6 months to 2 years
coming to terms with terrifying timelines 🥲
Monday I am off work; planned PTO scheduled way back in January. I wanted a relaxing day to offset what the following day was supposed to be: a full day of speech therapy sessions followed by a long trip to the Cities to see Halpert’s shoulder injury specialist. I thought it would be nice to have a lazy day before the chaos. Now there is no appointment in the Cities to prepare for and there is no relaxing day, just too many hours ripe for worrying.
I wake up early, already filled with anxiety, my stomach cramping with thoughts of what will be. Today we will get some answers. But am I ready for that new knowledge, am I ready to come out from the dark? What if my worst fears are confirmed? What then? How will I carry on?
I alternate between calmness and despair, crying in fleeting spurts. By mid-morning my throat is raw—is it illness or just sadness? I can’t decide. I am grateful when my phone rings a few minutes after 8; the oncology vet informing us that there’s been a last minute opening in the afternoon. “Are you available,” they ask. “Why yes, yes we are.” I don’t pause to think of why the opening exists until much later—was there a mere conflict in somebody’s schedule or did somebody have to say the hardest goodbye?
5 hours to kill, I lay in bed for most of it, my body wrapped around both dogs. My cheeks are never dry and Hal’s wispy hair sticks to my skin. “Gross,” I say through tears.
I make myself get out of bed to exercise and take a long shower, my usual remedy for stress. But it doesn’t work, I am still on edge, so I find my Zoloft bottle tucked back in the medicine cabinet and swallow a pill dry. I weaned myself off in January but we are SO back. I need all the help I can to get through this.
Beesly cries when we leave her behind to go to the vet like I’ve never heard her cry before. High pitched and frantic. Can she smell the malignancy hiding beneath his skin? Can she sense that his days are numbered? Does she fear she’ll never see him again? We debate bringing her with us but there is a storm brewing and we determine it best that she stay home, drugged up on Trazadone, as opposed to braving the thunder alone in the parking lot of the vet. I think about how when the day comes to say goodbye, we will have to arrange for it to be done at our house so that she can be present. So she can see that Hal did not abandon her nor did we betray her, that he simply had to be freed from his ailments.
We are 10 minutes early to the appointment so we wait in the car until an exam room is available. Hal barks at a dog and their owner crossing the lot, fogging the windows with his breath. “It smells like slobbery dog in here now, Hal!” Ben laughs as he says it. “Gross,” I say through tears.
The vet tech who greets us pauses at the hallway after getting Hal’s weight. “So his name is Halpert! Are you guys Office fans?” I jump on the opportunity to talk about one of our favorite TV shows, a much welcomed distraction. The vet comes in after and gets right to the point. Stage 3a Lymphoma. “The ‘a’ means he is still feeling good. He’s happy and comfortable.” She says that ‘Stage 3’ sounds scarier than it actually is in the same breath that she gives the prognosis of 6 months to 2 years, a timeline that terrifies me.
She goes on to describe the treatment protocols starting with the most time intensive, the most effective. She ends with the cheapest option, it would buy us a few months at best. She recommends a special shot today—a rapid response chemotherapy injection—and starting the more intensive treatment Thursday.
She gives the prices for every avenue available and I do mental math. “Can we get back to you on what we decide? I need to check with our insurance.” I hate that my mouth is speaking these words, that I have to bring up finances when considering Halpert’s lifespan. But that is our reality. And I am just thankful to be insured1, that we can even seek treatment without fear of going broke. The vet reassures us that we can take as long as we need to decide then leaves the room to prepare the shot.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Ben says and I nervously laugh and agree. I say that all the time when I am excited or stressed or thrilled—I am hyperbolic when it comes to my emotions. “No seriously, I think I’m having a panic attack, I think I’m going to puke.” I look at him, beads of sweat on his brow, his skin flushed. He pulls the neckline of his sweater away from his body, moving it rapidly to create air flow. He takes his hat off and begins to fan his face. I trace a square on his pants and say, ‘Have you heard of box breathing? Inhale for 4, exhale for 4, inhale for 4, exhale for 4.’ His breathing slows, syncs with mine, and the moment passes just as the tech appears again to whisk Hal away for his shot.
They return after a few minutes. The tech waits in the room with us to monitor Halpert for any immediate adverse reactions, giving us details about what to expect on chemo treatment days. At some point Halpert falls asleep, his chin perched on the pedestal of the exam table. He looks so silly, so sweet, so himself. The tech beams, slips her phone from her pocket, and leans forward to snap a photo of him. To be loved is to be seen and Halpert is so seen by these people already.
We leave the vet and I send rapid fire texts to my family and close friends. 6 months to 2 years, 6 months to 2 years, 6 months to 2 years. I type the timeline over and over again, fingers shaking with terror.
Ben and I take turns asking each other “are you okay?” throughout the day. The same question bounced back and forth. If I am not sobbing then he is, the tears ever flowing at Casa de JoBen. Halpert is his usual happy self and it is a comfort. But then I think about what the future will bring and it is water works once more.
The next day I wake up, puffy eyed and throat raw and head full of snot. No illness, just sadness. I practice box breathing, close my eyes and try to find calm, and a memory pops into my head. An older man with lung cancer, admitted to the nursing home for end of life care when I still worked there full-time. He sported a hat that read ‘I ain’t dead yet motherfucker.’ I don’t know his name, just his diagnosis and that trademark hat he’d take off so he could remove the oxygen tubing from his head so he could go outside for a smoke. His doctor signed an order allowing him to have alcohol at the facility. I’d often see him open a can of Budweiser and set it on the seat of his walker, before making his way to the smoking area, so slowly that not a drop spilled out. A beer and a cigarette and fresh air. He was still enjoying his life, terrifying timeline and all.
When my sadness gets too heavy and I start to spiral thinking about a world without Halpert in it, I remind myself of the man and his hat. “He ain’t dead yet motherfucker” becomes my mantra, helps pull me back to the present moment. I say it when Hal pulls the leash all over the trail eager to sniff out every smell, his sweet curiosity making me cry; when I stare deep into his brown eyes and scratch behind his ears; when I wrap him up in a hug and hear his rumbling purr. He is still here, still enjoying his life, terrifying timeline and all.
update to the update lol: Hal started chemo on Thursday and is responding well. No major side effects and his lymph nodes have greatly reduced in size. He continues to be his happy, goofy self and for that I am so grateful. We are focused on maintaining his quality of life and are truly taking it week by week. We want to make sure the rest of his life is full of joy & love because he is truly an angel who has brought so much joy & love to the this world. Keep him (and his crybaby parents) in your thoughts! <3
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Get pet insurance! We use Pet’s Best and it has saved us the last year between Halpert’s shoulder injury and now his cancer. We are able to afford the most effective treatment for Halpert only because we are insured! Even with pet insurance we are looking at spending ~$1200 out of pocket. Thank god for my credit card lol 🥲 If you’d like to contribute to Halpert’s chemo fund, you can Venmo me at @jovanna-balquier