Today, Murf should have turned eight years old. I didn’t even realize the date until around six pm. It’s hard to realize that she isn’t here to smush our faces together and share birthday kisses. I miss her. Forever in my heart baby girl. Until we meet again.
Tuesday morning, July 9, I woke up on the bathroom floor, snuggled in a pile of blankets next to Murf. She had had a peaceful night, and she was actually looks pretty good, all things considered. The plan was to bring her in to the vet for observation while we were at work, then bring her back home to sleep that night. We’d continue this as long as we could. Later that morning, I cherished our car ride back to the vet together. I just never wanted that car ride to end. She was perking up, laying in my lap like she always did on the 25 minute drive, alternating between being all curled up with her head on my arm looking out the window, or against my stomach, snuggled up close.
When I dropped her off at the vet, I spoke with Dr Crawford about our plan for the day. She was shocked to see how Murf was perking up. She wasn’t sure that Murf would make it through the night, but a night at home with her family was just what she needed. Coming home after three nights in the hospital, seemed to relax her and give her strength. The plan was to monitor her throughout the day, consult with the oncologist again, and just pray as hard as possible.
I spoke with Dr Crawford throughout the day. Every time we spoke, I was seeking a different answer to the same questions. Ultimately, I just wanted to cure Murphy. Bring her back, like we had done so many times before. Dr Cawford sounded less hopeful for long-term solutions and more focused on keeping Murphy comfortable, hours at a time. A blood transfusion could buy her a few days. A surgery could buy her time or it could kill her. Radiation and chemo were options, albeit terrible ones – there just wasn’t enough time for them to work. It would only bring her more suffering without the reward of a cure, or at the very least, relief. I don’t remember much of the day. I tried to stay busy at work, get my job done as best I can. My boss was incredibly understanding. She didn’t understand my love for Murf, but she understood that I was in pain. I spent quite awhile crying in my car, either on the phone with Dr Crawford or with Mike. I just kept asking God for a different answer than what He was telling me. I repeated, I don’t know how many times, that I want to do what’s right for Murf. But it’s so hard to know what’s right when every decision has a such an impact. How do we know when we’ve done enough? I kept repeating that we would listen to Murf; she would tell us when she was tired of fighting. I believe God spoke to me through Murf. I could read her. I could tell if she wanted to keep going.
When I picked her up Tuesday evening, Dr. Crawford shortened the catheter tubing that hung off of Murf’s backside to keep her more comfortable and not worried about this tube between her legs. We discussed our options. We were still not at the critical point of a blood transfusion, but by the morning, we would be. She was growing weaker, eating and drinking less. He once-pink skin was turning more pale by the hour, a sign of anemia. A blood transfusion would take several hours, cost only about $400, and would give her some strength back. However, Dr Crawford merely called it a band-aid. She said to think of it like life support. It would only prolong the inevitable. It would only prolong Murf’s suffering for maybe three more days, and we’d be right back where we were at that moment. It felt selfish to give her three more days, in which she’d likely be weak and suffering, only so I could have more time. It wasn’t quality time. It wasn’t dignified to drag this out. But oh God, it hurt so bad to consider the alternative.
I brought her home that night for some more snuggle time. Within two hours, I saw the change in her. Her light was fading. She was so tired. I had never seen her so tired before. I was afraid she would not make the night. We considered bringing her back in, but I knew Dr Crawford had left for the day. I didn’t trust anyone but her at this point. Only she, and maybe one other doctor, Dr Sarah, seemed to truly understand the way we cared for Murphy. They understood that we were careful and calculated with our decisions and did not rush into the next thing. They understood that she was not “like family.” Murphy is, was, always will be family. She’s our baby girl.
As the night wore on, we knew it would be our last with her. We let Malcolm kiss her, and we took turns just holding her, sitting in our favorite spots, doing the routine things we always did with her, just held her, and cried so much. After Malcolm was asleep, the four of us, Mike, Brit, Murf, and I, laid on the bathroom floor together. This was better than the bed, because even though she had a catheter, and could only urinate when I uncapped it, she still had the urge to urinate, which would make her jump out of the bed. I drained her catheter on a towel on the bathroom floor, and flushed it with the syringe they gave me. She was passing nothing but blood. I was so scared for her. She spent her last night on her fancy temperpedic-like foam cushion. Every time she changed positions, we could hear the struggle in her breath. Even when she was resting, her breathing was heavy. Mike eventually finished the night in the bed, but I couldn’t leave Murphy’s side. My heart just couldn’t believe that this was really it. Though my brain knew the truth, my heart just hurt so bad.
