Skip to main content

Another Sarcoma, Another Life Taken

Cancer strikes again. Another sarcoma another loved one taken well before their time.

This time, my poor sweet 5 year and almost 7 month (just 4 days shy) dog Rico had to be put down last week due to osteosarcoma, bone cancer. The keystone of our small family, gone and with him all sense of family -- leaving a large sense of emptiness in our huge home and hearts.

Tom and I got Rico together when he was just 3 months old from a shelter, and immediately he became an integral part of our lives. With him we learned what it meant to be a family and what unconditional love felt like -- how even when Rico was a total monster we couldn't help but love him. He was diagnosed with osteosarcoma in January 2017 and spent most of his time doing well, until basically the past couple of weeks that were a downward spiral. It was really hard to notice the differences since we basically spend 24-7 all together (thanks to working from home and being super lame homebodies). But looking back it was clear Rico was not the same high energy fun loving dog as his disease progressed, though he would always put up with the pain for food, for a trip outside, or for cuddles with us in bed.

His absence is overwhelming -- probably because since November 2015 we've spent almost all of our time being together the three of us. His passing has made me realize just how badly I want to have a family -- the whole having kids process has been extremely frustrating due to a recent UC flare that has effectively delayed trying to have a family indefinitely until I'm healed and in remission. As frustrating as that has been, it didn't seem as bad because we had our little family with Rico monster and that was enough. But now without him, we're no longer a family -- just a couple living in a massive house all alone.

I think the hardest part is getting over the expectation of him being around. I expect to see him lying in one of the many rooms he loved of our home, looking out the window guarding the house. I expect him to come running into the kitchen when anything falls on the ground. I still expect him to come running into our room in the morning letting out a loud oooOOOOOOooo sound to wake us up and let us know it's bathroom time. I hear sounds in the house and wait to hear the metallic cling of his collar, his nails on the wood floors, or his body thumping around on the ground as he plays. Every day there's something that happens and I expect to see Rico's reaction and there's nothing, absolutely. It's utterly heartbreaking.

I guess that's what happens when 1/3 of your close family disappears, and is a testament to how much time we spent together.

I know about losing a close family member -- I lost my mom almost 6 years ago, but somehow losing Rico feels so much harder. Maybe because when my mom passed I was forced to continue to live my life -- moving cross country just a few days after she passed to start my MBA and move in with Tom in LA. This time, this big empty house is a constant reminder of what we've lost. Rico loved this house, and for that reason we've grown to love it as our home -- but without him this house is just a house filled with stuff. Rico was also my first real "pet", but really he was our dogchild, the closest thing to a kid that Tom and I have had so far (and for the foreseeable future). We took care of him and loved him as if he was our own kid, and I can't help but think that Rico loved us back just as much. I'm trying my best to keep living my life, keep moving forward towards our goals, but it's hard when I just miss him so damn much.



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Carmen Mateo

My mother was first diagnosed with retroperitoneal liposarcoma in October of 2005. I had come home to see her in the hospital—during the removal of a cyst on her breast the doctors accidentally punctured her lung. It was during her stay at the hospital that they completed an MRI of her core (to verify the lung’s status) and found a large mysterious mass—a tumor. Though frightened by this news she was thankful for the discovery. Weeks went by as my parents spoke with other doctors and centers trying to figure out what this tumor was and what to do. Eventually she was diagnosed—liposarcoma, a rare type of cancerous tumor that manifests itself as a mass of fat. The irony of it—my mother the skinniest petite woman in the world, had a fat tumor. Right before Thanksgiving she went   to Sloan Kettering to have surgery to remove the almost 8lb tumor. Being the strong woman that she is, she recovered quickly from the surgery and began her healing journey. It was years bef...

Decisions, decisions

I want to cry, scream and pretend like nothing happened all at once.  More  despair as yet another treatment option fails me. Another disappointment. Another set back.  Unfortunately it's not just about my ulcerative colitis and trying to get myself healthy, it's also about how my UC has gotten in the way of my hopes of eventually having a family of my own.  At least when there were more treatment options I could be hopeful of maybe one day feeling better and being able to start a family. But now I'm woefully aware of my limited options and the realization that I likely might not ever  really  get to be  normal  again. That maybe no medication I try will help. That maybe the one thing I have left is the utterly life changing surgery to have my colon removed.  Willful hope, denial, stubbornness...I'm not sure what to call it, but I had always believed deep down inside that somehow I would find something that would work, som...

"Nothing with me is simple...

but I am STILL HERE!" - Carmen Today was another crazy day for Carmen, you know to keep things interesting. The radiologists looked at the ultrasound, and based on that thought that perhaps it wasn't blood clots but the compression of the inferior vena cava instead. So they did a venogram to look at the veins to verify the presence of the blood clots. As it turned out, there were no blood clots, and the fluid retention was based on the compression of the lower vena cava. The doctors put in 2 or 3 stents to reinforce the vein that was nearly completely compressed by the tumors, which took quite some time because of a minor hiccup. The second stent only half deployed, but was attached to the stent above it, and so they had to hold the top stent from above as they pulled the lower stent to fully open it. (To all my future doctor friends--I can't believe you are going to be doing crazy on the spot stuff like this. You guys are awesome!) Because Carmen was actually half con...