We got the call Sunday morning from our Vet. Mario has cancer of the stomach--terminal, as in hours or days. He is lying beside me as I work. Tears in his eyes and tears in mine. I'll write more when I can.Ain't no angel gonna greet me
It's just you and I my friend
It's just you and I my friend
_______________________________
Thanks to everyone for so many kind and thoughtful comments regarding Mario. The little bugger is hanging tough. His spirits are so much better since we brought him home on Sunday and although he only has a few days remaining, there is still a wonderful light in his eye and he still manages to show his belly and lift his leg, which is his sign that he wants you to rub his belly.
As many of you know, we have five yorkies. Mario was the first and the father to two of the others. He is only eight years old and by far has the most loving personality. He is getting the best care possible. Each morning we take him to the vet for fluids along with some choice drugs and then again in the afternoon he goes back for another visit and receives his nighttime dose. I hope if I ever find myself in his situation I can receive the care and attention he is getting.
I work from home and have a window that receives morning light next to my desk. Each morning Mario takes in the morning light and then spends the rest of the day at my feet on a special bed of pillows and towels. His daughter Maria will often come and lay down beside him and just stare at her daddy with her big brown eyes.
Today, for the first time since Sunday, he was able to drink some water and keep it down. He actually showed interest in food for the first time tonight and we fed him a very small amount, as in less than the tip of my pinky--that's all he wanted.
So many thoughts at a time like this. I lost my father to stomach cancer ten months ago, and now my dog to the same disease. As I watch him lie peacefully on the floor beside me I dream of miracles, of a misdiagnosis, of a unexplainable recovery. I understand denial and I understand that is the ground I stand on at the moment, but quite frankly I don't have it within me to give up hope--no matter how hopeless the situation--until he takes his last breath.
At night, he sleeps with us in bed, in his usual spot between Sherry and I at the head of the bed. I consider the last few days and hopefully the next few as a special blessing--extra days beyond what anyone could have expected.
A friend of mine, Charlie Jones, has brain cancer. Several months ago he was told by his doctor he had one year to live. Charlie went home and told his wife the news and then said he was touched beyond words for how much God loved him. His wife was at a loss to understand.
Charlie explained that God had loved him so much that he had given him an extra year to say goodbye to all his family and friends and that so many others never had that chance. If you knew Charlie, you would know there was simply no other way he would have processed the news except with gratitude and appreciation of the gifts of love and life.
Likewise, the last few days have been a gift from Mario to us. His love, as seen in his eyes, has been beyond priceless. He will be missed, but his example of love, the unconditional love he has shown all in my family will remain long after he is gone. We have been blessed.
57 comments:
Poor Mario. :(
Keep your chin up Trée.
Oh my...no...
I'm SO sorry to hear this, Trée :hugs:
I'm so sorry. He looks so cute. Pets are wonderful things. In many ways they are like babies who never grow up. They give unconditional love and only expect the same in return. I hope Mario can pass peacefully and painfully and you get the best out of your remaining time with him.
I'm SO sorry!!!!!!! *BIG HUGS* Poor little guy, he looks like such a sweetie.
I'm so sorry, Trée.
Oh Trée - I'm in tears right along with both of you. I'm so so sorry for this sad news.
Spoil him as now much as you can and as much as he'll let you.
You both need that.
Trée, really sorry to hear this. Feel for you!
Big hugs.
An absolute sweetheart he looks too. Very sad - hope he doesn't suffer.
Autumn XXX
Creation
When God had made the earth and sky,
the flowers and the trees,
He then made all the animals
the fish, the birds and bees
And when at last He'd finished
not one was quite the same.
He said I'll walk this world of mine
and give each one a name.
And so He travelled far and wide
and everywhere He went,
a little creature followed Him
until its strength was spent.
When all were named upon the earth
and in the Sky and Sea,
the little creature said "Dear Lord,
there's no name left for me."
Kindly the Father said to him
"I've left you to the end.
I've turned my own name back to front
And called you DOG, my friend".