Wednesday morning, July 10, we woke up early. Mike brought Malcolm to daycare, after a final reluctant sibling photo shoot.
We took our time. We knew Murf was ready, so we each called in to work. I honestly can’t remember what we did that morning. We laid around together. Took some picture together. Loved each other, held each other, and cried.
We finally got in the car. We finally decided to cross that big bridge and take that long 25 minute drive to the vet’s office with Murphy. We knew what we were going to do, but God, it hurt so bad to admit it. We didn’t flush her catheter that morning – it seemed futile and it made her uncomfortable. I was afraid that by releasing the blood in her bladder, she’d grow weaker. I’m sure that doesn’t make any clinical sense. As we were driving down the road to the bridge, Murf’s breathing was growing heavier, and she tried to adjust her position. When she did, her bladder released some blood, totally bypassing the catheter. We pulled over to the side of the road, and placed her in the grass to uncap the catheter. Her legs were too weak to support her weight, so she just laid in the grass. It was such a beautiful moment. We were so caught up in our own sorrows, and trying to do what was best for Murf’s health, that we forgot about what made her truly happy. She always loved to lay in the grass and soak up the sunshine. The simplest thing made her so very happy; laying in the grass in the warm sunshine, water from the garden hose, chasing tennis balls, tearing up stuffed animals, playing fetch with sticks from trees in the yard, snuggling under the blanket with me on a rainy saturday afternoon… In that moment, for one single brief moment, I smiled. Seeing her stretched out and enjoying the feeling of the warm sun and the cushy grass was too much to bear. It was beautiful to see her without pain, even for just a moment.
We eventually got back in the car, made a quick stop by my work so I could take care of a couple of things, then Murf spent the rest of the ride in my lap. We walked into the vet clinic with a very solemn and heavy feeling, and I sat with Murphy in the back corner, keeping my sunglasses on. I couldn’t trust my emotions anymore. Mike let them know we were there to see Dr Crawford. She was expecting us, and even though it was her busiest day of the week, surgery day, she appeared within 20 minutes and called us back. I’ll never forget her voice and how compassionate she was – everyone was. I was still questioning our decision – should we try the blood transfusion. Tell me again why we can’t do surgery. Tell me again why we can’t help her regain strength and then try chemo again when she’s ready. Tell me again, tell me again. I asked, “So we are doing the right thing?” “You are,” she replied. She was so patient with us, never ever rushed us. This was the hardest day of my life. It was the hardest decision I ever had to make. The most tears I’ve ever cried. We told her we were ready, and that we understood it was time. Murphy told us she was done. Her body was losing muscle tone – even her head was shaped differently. Her nose was dry and scaly, her legs were weakened. When she sat the night before, her hind legs didn’t bend at the knee anymore. Now, on Wednesday morning, she couldn’t sit at all. She could only lay out. She refused to eat or drink. She truly looked tired, so so tired. But she loved us. I could feel it from her. She was on this earth to love us and to teach us how to love. And now, she was telling us that her job was done. She had fulfilled her mission from God to make the world a better place, and to make our family whole. She was with us through college, marriage, renting, buying, selling, and building a house. She was with us through the adoption process, and the heartbreak of two possibilities that we were not selected for. She was with us for the most joyous days of bringing home Britney from the shelter, after a hard fight with their administration to allow us to adopt her, and through the most joyous time of bringing Malcolm home. She was my constant companion during 8 weeks of maternity leave, and through the challenges of the first year with a newborn baby. She could always be found at the foot of Malcolm’s high-chair, waiting for him to drop food. She was an instrumental part of teaching Malcolm how to love and respect animals. She was patient with him, but she was firm. Britney was always the gentle one, letting him get away with anything. But Murf, she taught him how to properly treat an animal, a family member, with a gentle hand, and love and respect. She saw us through the biggest moments of our life and got us ready for what was to come, and now she was ready to go home. My life was most certainly better and more worthwhile because I was blessed to have her in it.
