I am genetically engineered to worry about the small stuff, the big deals, and everything in between. As you, whoever you are, are aware, Finnegan was diagnosed with bone cancer over a year ago and had surgery to remove his entire leg. He has endured chemotherapy. However, he is pretty much the same dog. He eats a lot, walks around, and enjoys his time with us.
Still. I worry. It's been just over a year. When I see him, I hear a voice in the back of my head: Median survival rate is 18 months.
I calculate that's it's been 13 months. Then I wonder: is it eighteen months from diagnosis, surgery or the end of chemotherapy? I think it's from diagnosis and I sigh. How much longer do I have with this wonderful dog? Does he look weak? Has his breathing changed? Is he panting more than usual?
When I arrive home from work, I race to make sure he is still with us. I know this is terribly morbid but this has been on my mind a lot lately and since this is Finnegan and my blog, I wanted to share what I am feeling now. My worry and angst.
I relish in my time spent with him. I demand kisses and hugs as much as I can. I lie on the floor next to him savoring each moment. I laugh at each time he shoves me away with his one remaining front leg.
Still, I do worry.