Author Unknown
I am so so sorry. my heart is just breaking for you.
Awwww Tree, I am so sorry... :(
He is so cute and sweet... Hugs!
Trée,
I'm so very sorry. Pets become a part of us ... a family member ... and an integral part of our lives. When they suffer, we suffer. My heart aches for both of you. Please remember ... I firmly believe that there is a place in heaven for beloved pets ... and that one day you will be reunited with Mario and he with you.
I wish I could hug you both!
i am so sorry to hear about Mario. I will keep him in my prayers.
aloha, ff
Losing a pet can be very traumatic there is a poem called the rainbow bridge that can be a great comfort at times like this
I'm so sorry to hear about your dog.
Pets bring joy to the world and the people in it. I wish you and him the best. He is so cute!
Tree,
I am so SAD to hear this about Mario (he is my favorite of the yorkies)...I will tell Chris and have him call you...btw..this is the same thing that happenned to Boris cat this summer.
Lynn
oh no!!!! That breaks my heart. I'm so sorry Trée.
Servus here-
Tre'e, I know all to well the pain of losing a beloved pet. In knowing this I also know that mere words given by others can not fill the emptiness that has been left behind. Spend the last hours of their life by their side, and take comfort in the fact Mario will finally be at peace.
"What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal."
Albert Pike
Geez Tre'e, now my eyes are starting to water.
Trée I know exactly what you mean about counting your blessings...and his. When we were told our cat had diabetes we were also told he had "maybe a year or less". We've been able to keep him for 5 years now. Every one of them a blessing. Every cuddle and nudge and longing look of those big gold eyes.
We thought we would lose him last month. This time to that horrible tooth infection that had somehow obliterated most of his liver.
We lay in bed with him between us counting every breath and waking him every time he stopped purring....just so we'd know we hadn't lost him. Yet he has come back to us. We count his every movement as a blessing now. The first time he drank again. The first time he came downstairs on his own. The first time he jumped on the bed again.
Every single breath, look, bark, bite of food, follow down the hall. It all counts as a miracle now.
So much love to both of you. So much!
Agnes, our hearts beat as one. Thank you my dear sweet friend.
servus, that is a great quote. Think I'm gonna have to might that a post some time soon. Thanks my friend.
I'm very sorry to hear that, Trée.
It't must be gut wrenching. :(
JC
My beagle pup Banjo died from stomach cancer - he was only 7 years old and the love of my life. Your story brought the tears as I feel your sadness. As the vet had pumped my puppy full of steriods to ease his pain, we fed him his "last supper" of ground porterhouse... with all the drugs on that last night he acted like he wasn't sick and it was good. He smiled and wagged a lot. My life is better because he was in it. I'm sorry.
Thanks for your comments Terry. Premature death I think is the hardest to take. Mario should have had another six to eight good years left.
We have so little control over life and yet most of the time take so much for granted. None of us are guarenteed a tomorrow. Time to count our blessings today--thanks for stopping by.
Trée, still cannot get over that pic of Mario.
I have lost 2 pets driving through blizzards to get to the Vet, only to find that I had lost them just minutes later.
I do not know what is more sad ...
Waiting for a pet to die or discovering your pet died after arriving at the Vet.
I think waiting is much tougher. :(
Putting this here for safe keeping:
Death
Again find a comfortable place to sit, so that your back is upright, your body steady and balanced; then close your eyes and watch your breath. Feel the air enter your nostrils, expand your lungs and diaphragm. Pause, exhale, contracting diaphragm and lungs, then feel warmer air leave the nostrils. Sustain this attention for ten minutes, following each breath from beginning to end.
Reflect on your resolve: What has led me to this point? What am I sitting here? Try not to get caught up in trains of associative thought that lead off into distraction. When the mind is calm and focused, consider this question:
Since death alone is certain and the time of death uncertain, what should I do?
Run this over in your mind, letting its import and challenge sink in. See if the question resonates in the body, triggers a nonverbal mood, a gut feeling. Give more attention to the bodily tone it evokes than to the thoughts and ideas it generates. If you feel such a tone, silently rest in it until it fades.