After a long conversation, where Dr. Crawford validated all of our feelings and concerns, we finally told her that we were ready. The tech, Nicole, took Murphy to the back to place her IV catheter in her front leg. Dr Crawford asked whether we wanted to be with Murphy when they injected her with the final drugs, and without hesitation, we said absolutely yes. She carefully explained what would happen and how it would be quick. She gave us all the time we wanted with her and let us say “when.” We hugged and kissed and squeezed her as tight as we could. I inhaled her smell, and stroked her fur. I placed my nose in the little divot above her little smushed nose, like I did every day, and kissed my lips on her little black mouth. She was laying on a towel from home so that she would have familiar scents and feel relaxed and comfortable.
We stood on opposite sides of the counter, so that we could each touch as much of Murf as possible, I on her front left side, and Mike on her right, towards the back. Dr Crawford stood on the front end of the exam counter. We kissed her and told her we loved her and thanked her for being in our lives. I can’t even remember the exact words, except that the first “last words” I said sounded so stupid, so I just kept talking untill something felt right. How can you adequately tell someone how much they mean to you and what a difference they have made in your life, and that you are better because you know them? How many kisses are enough kisses? How many “I love you”s are truly enough? The answer is that it’s never enough. It’s never, ever enough.
How do you know when it’s the right moment? I lived through it and I still can’t tell you. I’m eternally grateful to Dr. Crawford and the techs who let us take our time and decide when we were ready. Never put pressure on us to hurry.
Finally, when we had said all we could say, we agreed, it was time. We held Murphy so tightly and guided her to her final rest with love, dignity, respect, compassion. The first injection was a strong sedative. She was still breathing after it, just looked like she was sleeping. When we were ready, Dr Crawford began the second injection. It was a huge syringe full of pink liquid. She told us it would be quick. This one would stop her heart. The syringe was maybe a third empty when she took her last breath, but she administered the whole thing. And in the most peaceful and beautiful way possible, Murphy was gone. I truly believe her soul left her earthly body, and she is in heaven, doing all the things she loved so much.
We spent a few minutes alone with her, still touching her and petting and kissing her. We cried. We hugged. It was a surreal moment.
When we were ready, they took her body and placed it in a box, carried her out, and placed her in our car. The story of the Rainbow Bridge was attached to the top of the box.
The drive home was mostly quiet.
We eventually chose a spot to bury her in the yard. Mike carefully dug a grave for her while I quietly watched Britney run around the yard. Brit knew something was up. She kept sniffing the box that contained Murf. We buried her beneath my bathroom window. She used to lay next to me on the deck around the tub when I bathed, so it seemed appropriate. Plus, it was a place we would see often and think of her, talk to her. And it is a place we agreed that no matter what we do to the back yard in the future, we would never dig up this spot. She will never be disturbed. We each chose one of her favorite things to bury with her. I chose a tennis ball, and mike chose the nozzle from the garden hose that she had chewed up so much.
After Mike dug the perfect-sized hole, he carefully and gently placed Murphy in it. She still looked like she was sleeping, and the second hardest thing I ever did was watch as her body was covered with dirt. Mike placed the first four or five shovels-full around her body as I sobbed and pet her. I wanted to crawl into the hole with her. Until he had no choice but to begin to cover her with dirt. Eventually, we couldn’t see her beautiful body anymore. He continued to fill the hole, and then replaced the grass on top.
