-Dophilus) and fish oil pills. She also helped us decide on a food - finally! We chose Orijin's Regional Red formula. It was the only non-raw food diet she would feed her pets. (I am not yet willing to deal with the time and costliness of a raw food diet. I also am unconvinced that it's orders of magnitude better than something like Orijin.) I think it's kinda awesome that it has wild boar in it. (Danes were bred to hunt them!)

She also reiterated what many others have said: Turmeric Rocks!! She said we can just sprinkle some on his food. Many believe it to have many, many fabulous healing properties, including protecting against cancer. Here's a 2007 Scientific American article, "Spice Healer," about the history of is medicinal use.

Cas really doesn't mind going to Coastal Holistic. It's quite amazing, given his usual trembly fear. It's probably all of the freeze-dried anchovies that Dr. Rice bribes...I mean gives him.

Cas finished chemo about three months ago. We just started him on a low dose of Artemisinin a couple of weeks ago. Her plan is to have him on it for a month and off for a month. So far he's handing it fine; it's such a small dose for him. Dr. Rice said she didn't want to change a lot with him, since he's doing so well. (YAY!)

She also highly recommended putting him on a blend of mushrooms. In fact, she said that is the number one thing she'd give him, and any pet for that matter. She says they help with many ailments and give amazing boosts to the immune system. I have not looked into support for those statements yet, but I plan to soon.

Specifically, she recommended he eat Corioles (a.k.a., "Turkey Tail") and a blend of Maitake and Reishi from gmushrooms.com. I may start him on some soon. Maybe.

I will say that my experiences with Coastal Holistic and Dr. Rice have been fantastic. More importantly, Castor has had great experiences (for vet trips, anyway). Dr. Rice has said, repeatedly, that she is so happy we do this for Castor BEFORE he has any major musculo/skeletal problems. She said she usually doesn't get to see animals until they are in bad shape, when there's limited help she can provide.

The acupuncture and/or chiropractic manipulations help his muscle and spine tremendously. If nothing else, it really eases pain and tension in his body. Rob and I massage him pretty regularly. Before our last visit, when I ran my thumbs down along side his spine, his back muscles twitched like crazytown. Right after his treatment: no more spasms. None. It's incredible how much it helps him.

Cas and I both fully recommend acupuncture (and chiropractic care), especially for beloved tripawds...as long as you find the right vet!


(Note: We never heard back from Dr. Fong about a refund. I've just let that go. He lost the best doggie patient ever.)

Everything's coming up roses...period.

I guess it's time to create another bead; Castor had his first chemo treatment Thursday.

Oh, yeah, the bead talk probably needs some explaining. Please forgive me a seeming digression from the Land of Castor.

As I've mentioned, I themed my last yoga class around life as constant change and brought our focus to the transitions. Many describe Patanjali's Yoga Sutras, near 200 sweet aphorisms which, taken together, systematize Raja Yoga, as the threads of a mala. Sutra translates as thread. I find this metaphor animates a beautiful approach to a spiritual practice.


The sutras are so bare - many of them not complete sentences - so as to be elegantly universal. The practitioner gets to imbue the teachings with specifics, with texture, with herself. One gets to put their beads onto this thread, creating a unique path. ("Truth is one. Paths are many.")

In this time of change and even chaos in my life, I see the mala in a slightly different way. Each of our lives are continuous, unique entities floating around in this ecstatic universe. They each fumble around, soaring and falling into and around each other. Sometimes we come together, often we never meet. The Yoga Sutras, or any other spiritual teaching one follows, provide us a path, some guidance on our ups and downs and back and forthing. As are our lives, the threads of Yoga are traveled continuously.

As humans, however, we love to interpret time discretely. We have "the big moments," those moments we label as important, as devastating, as life-altering. These are like the beads on our mala. They are the revealing moments with which we decorate our lives. In the past, many of mine were colored in tones of regret and shades of anger.

I will never forget the time my mom picked me up from high school. A non-exceptional Wednesday. I got quickly into her car, a half-blue, half-primer gray Camero with T-tops and the word "Fluffy" painted in primer gray on the rear left side. (Thank you, mom's boyfriend.)