While you find the question intellectually stimulating, it might otherwise leave you cold. Or it may provoke only a pale hint of its implications. The aim of this meditation is to awaken a felt-sense of that it means to live a life that will stop. To deepen the question, the following reflections may help.
Since death alone is certain . . .
Think of the beginnings of life on this earth: single-celled organisms dividing and evolving; the gradual emergence of fish, amphibians, and mammals, until the first human beings appeared around five million years ago; then the billions of men and women who preceded my won birth a mere handful of years ago. Each of them was born; each of them died. They died because they were born. What distinguishes me from any one of them? Did not they feel about the uniqueness of their lives just as I feel about the uniqueness of mine? Yet birth entails death as surely as meeting entails parting.
This miraculous organism, formed or an inconceivable number of interdependent parts, from the tiniest cell to the hemispheres of the brain, has evolved to a degree of complexity capable of the consciousness needed to make sense of these words. Life depends on sustaining this delicate balance, on the functioning of vital organs. Yet I feel it changing with each pulse of blood, slipping away with each breath. I witness my aging: the loss of hair, pain in the joints, wrinkling of skin. Life ebbs from moment to moment.
It is as though I am in a boat that floats steadily down-stream. I gaze over the stern, admiring the landscape that spreads out behind the vessel. So absorbed am I in what I behold that I forget that I am drifting inexorably toward a waterfall that drops fro hundreds of feet.
. . . and the time of death uncertain . . .
When I try to turn my head around to find how close the waterfall is, I cannot. I can see only what is unfolding before my eyes. I can see only what is unfolding before my eyes. I can see the death of others but not my own. The time will come for me too, but I don’t know when.
Consider that while statistics assure us that we have a good chance to live to an “average” age, probability is not certainty. There can be no guarantee that I will live until next week, let alone for many years. Who do I know of my own age who has died? Was there anything about that person that made him a suitable candidate for a sudden or early death? How does he differ from me? I imagine myself in his shoes. Death does not happen only to others. Nor when I want it to.
This body is fragile. It is just flesh. Listen to the heartbeat. Life depends on the pumping of a muscle.
Anything can happen. Each time I cross the road, set out on a journey, descend a flight of stairs, my life is at risk. No matter how cautious I am, I cannot foresee the absentmindedness of the man in an approaching car, the collapse of a bridge, the shift of a fault line, the course of a stray bullet, the destination of a virus. Life is accident prone.
. . . what should I do?
What am I here for? Am I living in such a way that I can die without regrets? How much of what I do is compromise? Do I keep postponing what I “really” want to do until conditions are more favorable?
Asking such questions interrupts indulgence in the comforts of routine and shatters illusions about a cherished sense of self-importance. It forces me to seek again the impulse that moves me from the depths, and to turn aside from the shallows of habitual patterns. It requires that I examine my attachments to physical health, financial independence, loving friends. For they are easily lost; I cannot ultimately rely on them. Is there anything I can depend upon?
It might be that all I can trust is the end is my integrity to keep asking such questions as: Since death alone is certain and the time of death uncertain, what should I do? And then to act on them.
A reflection like this does not tell you anything you do not already know: that death is certain and its time uncertain. The point is to consider these facts regularly and slowly, allowing them to percolate through you, until a felt-sense of their meaning and implication is awakened. Even when you do this reflection daily, sometimes you may feel nothing at all; the thoughts my strike you as repetitive, shallow, and pointless. But at other times you may feel gripped by an urgent bodily awareness of imminent mortality. At such moments try to let the thoughts fade, and focus the entirety of your attention in this feeling.
This meditation counters the deep psychosomatic feeling that there is something permanent at the core of our self that is going to be around for a while yet. Intellectually, we may suspect such intuitions, but that is not how we feel most of the time. This feeling is not something that additional information or philosophy alone can affect. It needs to be challenged in its own terms.