Today, a month and a half later, that grass has almost fully taken, and there is little evidence that it was ever disturbed. When I close my eyes, I still see her laying so peacefully in her little spot. When I pass from my kitchen door, and walk into the garage, I look to my left to her spot, and I tell her I love her, and I miss her. And that life is different without her. But that I thank her for being in my life and making it better. Sometimes, I’ll go sit in the grass next to her, and soak up the afternoon sun with her. It’s a great spot to talk to God. He has blessed me in so many ways, and while my heart aches without Murphy for me to physically hold and kiss and snuggle, I know that she was placed in my life to help me to grow into a better person. God placed her in my life at a time when I was a lazy selfish college student. He placed her in my life to help me mature and grow and care about someone more than myself. She taught me what unconditional love truly was. She taught me how to fight for what matters, through her two-year battle with cancer. She taught me when to fight, and when it’s ok to not fight. And that just because you don’t fight doesn’t mean you have lost. While my heart and my body physically hurt when I feel her absence sometimes, and I miss her more than I could ever explain, I could never say we lost the fight. How could I? I was so blessed to know Murf. I was so blessed to call her my family, to share a bed with her, to share my snacks with her, and to give her my heart. We won. Our family won simply by knowing and loving Murf. I believe, through my reflection with God, that He had a purpose for her, and once she fulfilled it, He called her home. She made people happy. She was funny. She did hilarious things, like go crazy with the water hose or the leaf blower. I believe she taught me about family, and that she spent years making my heart ready for the responsibilities of marriage, then increasing my capacity to love by adding Britney. She taught me that I could love my children, her and Brit, so much it hurt. She comforted me in times of sorrow, and showed me how to move on. And then finally, there’s Malcolm. She spent one more year showing me how to love him and care for him, and keep perspective by balancing her medial needs and the emotional and financial demands of it, with the challenges of expanding our family and caring for this infant. And as I learned each of her lessons, or rather God’s lessons being taught through her, I was rewarded. She made me laugh. And the way she pressed her little smush face into my face for a kiss – at least once every morning and once every night before we fell asleep, and the most peaceful feeing as we lay on the couch under a blanket together, her curled up behind my knees. And I was rewarded with her love. The best kind of love. Thank you, Murf, for making my life better. I will always love you. I will always miss you. Until we meet again, my sweet angel.
The weekend before we were scheduled to leave for a week-long beach vacation, I noticed that Murphy was showing symptoms of her cancer growing or spreading. The mast cell tumor on her right side had been previously flat and flush with the rest of her skin, just a different color. It was now beginning to look raised and becoming a little darker and irritated. I had carefully been observing every time she urinated outside, since any change in frequency, width of the stream, or inability to produce a steady stream could signal pressure on her bladder from the lymph node near her spine, the very same lymph node that was removed, regrew, and radiated a month or so later. Since she began radiation in May, she had been taking Palladia, the first FDA-approved chemotherapy specifically for dogs, three days a week. I noticed over the previous two weekends, that the tumor on her side grew a little bit over the weekend breaks from the chemo. I also noticed her stream was getting narrower. Which is why I scheduled her ultrasound for the Thursday before we left for vacation. She wasn’t due for another 10 days, but she was showing just the slightest signs of the cancer affecting her again. We’d been through this before; Mike and I were now aware of the tiniest signs that, when ignored, led to disastrous results. The ultrasound showed that the lymph node was larger than we had hoped it would be, though not as big as it was prior to radiation. The doctor and I agreed that we should increase her Palladia dosage. She may experience side effects, but this was our best shot to get this thing under control. The increased dose had to be shipped from another animal hospital, so she’d receive two more pills at her current dose, and hopefully be able to take the new dose starting the following Wednesday while we were on vacation. This was our best chance of getting ahead of this thing before it took over her body again. We both realized that if this cancer did take over again, we would be in a tight spot. We were running out of both time and options that she could physically handle.
About a month before we left for vacation, I told MIke that I had a bad feeling. Our vacation was exactly two months post-radiation. The oncologist gave us a prognosis of two months of quality-living for Murphy with radiation, maybe more. We were foolishly optimistic, and believed there would be many many more. When I told Mike about my bad feeling, he told me not to say that, or not to think that way. But I couldn’t shake it. This is why I was so observant, this is why I scheduled the ultrasound ten days early. I was trying to be proactive and detect changes before they became unmanageable.
Murphy’s medicine didn’t arrive on Wednesday like it was supposed to, meaning another day at the lower dose. I was stressed because my cell phone had poor reception, so I couldn’t call the vet and was relying on text messages from my mom to get info on the drug shipment. My whole family was leaving for a cruise the next day, unreachable by cell phone until Monday. Our pups were staying with my in-laws, but they aren’t exactly dog people. They love our pups as much as they can, and they respect the way we love our pups, but I didn’t feel comfortable asking them to deal with the vet. When we checked in with Murf, she was doing Ok. She was taking a long time to go potty, but she was still making. She wasn’t bloated. She had a lot of energy, and was eating and drinking normally.