Immediately, I knew something was wrong. It was probably what my mom didn't say to greet me. Then I noticed her red eyes. She'd been crying. A lot.

I was not surprised by her words, which seems odd to me now. Perhaps I just don't remember my surprise. "It's your dad." That's all I needed to hear. He was gone. I was in shock - no tears, few words, even fewer breaths. He was gone. It was really happening this time.

What does this mean? What do I say now? What should I do?

"Surreal" comes to mind, now that I know that word. Back then, at 17 and still living in Englewood, CO, I just fumbled with my, "what happened?," and other such nonsense. He fell down, hit his head on the coffee table, and bled to death. I know it sounds rough, but unfortunately, there's no way to make a death like that sound peaceful and clean. He had been drinking. More precisely, he was drunk.

The most unfortunate part? He died alone, and I wish more than anything I could have been there to comfort him. He was living by himself, about four hours from my house. A life-altering moment.

On August 13th, a seemingly normal Friday afternoon, I put the most recent bead onto my thread. More upsetting words. "It looks like cancer." Followed by more shock and more questions.

What now? What do I do for him? ... You get the idea.

This time was different though. He's not gone. Though I spent the first day and night grieving, I have spent all of my time since then spending time with him. He's not gone. Grieving him has no place here now.

What I have learned from that 15-year old bead to this one is, well, a lot. Specifically, I've learned that, "The big moments are gonna come. You can't help that. It's what you do afterwards that counts. That's when you find out who you are." (Joss Whedon via Whistler in BtVS)

So, yes, we like to decorate our malas with beads. Sometimes pretty and, in my past, all too often melancholy. We get to choose them though. Now, I try to cultivate a strong, serene thread with tiny, beautiful beads, accenting but not weighing down my loyal thread.

Thich Nhat Hanh, a Buddhist teacher, encourages us to ask, "what's not wrong?," as we pass through our uncertain days, planting seeds of joy not pain. Though I created a new bead for Castor and the Big C, it is not an ugly moment I remember with anger or regret. I remember a gift. I was presented with the opportunity to do for Castor what I could not do for my dad. I will hold him through this transition. I will, with immense gratitude, comfort him through all of his remaining stages of life. And, by goddess, I will plant seeds of healing and optimism.

As we begin the next phase of his treatment, chemotherapy, I remind myself that real living is continuous, is breathing, is moving from one place to the next. First we walk, then we hop. Nothing wrong with that. As long as I am supporting Castor, as long as that is what I do next, I will enjoy finding out who I am.

Everything's coming up roses. That's all there is to it.

Get that cancer off of him

Surgery Day - Tuesday, August 24th

Time to smell the grass

As per his usual, Cas did not want to get out of bed in the morning. Even this airbed we're sharing.

Before surgery, we stopped off at the park again. There were ducks, and turtles, and doggies, oh my!

So beautiful, yet so few people. It's incredibly peaceful. And, apparently, it smells interesting too!

Amputation

It was a short stop, and then a quick ride to CARE Hospital. He was less nervous with his Auntie Jen there. His teeth were not chattering, a common occurrence at the vet. A quick chat with the surgeon, the fantastic and thoughtful Dr. Eric Wright, recapping what I've spent my last week and a half learning (Summary: Osteosarcoma - very bad. To stop pain, remove leg.) and some procedure and recovery information.

Cas gets to keep his hip and a small portion of his femur since the tumor was in his distal tibia. This means he will heal faster, and his muscles won't eventually atrophy as is the case with complete amputation of limb. He'll have a little bum muscle. Yay!!

I was no longer anxious or grieving. I am ready. I am ready to have this cancer taken off his body. I am ready for his rehabilitation. I am ready to have a happier pup. I am ready to deal.

So, with a big hug from my dearest Jen and a kiss to Cas, I left him in the back while they prepped the meds for his transformative nap. I was so thankful to be leaving him in the hands of not only skilled professionals, but close friends.

I spent the next many hours busying myself with catching up on the rest of my life - emails, writing, knitting, yoga - and fundraising for Cas. And waiting.

