The Clock Ticks Louder

Beginning in December, 2012, the clock started to tick.  At that time, Grandma Belle was 12 and a half years old.  I came home to a dog that could barely stumble out of the dog pen before collapsing. Her gums were an unfavorable and very pale pink.   I heaved her into the back of the Zoobaru as fast as my ailing back would muster and dashed her to the vet.  A temperature, an aspirated needle, and an hour later, the vet suggested thyroid cancer:  fast acting, untreatable, and deadly.   He said:  "It is just what happens to dogs nowadays when we take such good care of them that they live well beyond their intended years."   Nice bedside manner.  Such compassion.

The next day, the cytology and blood report had lots of big words in it, which naturally led to another set of recommended tests.  Meanwhile, Belle grew weaker, and I did what every self-respecting American with many choices does ... I tried another vet.  One series of antibiotics later and several agonizing days of waiting later, Belle's golf ball disappeared into the land of past and almost forgotten infections.  

From that day forward, I always heard the clock ticking round here.   Belle's arthritis was watched every more carefully.  Her incontinence caused panic, rather than a quick trip to the vet for what is, apparently, standard medication for these spayed girls who lose control of their bladders.   Some days, when Belle is slow to come out of the pen in the evening, I find that cold, hard fear lodged at the pit of my stomach, whispering:  Is today the day?

Over eighteen months have passed and although Belle has grown older and slower, there have been no more scares.   Until today.

I will never forget that single moment when, in the bright fall sunshine, I turned just in time to see Belle trot slowly by me, onto the garden path.  It was a moment when a ray of sun bounced off her rear leg at just the right angle to illuminate what was not normal there.   I will never forget the fear at the pit of every internal organ I own as I inspected her leg, discovering a ridiculously large mass lodged near the junction with her hip, covered in all that Belle bear fur.  I won't ever forget a round of trying to Google my way out of the problem.  Are there any baseball sized masses on google that turn out to be nothing at all?  Hardly.  Even Google can't offer that kind of hope.

Again, we dashed to the vet.  Three aspirations of the mass all showed an incredible amount of blood and abnormal cells in the baseball that was rudely inside my Belle.   The vet thought most likely it was a cancer that was ridiculously fast acting... a few days to two weeks, tops.  No real surgical alternatives.  No treatments.

24 hours later, the cytology and blood work say that this is not a baseball cancer that will kill Grandma Belle this weekend.  Instead, it is a more localized cancer... one that will steal her life at an undetermined time in the near future.

Uncertainty.  Sadness.  Grief. Fear.

How could I miss something that size for so long? What happened to those keen observation skills? Did they just get totally lost in my self-involved, busy life?  How exactly does one miss a baseball hanging off the leg of someone you love so deeply?   What an idiot I am.

The clock ticks very loudly now.  Even Lucky and Lady hear it.