Thursday night, my father-in-law called Mike. Within a day, she had gone from ok, to miserable. She was tinkling all over the garage, but she couldn’t make when she wanted to, meaning that her bladder was likely so full, she was urinating by accident. She couldn’t control what came out and when. She was also refusing food. That had never happened before. Murphy was always hungry. She never refused food. This was bad news. In exactly a week from the ultrasound, the lymph node had grown from larger than desirable, but not intrusive, to out of control, affecting her in a very negative way. It was compressing her bladder, just like it had back in February and again in April. We knew what this meant, but we were in Florida. We needed to get home to her before we could make any logical decisions. After a pretty intense conversation with the night-shift emergency vet, and a ton of tears, we agreed that we would cut vacation short by one night. Mike’s dad would bring Murf in first thing Friday morning so they could place a urinary catheter and make her comfortable. She would stay overnight, and then we would drive out Friday night, when there was less traffic, allowing us to be with her Saturday morning.
Meanwhile, her higher-does chemo arrived on Friday, and she was given the pill that afternoon. I was furious that the shipment arrived two days late, essentially losing time to effectively treat this growing cancer. I was furious that we did everything we could to be proactive about her treatment, and yet nothing could be done. We knew how quickly this cancer grew and wreaked havoc on her body, so we did our best to convey the urgency of the situation to any and everyone we spoke with at the vet clinic. At the time, I felt like they weren’t taking me seriously. With a little distance from the situation, perhaps they were taking me seriously, but also, in their vast experience, knew what we were dealing with, and how little we could truly do to stop it. I’ll never know.
After an emotional Thursday night and a low-key rainy day Friday, we left Florida around 9PM, and arrived home around 2AM. Malcolm and I woke up around 7AM, and went to visit Murphy at the animal hospital around 8:30. She looked tired. For the first time ever, throughout this entire disease, she looked tired. I don’t mean sleepy. I mean tired of fighting. She wasn’t nervous, never tried to bark or growl, wasn’t shaking from nerves or excitement, none of her old habits of her past hospital stays were present. She just looked simply tired. She was passing a lot of blood through her urinary catheter, which probably made her even more tired.
The vet, Dr Brown, was so kind. She explained everything to me and allowed me to visit with Murf as long as I wanted to, even with Malcolm banging toys and opening cabinets and generally making a ruckus. She didn’t mind. Our plan was to get to Monday. We knew that Murphy was at a very grave and critical point, but our normal vet, Dr. Crawford, had been out since Wednesday. We did not feel comfortable taking any drastic steps in Murphy’s treatment without Dr. Crawford’s advice. She knew what Murf had been through and what she could handle. So that was our plan. We could come and visit as often as we’d like, but Murf needed to stay in for monitoring until at least Monday.
When the three of us visited Murf on Saturday night, she was eating a little bit, finally. They gave her some rotisserie chicken, plus she was taking treats from our hands. She looked a little more tired than she had that morning. Perhaps it was the stress of being in the hospital. Perhaps not. She did seem to perk up just being with us. Or was that my imagination? She ate treats from our hands and allowed us to cuddle and kiss her as much as that stupid e-collar would allow. The e-collar was to prevent her from pulling out her catheter. It was an emotional visit, but we stuck with the plan. Get to Monday. Dr. Sarah answered all of our questions about Murphy’s progress, what our options were, and whether these options were good options. She was patient and gentle with us. We were beginning to have some difficult conversations, and she was so careful with her words, so kind in her delivery. We were disappointed with how little Murphy was progressing, but still, unless absolutely necessary, no decisions would be made before Monday.
Sunday morning was the baptism of Mike’s new godchild, and it was an absolutely beautiful day. A celebration of life, love, and family, both physical and spiritual. Murphy stayed in the back of my mind, and I prayed for strength and courage for both Mike and me, and for Murphy. When we visited her that night, she looked weaker, still. Even more tired than the previous evening. She was losing strength and muscle tone in her legs. They had connected her to an IV for fluids, because she wasn’t drinking water, but was having diarrhea. This was so unlike her. At home, she drank so much water, she could drink the whole bowl and still want more. We knew things were not going in our favor, but still, “Get to Monday” was the plan. We also noticed some pretty severe bruising on her abdomen. The doctors hadn’t even noticed it. It seemed pretty new. We didn’t see it on Saturday. Dr. Brown believed it was a platelet issue. The way to solve it was a blood transfusion. She’d already had two before, so they’d have to cross-match, whatever that means, I guess making it more complex. We were nervous about a transfusion. Could she handle it? Was it truly necessary? Blood work showed that she didn’t yet need a transfusion, so again, back with the plan – get to Monday. Continue to monitor her blood, urine, hydration, appetite, and now bruising. We couldn’t wait to get Dr. Crawford involved and get some answers from the oncologist too.