I waited patiently until about 2:30.

"Mom, I'm outta surgery," relays Jen via text message. "He did great. Hope ur ok he's fine." She even sent me a cute (though, perhaps strange for non-techs and vets) pic of my boy zonkered with his tongue all hanging out. (adorable!)

The surgery couldn't have gone better. His closure is beautiful. He spent several hours sleeping it off and was expected to stay overnight.

Then came the call. Apparently, he was not loving coming off the narcotics. He wouldn't stop whining unless he was being cuddled by Jen, who, oddly enough, had work to do at work. So, we all decided he should spend the evening at home with us. ♥

Dabs and I went to get him, and he had just been walking around (i.e., with two techs' help and a sling) outside looking everywhere for me. When I got there I just sat down with his head in my lap and comforted him. Another tech friend, Tina, sat with him for 2 hours before I arrived. Such sweet people we know!

I finally saw his incision as we left. OMG! It's so painful looking, as are most surgical sights, I imagine. I have to just believe Jen (which I do, of course) when she says it looks great. It's all about perspective.

Not sleeping sucks
I slept next to Cas the whole night. (I'm surprised by how comfortable sleeping on a bunch of pillows can be. No more will I feel sorry for Cas sleeping on his doggie bed, instead of my bed. That is not to say that he won't sleep on my bed at night. =)

I wanted to know if he needed me for anything through the night. Boy, did he!

I am sure it sucked more for Castor than for me. Neither of us slept. He whined a lot, not from pain; coming off of drugs makes them wig a bit. Understandably so. I think I dozed of for 5 minutes here and there. Finally, around 3:30am, I woke up Jen and he got a little more pain meds.


He, and therefore I, was asleep for about 2 hours. Sweet! Ah, the little things.

Very little sleep won't stop Cas, though.

The next morning, we were up and hopping around. The getting up part was a challenge, but only a little one with Jen on team Castor! I am so proud of him; he's such a rockstar! Check him out getting around with almost no help less than 24 hours post-op. He even ate a small amount of chicken.

(Jen's got the touch!)

(The video turns sideways toward the end. Dabs is learning to record as Cas learns to walk. haha!)

The recovery is going really well. Some dogs I've read about didn't get up for days and wouldn't eat a thing. We're lucky his spirits are so high.

With that, I am so optimistic. Go Castor!

Another day as a quadruped

Monday, August the 23rd

I couldn't help but sit in the back of the Element with Cas on the way to the hospital Monday morning. I have become quite clingy, at this point. We drove to the park for a pleasant hour, pre-anesthesia.

As always, he loved the smallest dog around. He and Princess were instant friends. Everyone's always amazed at how gentle he is...except for the standing on your feet thing. (Ouch!) It was gorgeous and way warmer than I'm used to now. At 9am, Cas was seeking shade.

This whole ordeal couldn't have gone better. We have this familiar, idyllic place to immerse him in during the most stressful part of his rehabilitation. He is surrounded by some of his best human friends, all ready to help and to cuddle.

Just as we're about to leave, I've worked up the best attitude for the drop-off. Then Jen calls. They have a few emergency surgeries to deal with first. We end up rescheduling for tomorrow.

It's better - Cas will have more attention and time from his Jen. There will hopefully be less going on in the hospital.

So, we wait until tomorrow.

On the road again

Sunday, August the 22nd

We left San Francisco Sunday at 11am.

I know that I'm doing what's best for my boy, and I haven't been feeling emotional like the first couple of days after I found out about his leg. This morning though, was hard. I found myself in a bicker-fest with Dabs. Then, walking to the dog park, I started to tear up watching him prance down the street. (It's so adorable!)

"He won't be able to prance around anymore!" But Dabs assures me, "he'll do something else that's adorable after the surgery." She's right. He can't help himself. =)

Again, I practice staying in the moment. We had a blast at the park and then piled into the car. Next stop: Santa Barbara.

I must mention that Cas is about the cutest little traveling companion ever. He's been all over with me. His first couple of years were lived in Santa Barbara until I moved for grad school at University of Wisconsin.

