bernie's news and i am doing okay
The trailer for Kelly Reichardt’s Wendy and Lucy was soul-crushing for me. My immediate thought was: Absolutely not. Nope.
I already understood the bond between a sad, broken girl and her dog. I did not need Michelle Williams’ sullen and lonely gaze to drive the point home.
Years before that, I’d had my first reckoning with Bernie’s mortality. To be clear, she was healthy, uninjured, intact. Nothing had happened. Well, nothing beyond a momentary acknowledgement of the impermanence of life and the mere biological discrepancies between canine and human life expectancies. A thought that is heart-sinking to be sure, and for me required no less than three tissues. A thought that established itself as a strange, ill-conceived coda, popping up at erratic intervals, its significance indecipherable.
All of this to say, I love my dog. Everyone loves their dog. And I am no authority on who loves their dog less or more. But I will tell you, with great confidence, that I love my dog the most. As will anyone who is a proper friend to their canine companion.
Two and a half weeks ago, I noticed a mass on Bernie’s abdomen. About the size of a golf ball, it was difficult to miss. Shocking, because I somehow must have missed it. Because things don’t go from nothing to golf ball. Unless they are the harbinger of very bad news.
Cue coda.
On Monday, after spending hours on hold to make an appointment and waiting weeks for it to arrive, we finally made it to the vet. On Tuesday, we knew it was cancer.
Before we proceed, it is very important to know – or, rather for you to know that I know – that is all we know.
That it is cancer. A diagnosis, no prognosis. There is no expiration date. At present, there is no pain or suffering. There is only the syntax-less data from a lab analysis and a golf ball hanging off Bernie’s belly.
From here it is uncertain. And I mean that in the truest sense: There is a 50% chance that surgery will eradicate it. There is a 50% chance it won’t. There is a 50% chance it is slow, non-aggressive cancer. There is a 50% chance that things are about to get difficult very quickly.
Cue coda.
On Wednesday, I soothed myself by just hanging out with Bernie. Playing with her. Watching her dance, chase, fetch. Observing her earnest interludes with Moxie, attempting to convince the cat to join in the fun. Nothing was different than the day before. Or the week before that. Or last month or year. I calmed myself knowing that the end has not arrived. That this is what matters right now.
On Thursday, I demolished whatever serenity I cultivated the day before.
It could be days, weeks, months, or years from now. At this moment, there is 0% chance of knowing the timing. But, whatever its timing, it is 100% going to happen.
Cue coda.
I searched for every reference on coping with aging dogs, chronically ill dogs, terminally ill dogs. I sifted through every canine end-of-life option I could find.
When do you know? How do you know? Natural or assisted? In-office or at-home?
If you know me, you know I cannot resist staring down the worst-case scenario. You know of my absolute inability to stop looking for answers. The impulsivity and intrusiveness of my brain’s rapid generation of new questions. If anyone had been observing, I’m sure they’d see nothing but insane and voluntary torture. But every time I took pause to have a good cry and re-hydrate, it became evermore apparent that the closer I came to needing this information, the less sense I was going to be able to make of it. And the cycle would start again.
It's now Friday, and I am fine. Fine enough, anyway. And Bernie is great. She’s doing much better than me, really.
However, I’m sure I do not look fine: My face is slightly puffy, and I have that telltale swelling of every single emotion sitting right behind my eyes. But really, I’m okay. I’m just processing.
This is not a tragedy.
Rather, a meditation on what life is and who we are in it. On how we tend to and care for loves we did not earn. A little bit like a Kelly Reichardt film, where the characters struggle to negotiate what is right and good in a world where their best is simply not enough.