Reflective meditation is a way of translating thoughts into the language of feeling. It explores the relation between the way we think about and perceive things and the way we feel about them. We find that even the strongest, seemingly self-evident intuitions about ourselves are based on equally deep-seated assumptions. Gradually learning to see our life in another way through reflective meditation leads to feeling different about it as well.
Ironically, we may discover that death meditation is not a morbid exercise at all. Only when we lose the use of something taken for granted (whether the telephone or an eye) are we jolted into a recognition of its value. When the phone is fixed, the bandage removed from the eye, we briefly rejoice in their restoration but swiftly forget them again. In taking them for granted, we cease to be conscious of them. In taking life for granted, we likewise fail to notice it. (To the extent that we get bored and long for something exciting to happen.) By meditating on death, we paradoxically become conscious of life.
How extraordinary it is to be here at all. Awareness of death can jolt us awake to the sensuality of existence. Breath is no longer a routine inhalation of air but a quivering intake of life. The eye is quickened to the play of light and shade and color, the ear to the intricate medley of sound. This is where the meditation leads. Stay with it; rest in it. Notice how distraction is a flight from this, an escape from awe to worry and plans.
As the mediation draws to a close, return to your breath and posture. Open your eyes and slowly take in what you see in front of you. Before standing up and returning to other activities, reflect for a few moments on what you have noticed or learned.
These reflections may prepare us to encounter the actual death of others. The death of someone upsets the illusion of permanence we tacitly seek to sustain. Yet we are skilled in disguising such reactions with expressions and conventions that contain death within a manageable social frame. To meditate on the certainty of death and the uncertainty of its time helps transform the experience of another’s death from an awkward discomfiture into an awesome and tragic conclusion to the transience that lies at the heart of all life.
Over time such meditation penetrates our primary sense of being in the world at all. It helps us value more deeply our relationships with others, whom we come to regard as transient as ourselves. It evokes the poignancy implicit in the transitoriness of all things.
Taken from Stephen Batchelor’s Buddhism Without Beliefs, (pp. 28-33)
"How extraordinary it is to be here at all. "
Thank you for this post Trée. I will keep it and hope to use it.
I have never been able to cope with death. I do not know how to grieve that loss.
This is the very core of my need to explore all theology.
This meditation has great meaning to me.
- Would you do me the kindness of posting the daily miracles of Mario's days?
- Today Pooh came downstairs and jumped onto his daddy's legs which are propped up on the coffee table. This has been his favorite resting spot for ages. He likes to dangle a leg over the side like a cheetah on a treelimb.
"Breath is no longer a routine inhalation of air but a quivering intake of life."
I'm probably abnormal in the sense that I think upon death's inevitability and normality before anything else. Urgh, how to explain without sounding weird...In the example of my brother (friends & other family too), the phonecall came, the news, and my thoughts kind of ran along the line of "well, its done and there is nothing I can do about it" - I've never been 'shocked'.
Thoughts upon the fragility of life become manifested, I think, when death occurs in those younger than us, or when we surpass the amount of life another was given.
Weird(?) :-)
In any case, it does good to remember each day that life is fragile and to do as it so very often has been said: Live each day as though it were the last. The result can only enrich.
reading your post reminded me of my own pup...i sit here nearly in tears myself. :(
*hug*
This is indeed profound ... thank you for your words. I have to agree with Autumn Storm. I have always looked upon the end of life as a thing ... an entity all its own that lives right along side of us ... on a daily basis. Death does not shock me. It comes with warning ... it comes with no warning. It will come for us all. Perhaps I am this way because the person I loved most in the world died when I was 10.
The person I loved second best in the world died when I was 16. By my mid-30's my best friend had died. By my mid 40's my brother-in-law had died. Before that two brothers. After that my mother. And when I was young many aunts and a grandfather.
Death has been my constant companion my entire life. It is a fact ... we cannot escape it. All we can do is learn to accept that it will come ... and that we must live each day to the fullest and show our families we love them. We must do the things that are important to us ... and not fritter away our precious time by doing stupid or foolish things.
