Still Kicking

As the calendar rolled over to August, and Nicholai rolls into his nineteenth month of living with lymphoma, I've never been so glad for cool overcast mornings like this one. Thanks to my friend Diane for driving, me and the dog-kids, Nicholai included, all made it out to the beaches this morning. While Kelley swam repeated laps chasing a ball into the river's edge and Izzy barked and chewed on sticks, Nicholai meandered along the water's edge, comfortable in the moderate temperature and taking copious side trips to explore the remains of picnics, still hoping for a bite of some yucky thing.

When Nicholai was initially diagnosed in January of '09, I experienced a period of grief and panic. His death felt imminent and every little sneeze or shift of mood seemed to signal the looming reaper. As time went by and Nicholai weathered changing seasons, a foot surgery, and salmon poisoning, the weight of his cancer diagnosis began to lift. Images of impending doom faded into the background of my mind, and I began to laugh at cancer.

Today, cancer is laughing back. After eighteen months of slowly descending the illness stairway, Nicholai has taken a sudden elevator ride to a lower floor. There is no mistaking the enlarged tumors and his constant panting breath. I undergo clutches of emotion as I did when I first learned he had lymphoma and understood the end of his earthly road to be just around the corner. Nicholai has to remind me to be conscious of the gifts of moments as they pass. Today, there is appetite and enthusiasm for walking, sniffing, dipping in the water, visiting with friends, and enjoying a special treat.

My dear buddy stays near at hand these days. I'm still recuperating from surgery and not able to see clients and have moved a comfy dog mattress into my office so he can relax while I write, or check my email, or catch up on paperwork. For a break, I massage his back and hips, stoke his belly, bury my nose in his fur. This morning the smells of river-water and grass, blackberry blossoms and old dog mingle sweetly in my nostrils. Nicholai's coat is soft and shiny, shimmering hints of his red-colored mother amongst the midnight black. He reaches out a front paw to me and we hold "hands."

Something tells me the nineteenth month might be the last. However, I'll be careful not to write Nicholai's story before it's done. Instead we'll just keep on trucking, taking each day as it arrives.