What a Difference a Week Makes...

Last Friday, right about this time, I was sitting on the couch in our family room, feet up, watching television.  I spied Dani standing in doorway.  Using her best ninja moves, she did what she always does - skirts the walls all the way around the room until she gets to my side of the couch.  

And I did what I always do - hang my left arm over the side of the couch and stroke her back, rub her ears, and scratch at the base of her tail.  

Then, I looked at my watch.  4:58 pm.  And my only thought was "what a difference a week makes."

At that time on the previous Friday, I had been sitting in a vet's office waiting room.  Hard chairs.  Cold.  Waiting for Dani's doctor.  

I didn't know at the time that I was mere moments away from her surgeon coming out and telling me that yes, in fact, her surgery was going to be on the most complex end of the spectrum.  And that because of that, we were looking at probably a 60/40 chance of having a favorable outcome.  Of course, I reminded myself, not having the surgery would result in a 100% unfavorable outcome.  They were explaining that there was a large tumor, but the location was the issue.  It was very close to the vena cava and other major organs and even the smallest slip could have dire consequences.

All I could see really of the doctors that were dressed out for surgery were two sets of eyes looking at me between their caps and their masks.  Eyes with concern, no question. Waiting on me, on my decision.  I'd already told them before they even started that if they got in there and it was too much or too risky to just close her up and I'd take her home the next day and she could live out the rest of her days, however long that was, with us, but here they were asking me.  That must mean they felt like they could do this, right?

What did I want to do?  

I looked at the surgeon.  Had he done this kind of surgery before with this level of complexity? Yes.  Did he feel confident that he could do it in this case?  Yes.  I looked at our vet who was there to observe and, presumably assist if needed, and I asked him - if Dani was your dog would you let him do the surgery knowing what you do? "Without hesitation" was his reply.

Then let's do it.

Another hour goes by.  I have books with me to read but all I can do is play mindless games on my iPad.  Nothing that would require thought.  All my thoughts were in the operating room, laying on a table, abdomen splayed open.

And then I see the doctors heading my way and the pure relief was visible in their eyes, even from a distance.  And their eyes were all I could see.  The surgeon was so excited and talking so fast that our vet had to slow him down so he could explain everything in "Deanne terms" - meaning very basic.

I know I won't get all the medical jargon correct but what it all amounted to was a very large tumor on her right kidney and that one of them (or both, maybe) had bisected itself and the tumor and kidney were enclosed in one solid sac and - drumroll please! - they were able to remove 95% of it!  That's the reason I don't remember anything else they said is because they told me they removed 95% of that horrible thing!

The relief I felt at that moment is still indescribable.  For the last hour I had mentally prepared myself for the news that of the 60/40 chance, the 40 had won.  Or that it was actually going to be too hard for them to do and I'd be taking Dani home the following day with no changes.  Or worse changes, if that was even possible.  So, to see the joy on the doctors' faces just overwhelmed me.  

I was texting Billy and my mom and sister just as fast as I could.  I knew they were riding the rollercoaster with me as I'd been updating them all evening and I just wanted to get them whatever information I could. 

At little after 7 pm they told me I could see her.  Dani was in a warming kennel, bundled up, but she raised her head when I walked in.  (Billy says I misinterpreted her look but I'm really pretty certain she was not happy with me at that moment - major side-eye/stink eye even still under the effects of the anesthesia...)  I listened to the instructions, and I asked my questions.  Yes, a technician would be there all night.  Yes, Dani could come home on Saturday.  No, she wouldn't have diet restrictions, just to stay quiet for a week or so while she healed. And so on.

Then they asked if I had any further questions.  I looked at the surgeon, square in the eyes though I could see his whole face now, and I told him I had one more and I hoped it wouldn't come across as inappropriate - would it be okay if I hugged him?  

And then the tears leaked out.

And then I hugged all the doctors in the room.  Heck, I might have even hugged a janitor, I don't know.  My relief and joy were palpable. 

I was able to leave and bring Dani home the following day, forgiven by her - eventually - for putting her through it all.  She did try to make one Great Escape as we were leaving but a nice lady jogger slowed down long enough to act like she wanted to pet Dani and when Dani stopped, and I scooped her up and got her into the car. 

Since then, we've gotten the pathology reports and are devising a plan for Dani.  In true "Tanksley" fashion, she has not one but two cancers - they had formed what is called a collision tumor.  It was a grade 2 and very aggressive, but there is no evidence of any metastasizing.  The doctor did a visual while she was open on the spleen, liver, etc. and we've since had a chest x-ray and her lungs are clear.  But we still need to kill the remaining 5% so that there isn't a chance for anything to spread.  Because the cancer impacted her kidneys and the urethra, the only real concern at this point would be her bladder.  We've met with an oncology veterinarian, and she is devising Dani's treatment plan.   Dani needs to be 2 weeks post-surgery before anything could start, and that just so happens to be today.  

My Christmas wish has been fulfilled.  There is really nothing else I could want.  I have a happy, HEALTHY, pup again.  We are starting to see her personality coming back as she feels better.  Still not running around with the rest of the Herd or anything but wanting to lay outside or come in the family room with us or eating in the kitchen and not just be resting in her bed.  She's healing.  

What a difference a week makes.