We have been given a gift of indeterminant length ... we MUST appreciate it while we have it. Every second of it.
My heart aches for you ... losing those we love, whether human loved ones or animal companions ... is indeed difficult.
HUGS
Aw, he looks like such a sweetie. I'm sorry you have to go through this. :(
Agnes, I finally found something Mario will eat: Arby's Roast Beef! He didn't eat much, but more than at any time since we brought him home--and he kept it down. It was so good to see the look in his eyes wanting a little more roast beef. :-)
Tree, don't really know what to say
bud' but am very sorry to hear about your pup's struggle.
Mario may not understand the disease
or what it's doing but he does
understand you and what your love is doing.
Rhody, as strange as it sounds, Mario looks better each day. Thinner, but better in attitude. I don't know how many days he's got left but it's remarkable he seems to still have a light in his eye. I like to think he's running on love. ;-)
What better thing to run on.
Nice to hear he's a bit perkier.
Rhody, I took him outside and let him lay in the sun in the grass with the air blowing in his face--he loved it. Of course, today was Abso-f***ing-lutely gorgeous. So good to see his nose in the air, ears alert and eyes darting around with head held high.
I"m sorry to hear about Mario. My brother's dogs both died of cancer, but they also live much longer than the doctors predicted. The fight for life and to stay with the people they love is so strong in animals. It's amazing. I hope you have many peaceful moments with Mario in the coming days and weeks.
Thanks Catherine. I hope so too.
"running on love"
Like that thought so much.
Mario update: Today is day seven since we were given the choice to "put him down or take him home."
When we took Mario home last Sunday he looked like death. Neither us nor our wonderful vet had ever seen him look so bad and I think we both felt this is really not good. I was expecting that he would not make it through Sunday night and he did moan with every breath.
We also realized that he would not eat and whenever he drank water it immeadiately came back up. With no food, no water and a dog seemingly despondent and in pain the thought that it was time to end the matter wasn't far from my mind.
Monday morning the vet said he could do two things to help. First, he could fill Mario's skin with fluids in the morning and this would keep him hydrated for 24 hours (he looks like a ballon lol); second, that he could give him painkilling meds. So, we took that path.
Each day, Mario has looked and apparently felt better. Two days ago he ate a very small amount for the first time, yesterday he ate the Arby's in a slightly larger amount. He looks more alert and is moving around more.
This morning we asked the vet what could explain this. He said in addition to the cancer in the stomach that Mario probably also had an ulser and that ulsers usually take 8 to 10 days to heal. His best guess is the several days without food or water in the stomach has allowed the ulser to heal and that this is the main reason we see less pain and a happier dog and why he is now feeling able and willing to eat just a little bit. He is taking anti-gag medicine to keep water and food down and this is working.
Well, this morning we decided to cut back on the painkilling meds to about half of what he was taking before and also cut back by half the fluid injection he's been getting every morning and just see what happens.
It's a small step to normalacy and the cancer in the stomach isn't going away, but we hope that Mario, the little "handsome man" as he is called by everyone at the vet's office, may just have a little longer with us than we thought a week ago. Everything could change rapidly, but I'm optimistic we've got more than than before.
Arby's? Who woulda thunk it?
Yes - the second they seem to desire food again your heart just leaps with joy, doesn't it??
Trée, I think you made the right decision to hang with him just a little longer. That is a decision we've made three times in their lives and I'm glad we did each time. Their resiliency amazes me each time.
Hang in there and keep looking for the light in his eyes. he knows he's loved. That's the best part.
Agnes, Mario barked for the first time in two weeks today. We had him outside and he saw another dog and there was a single weak bark. Those little signs of life warm the heart. He seems to be doing just fine with less painkilling meds and I think that is a good sign too. I'm hoping he will eat more today. Fingers crossed.
Oh yea, the Arby's is interesting since before he got sick he devoured canned dog food. Now he turns his head at that same can food, but his head perks right up with the smell of Arby's roast beef. Who would have thought. Glad I was hungry for Arby's the other day and happen to be eating my sandwich with him at my feet, otherwise who knows. Life is strange.