Tonight, I’m praying for strength to do the right thing for my baby girl. She’s home with us tonight. She’s very weak. She has fought so hard for so long. She’s the strongest pup I know. She’s my angel on earth. I know God placed her in my life for a reason. She taught me how to love. She taught me how to care about someone more than myself. She showed me how to love unconditionally because that’s how she loved me. Please pray that she is comfortable tonight. We are soaking up every ounce of love and snuggles, and sweetness we can from her. I can write all night and never adequately explain our love. I’ll just say that she’s simply amazing. She has made my life beautiful.
After much consideration, prayer, and debate, we chose radiation for Murphy. The vet at LSU gave us two radiation options (a one-week and a four-week protocol), plus a chemo-only option. None were a sure-fire cure. The main objective is to shrink the lymph node 20% – 50% with a combination of radiation and chemo, while the chemo drug will also prevent the spread of the disease elsewhere in her body. If we successfully shrink the lymph node, it will relieve pressure in her body and allow her to still use the bathroom. And currently, that’s the only thing this cancer is truly impacting.
Mike will drop her off tomorrow morning before work. They’ll do a CT scan and blood work to ensure she’s ready, then begin treatment on Tuesday, daily until the following Monday. Five treatments in all, and she’ll come home for the weekend in between. There are risks, but the benefits seem to outweigh them, and give her the best chance of a happy life. They didn’t give a prognosis. Her cancer’s been too unpredictable to tell, but I believe in miracles, and I believe in Murphy. All I can do is keep praying for her health, and for the wisdom to make the right decisions for her. I believe Murphy still has a lot of fight in her, and that she will tell us when she’s had enough. Thank you to anyone who said a prayer for her. The prayers work, for sure. And thank God for bringing us this far and giving us the means to do all that we can for her.
I saw my St Joseph medal Sunday in my closet. This is the same medal that I wore almost daily for the months leading up to Malcolm’s adoption, and sporadically afterwards. It was probably in my closet where i took it off after the last time i wore it to church. I decided to wear it today as a reminder that God is in control and to bring some peace to my mind and heart.
St Joseph is the patron saint of families. I prayed to him during our adoption wait, to help us grow our family. And now I’m praying to him again to keep our family whole. Help us make the right choices, and to do what is best for Murphy and our family. I feel less anxious, more calm, since I’ve been wearing it. I know it is in God’s hands, and we have to use the tools and resources he gives us to do the right thing, whatever that may be.
We are going to a consultation with an oncologist at LSU on Thursday. Please pray we get answers and comfort from whatever he tells us. Murf’s a little tired, likely from the double dose of chemo, but otherwise, she is doing well this morning. Love her so much!
Murf’s home right now. When we got to the vet this morning, they inserted a catheter, sutured it to her and capped it off so that it can stay in for a few days. We just unscrew the cap when she has to go make. Dr Crawford was gave us a couple of options, and we are down to just a few. The initial plan was to schedule a surgery to place the tube in her bladder, like they planned to do last time. She doesn’t think removing the tumor and lymph node is an option given that it was so hard on Murf last time and how quickly it grew back. We need to shrink it medically to relieve pressure off her bladder and colon. If we can’t do that, her kidneys will soon fail. She has to be able to relieve herself. Funny thing is, that’s the only thing wrong with her right now. They say that if the cancer is in the lymph mode and is recurring this soon and aggressively, then it’s certainly in other places in her body. Yet, nothing else has bee affected by the cancer so far. Not her heart, lungs, kidneys, appetite, etc.