Our first road trip was moving to Madison WI. It was...well, the term "packed like sardines" comes to mind. Picture me, Castor, Matt (6'2"-tall guy), two cats, and luggage enough for 3 months. Oh, and we did that trip in my Beetle! (As my first road trip, I decided that road trips sucked. I was wrong, but that trip was less than ideal.)

From Madison, about 3 years later we took another trip to San Francisco and back. Then to Buffalo. Then back.

Last summer we spent four months in NYC after another road trip from Madison. We loved our time in Chelsea, including several cab rides to Central Park,



where he enjoyed playing with doggies, smelling the flowers, and drinking from the fountains.



Our last trip from NY to Madison, and then all the way back to SF, ended last September.

So, he's used to traveling, anyway.

He found more room than ever in Dab's car this time. I even provided him with an ample pillow supply. Still, his lips seemed to need more space. (adorable!)



We headed straight for Summerland Beach when we arrived. He grew up digging on this beach, so I wanted to spend a couple of hours R&Ring here. It was a beautiful day, as per SB's usual, except of course for the ridiculous amount of oil in the water. (WTF? I used to swim around in this ocean.)

I continued to feel anxious periodically. I don't have an anchor right now. I feel uprooted and nervous. The last two yoga classes I taught this week were for grounding down, especially in times when you feel the earth slip away from underneath. I practiced for Castor and for myself, searching for harmony between my inner and outer worlds.

External worlds don't adjust for us, we have to find a beautiful balance aligning ourselves, from within, to what's around us. I'm working on that. Castor is my inspiration.
Cancer is my catalyst.

Tomorrow is a big day. Surgery is at noon.
One big, divine breath at a time. I'm ready...set...

Castor and the other Seaward (Cancer, that is.)

Live in the moment, the powerful, eternal present. Nice thought, but how? Non-human animals are sometimes the best role models for us.

“I don't know that animals experience gratitude, in the sense we commonly conceive of it, but they certainly don't feel sorry for themselves or suffer the kind of greed that plagues so many of us humans,” I wrote a couple of months ago.

My dog, my guru.

The teachings begin.
On August 10th, after a normal, gamboling morning at the dog park and 2-mile urban hike, I noticed Castor (see: the beautiful creature above) holding his rear left leg off the ground.

“Oh, S! He hurt himself,” I thought. I tried to calm down though, because I’ve been practicing the-sky’s-not-falling mantra for the past … well, all of my boy’s life. After hearing the worst things that can happen to these beautiful, gentle giants, especially from my surgical tech friend, Jen, (who sees the worst of it, over and over again), I learned that usually, it’s just a stiff day or a sore muscle. I can empathize with that.

Still, I called the vet the next day for advice. They helped steer me in the direction of rest and wait a day or two, since my vet was gone until Saturday (4 days away). I managed to not give in to guilty feelings as we walked right past the park and back home for 2 days.

He seemed to walk fine, once outside, but if standing he didn’t put equal weight on his back feet. My search for the area of discomfort was fruitless. He enjoyed his hip flexion and not a peep with knee movement. I know how stoic he is, so I wasn’t convinced.

On Thursday, I decided to take him in the next day. That morning, I noticed that his ankle was swollen. (When I told Jen it was “noticeably swollen,” she assured me that “noticeable” for me is probably invisible to most. It’s really not that swollen yet, which is good. Can you see it?)








“Okay, I’ll take him in at 4:15pm, and hopefully, even with x-rays, I can make it to yoga at 6:30, ” I thought. I hoped it wasn’t broken. I figured it wasn’t since he was walking on it. “I’m sure dogs can sprain their ankles just like us. GAWD, it’s gonna suck to have to keep him off of it until it heals! He loves his doggie friends!”

The veterinarian wanted to x-ray it right away. She says, “I’m not worried about it being broken, since he’s walking on it.” …Just as I suspected… “I’m more worried about a boney cancer.”

Time goes wonky.
After an hour wait (butterflies, included in the set!), she used the C-word on me. I was floored. After all this time, after convincing myself to inhale, it kicks the wind right out of me. “It does look like cancer. Do you want to see the x-rays?”