Yea!! A bark!! How wonderful to hear his voice again!! Big smile from me to you.
Fingers crossed for his continued upward progress. I sincerely hope, just like my kitties, that Mario has a lot more time with us than anyone guessed. :)
Hugs, hugs and more hugs...he is so precious. Mine were yorkies and malteses. Parvo was the threat and we lost all but one. The tiniest, frailest of them all. A teacup yorkie. My heart grieves even today over the ones we lost. I hope he continues to improve and send you some more hugs.
Thanks Oliviah. He had his first real bowel movement in a week this morning. Who would have ever thought I would be so excited to see that lol.
Mario continues to hang in there. The vet was in shock today that he was still alive. We're going to have blood work done, which is such a good thing, because when you have no hope you don't do blood work. I think we've got the vet believing in hope against hope. I've been wrong so many times (like lately) why can't our vet be wrong for once? I'll stop believing he is going to get better about two hours after he takes his last breath and you know what--it's day eight and the little bugger is still hanging in there.
I feel like doing one of those commercials for Mario, you know the one's for Starbucks where the band follows the guy from home to work and chants his name like you would at a football game. M-A-R-I-O! M-A-R-I-O!
You just keep right on cheering!
Go Go M A R I O!!
I too have awaited that first poo....and been wholly grateful for it. Quite difficult when you have two cats and you have to decide who's poo is who's. LOL Sounds like a bad Dr Seuss book.
Let me know how that bloodwork comes out. AND GET A COPY OF IT...and look up all the measurments and their ranges and what he needs/doesn't need just like I did. I'm practically a pro at it now. (more protien, less protien, more sugar, less sugar, more vitamins, more folic acid etc. I tell the vet what my cat needs now. It's comforting to have a knowledgeable conversation with the vet. Let me know if I can help.)
I keep coming here and reading your updates and am so encouraged for you and for Mario. Just wanted to let you know. Thinking of you guys.
Thanks Melly. The vet took blood this morning from Mario. Not sure when we will get the results back, but I'll post them here. He is very weak from eating so very little but still seems to be quite alert.
Blood work is back and I'm afraid it's a complete mess. Not a single catagory measured normal and his white blood cell count was very high. No food, no water, and antibiotics for the next two days. Idea of exploratory came up again since no one really knows what is the root cause of his illness. If we go that route the vet says there is a good chance he would not survive the surgery. More updates when we know more.
Sorry to hear the results. They can be frightening but they tell so much about how to combat and assist.
Not real sure about that no food, no water thing. Is this Mario's choice? If so, keep trying new things. (babyfood) He'll come back.
We've been tempted with exploratory surgery three times in the past. The deciding factor is always liver count. If the liver ranges are safe for surgery, then we'll do it. High liver count is a huge risk with general anesthetic.
We've put it off twice and treated the liver instead. We've been glad we have each time. Turned out the problems were "solveable" without the surgery. I now follow that guideline as the "sign" of what to do.
Get second and third opinions also. Vets are wonderful people but they each have limited knowledge.
Prayers and hopes and blessings and puppy kisses.
He has an immeadiate problem with his pancreas that the no food, no water is trying to address. Not sure how much longer but he has not shown any desire to eat or drink either. :-(
Thanks for thinking of the little guy.
Sorry to hear this latest develpment.
Thanks A.
Update: Mario started retaining alot of fluid yesterday, which is really bad news. We took him to the vet just a few minutes ago with every intention he would not be coming home. Talk about the hardest car ride--tough and heartbreaking, biting my lip to stop the tears.
We did an ultrasound and it seems the fluid accumulation is not as bad on the inside as it looks on the outside. This is still not good news but we had been expecting this development (long story on another problem he has). So he got his usual shots and the little bugger has another 24 hours or more. He is fighting so hard to hang in there.
Blessed with another day. This is the only way I can see it. 24 more blessed hours. One day at a time.
Hugs, Trée, feel for you guys!
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