So our main objective is to shrink the tumor and use the catheter temporarily to allow her to pee. We’re also giving her meds to help her colon. This temporary cath can only stay in for a few days. It’s risky because it can lead to infection. After dr Crawford made some calls, the oncologist did not recommend the surgery to insert the tube in her bladder. He didn’t think it would help for very long. He recommends radiation to give her the best chance of shrinking the tumor. For many many reasons that are hard (and long) to explain, radiation is not the easiest option for us or Murf. I’m not ready to talk about that yet. So we are doubling up the chemo, using a known-to-be-effective drug that her body seems to have gotten accustomed to, and maybe a little resistant to, and a new drug, with less stats to back up it’s effectiveness. Hoping that this double-whammy can give her enough relief in the next few days to allow her urinate on her own.
Beyond that, I have no clue. We went in today knowing that our options are getting limited. We asked dr Crawford if this was it – is it over? What would she do if it were her dog? It’s literally day by day, hour by hour that things seem to change. Shes getting some physical relief thanks to the cath and it looks like the tumor on her skin is beginning to respond to the chemo – or is that wishful thinking? I don’t have all the answers, and I’m not ready to process my feelings yet. I just know that we’re very sad with where we are now. We don’t feel like its over yet, and we are praying for the strength and wisdom to make the right decisions for Murf. We do believe in miracles. We do believe in God and His power and wisdom and His plan. So I still believe that anything can happen if God is in control.
So that’s it. We pray. And we love. And we pray some more. And we love her and kiss her more, and continue to repeat this as long as we can.
Please pray for Murphy. We brought her in to the puppy ER to drain her bladder because she’s having a really hard time going on her own. The x-ray shows a pretty large mass pushing on her bladder, and it seems like her bladder muscles are weakened from bring stretched out so much. Most likely the tumor has returned, much more quickly than anticipated, even though she’s on chemo. We’re going to see our regular vet tomorrow to discuss our options, and by what the ER vet said, it’s pretty serious. I don’t want to assume anything, so all I can do is pray and trust God’s plan. I’m having a hard time with the trust. So I just keep praying. God, I love this dog. Please God, give me some good news tomorrow.
Dear Lord, I’m praying for my little Murf. Please heal her. Make her happy and comfortable and bring her home with us.
Murf’s been dealing with mast cell tumors (MCT) a form of skin cancer, since approximately July 2011. She had another MCT on her side that needed to be removed. We tried treating it with chemo to avoid surgery, but it did nothing to shrink the tumor. If anything, it kept it from growing and spreading. On the previous post, in the photo of Murf, Brit, and Mal, the tumor can be seen on her side, above her hind leg. It’s a big pink spot.
With the surgery scheduled for Wednesday, February 20, we continued to give her an anti-histamine to keep the MST from releasing the chemical in her body that would cause the cancer to spread. At this time, we were about 10 days until surgery, when we noticed that she was having accidents in the house. We started taking her out more frequently, and gave my sister a heads up, since she was dog-sitting while we went to NOLA for the weekend.
When we got back, her condition continued to get worse. Now she was making small puddles in the mornings, only an hour after having just gone out. With surgery scheduled in a week, and our favorite vet out of town until Monday, I figured she would be ok till Wednesday. By the weekend, she was spending what seemed like hours a day trying to make outside, making tiny puddles all over the house, she even urinated in our bed one night and was basically incontinent. We started putting Malcolm’s diapers on her, and she had to be kept in the bathroom day (when we weren’t) home and night. The bathroom has ceramic tile (easy to clean the accidents) and a window to let light in during the day.
So first thing Monday morning, I called in late to work and brought her to the vet. Our favorite doctor was back from Mardi Gras vacation. She diagnosed her with a bladder infection. They weren’t able to get a urine sample to confirm, but all signs pointed to that. I asks whether the MCT was causing the incontinence issues, and she said she could not see a connection. She put her on an anti biotic and anti inflammatory and said they’d test her urine when she returned for surgery Wednesday.
That night and the next were bad. I felt so sad for Murf, having to sleep on a towel on the floor all alone, when she was used to being with us. She still needed the diaper, though we saw some improvement. Tuesday night, I stayed up with her, cuddling and watching TV. When I got up for bed at 10:30, the back of my pant leg had a big wet spot. It seems that Murphy was essentially leaking urine. She was clearly uncomfortable.