Did I want to see them? I’ll tell you what I wanted. I wanted to change Cas’ cancer into normal bone and cut him a frakking break. After January’s diagnosis of retinal atrophy and his puppyhood HOD flare-ups, I figured it easy going for him for the rest of our time together.


Of course, I looked.
Enlarged bone, spongy parts, and foggy regions.
(Foggy is generally not something you want to see in x-rays, fyi.)


I held it together, just collecting more data. (Data is for dealing.) Assuming he couldn’t have an amputation (WhoTF told me that, I can’t remember), I asked what I should do about his routines now.

“Just short leash walks to go to the bathroom.” That’s when the tears came. The catalyst was probably, “for the rest of his life?” Once you start to pinpoint the numerical meaning of that phrase, shit gets hard.

I knew that couldn’t be the plan. He loves his doggie friends. His favorite thing to do is play at the park, and my favorite thing to do is have his company to pick up the bread every day. Thankfully, I have great friends in the surgery business. I sobbed out two explanatory messages to Jen and Eric (Dr. Eric Wright, the fantastic surgeon Jen works for).

I spend the next 9 real-time (seemingly 24) hours waiting for a response. I finally spoke to Jen the next day, and she assured me that amputation was not only an option for him, but it was a blessing that it was a rear leg. It’s easier to adjust as a "tripawd" in that situation.

Hopes Readjust.
After much researching (mostly by Dabs, my BFF, who replaced restlessness with digesting canine cancer information) and consulting with various veterinary professionals, it seems there are 3 basic options for my boy.

1. Do nothing (including exercise), but treat the horrific pain. Put him out of his misery once said misery was peaking. (This often happens when they break their weakening bone.)

2. Amputate. This is done, oddly enough, to simply relieve their pain. It improves their quality of life. (Note: This can be harder for the human to deal with than their pup.)

3. Amputate and do chemotherapy. The so-called “gold standard.” (Because it takes a lot of gold to pay for it?) Relieve the pain; slow the cancer.

Best for my boy is option number 3, so 3 it is! Now, to overcome at least 2 more obstacles - metastasis and money. It turns out the first place osteosarcoma likes to open a second home is in the lungs. If there are lesions there already, amputation is usually not done.

I never thought I'd be hoping that Cas could have an amputation, but here I am. Tuesday, we saw an oncologist, Dr. Cadile in San Mateo. (She was great - informative, thorough, and warm.) We talked plans (see: 1, 2, 3 above). I told her I was going to have Eric remove his leg as soon as possible, if he was cleared for it.

After I coaxed him to the back for chest rads, I spent 4 hours waiting for the results. (Okay, really it was about 30 minutes, but time is funny that way.) Dr. Cadile came in garnering residual laughter, which I took to either be a good sign or a gross oversight.

Though I felt the urge to jump up and run to the nearest toilet, I sat in a calm suit while carnivorous nerves tore at my insides. I waited for it... "I can't see anything in his lungs."


YAYAYAYAY!!! Woooooo hoooo!!! After the much needed, 5-second dance party in my heart, we made plans. On to obstacle, the second.


Work it out!
I don't know, in the end, how we will pay for everything.
I trust that we will. He is my child. I have been given the opportunity to hold Castor through this, returning the unconditional love he's always given me. So, I shall.



"I'd sell my kidney for my dog!" A fellow dane lover who had been through cancer with her dane explained her position on the money issue in a recent conversation. She gave me the support she could - her story and understanding. To us, and many others, there's no obstacle tough enough to get in the way of supporting our pups.

We move forward together now. My best friends will all be here with us fortunately. Dabs and I drive Castor down to Santa Barbara Sunday. His surgery will be Monday.

So, the first 5 days felt like 3 weeks, and the next 5 like 3 days. The speed at which we must proceed mirrors the aggressiveness of this unconscionable disease. Now, time moves at breakneck speed.

Money may trickle in more slowly, but I trust that it will come. What else can I do?

Trust, love, and be present for my boy.