We went in for surgery Wednesday morning.
Worried, I told the tech about the leaking, and mentioned that she looked bloated. Surgery was scheduled for noon. Around 10:30, Dr Crawford called to say they were not going to do surgery that day. When they were prepping her for surgery, they could not get a urine sample. She just simply would not go. So they inserted a catheter and drained her bladder. Her urine tested clear, no infection as previously thought. Somehow, they reached the conclusion that there must be a mass, internally creating pressure on the bladder and colon, making it hard to use the bathroom. She was in fact leaking because her bladder was so full, but she just couldn’t make. An X-ray confirmed that there was a mass, and based on location, they suspected that the MCT had spread to the lymph node. An ultrasound the following day would confirm. She needed to stay overnight because she still couldn’t urinate or defecate on her own.
Mike went visit her Wednesday night to give her some love and kisses, and also to speak to Dr Crawford face to face.
He sent this pitiful pic to me from the vets office
Look closely and you can see the catheter, but you don’t have to look very closely to see how miserable she is. Snuggles from Dad always cheer her up though
Today, Thursday, I called first thing to check on her. They are keeping her comfortable with pain meds and by draining her bladder, but now she is passing blood. Dr Crawford is off on Thursdays so I’m now dealing with an unfamiliar vet. She seems nice but she’s not dr Crawford. She thinks the blood is from some trauma inside the bladder. When it drained and returned to normal size, the catheter may have scratched her or something. Ultrasound scheduled for 11. I spoke with this same doctor again at 4. The ultrasound revealed that the mass found in the x-ray, is, in fact, the lymph node. It is putting pressure on both the bladder and colon, preventing her from using the bathroom. They also did an aspiration on the lymph node and spleen. The ultrasound showed a lesion on the spleen. The samples / aspirations will be sent to LSU vet school for pathology. Until that comes back on Monday (hopefully), they can’t confirm their suspicions that the MCT has spread, nor can they recommend treatment (surgery and/or chemo).
In the meantime, poor Brit is missing her sister like crazy, and she has hardly gotten any attention it seems. Between Murf being sick, and Malcolm being a human baby, demanding food and attention and stuff, I feel like Britney is getting lost. Poor heart. I’ve been trying to make it up to her with extra kisses, snuggles and words of affirmation. Who’s a beautiful puppy? Britney’s a beautiful puppy!
Thursday after work Malcolm and I went visit Murf, and she looks so upset. She pulled out her own catheter. I guess she had enough of that shit. She kept running for the door and was crying non-stop, so I took her for a walk outside. maybe she would finally make on her own. No luck. She strained and strained and tried and tried, but couldn’t even make a single little tinkle. The doctor met me outside and recommended that she get a new catheter and this time with an e- collar so she wouldn’t pull the cath out. Just what she wants – a cone around her head. The doctor gave us a few more minutes to visit. It was hard. Between Malcolm wanting to crawl all over, and me trying to restrict him (vet exam room floor – eww) and Murf crying and pacing between the two doors, I couldn’t focus. At one point, I just grabbed Malcolm in my right arm, Murphy in my left, and we all three cuddled. Except I was the only willing participant in the group hug. I did manage a couple of pictures though
When I realized that a nice quite visit full of cuddles just wasn’t going to happen, I held Murf for a bit, gave her several kisses, sent her back, and we left. I’ll call for an update tomorrow morning. It looks like she’ll be in there till Sunday. Maybe Monday. By Monday, they’ll hopefully be able to recommend surgery and get started on chemo.
We know that if the cancer has metastasized, that’s very bad. Without concrete information, the doctors are hesitant to give us a prognosis. Based on everything that we do know, I believe that we’ll remove tumor surgically, remove the affected area of the spleen, and do a procedure to decrease the size of the lymph node. It can be removed, but it’s close to the spine. It may be too risky. Then, she’ll go on a chemo protocol of a pill every other day, along with prednisone to keep it from growing or spreading. This can continue for the rest of her life, which as far as I’m concerned, could be several years. We agree that there is a limit to treatment and that’s when it’s no longer helping her to live a happy and full life. That’s as far as we’ve gotten with that. As dr Crawford says, one step at a time.
My loves
And this handsome hunk too
Murf and Brit 