Beast

If you’ve been reading my blog, you’ve been following our preparations for relocation to Maui. Part of that adventure included getting Beast, our Alaskan Malamute, to the island as well. Sadly, those plans have now changed.

Beast had been having some throat issues for a while, and we thought we had it pretty much taken care of. Last week, the coughing became suddenly worse, and he started refusing food. Sarah took him in to the vet, and the X-ray revealed a huge tumor in his throat, distorting his trachea, and putting him at risk of asphyxiation, a horrible way to go. Sarah was with him in Newport with family while I was in Kula setting up the house. I turned off the saw, realized I had a text from Sarah, and called her. Her first words were “he’s gone, baby, I’m so sorry.” Sarah had been trying to reach me, and I either couldn’t hear the phone or wasn’t getting reception, so she had to make the hard call by herself, a hellish task. We can only be thankful that the choice was clear.

Change is hard for dogs, and the last month or so had been especially challenging for our boy, with strange people viewing the house, packing, things disappearing into boxes. We set his travel crate up in the living room with us and he really took to it, preferring to stay in there quite a bit, denning. Then out of the house and into a hotel for a week. Sarah was working, so Beast and I were on our own, together constantly, going for walks, exploring the pet store, finding the hotel room, learning about elevators. He was game, curious, playful and, a bit unusual for him, snuggly.

On the 30th, I gave him a hug and a belly rub, and departed for the airport for Maui. I didn’t know it was the last time I’d see the dog I’d adopted seven years before.

Since my departure, Sarah had him roaming the beaches in Oregon, playing with his new dog friend Odie on the ranch in Newport, and seemingly rediscovering some of the puppyhood he’d never had. His last weeks were filled with adventure, and he embraced it.

When I first brought Beast home with Belle, he was the troubled one, lacking any sort of confidence, glued to Belle’s side. Touching him anywhere back of his shoulder blades caused him to cower and cry in fear. Three years later, I could grab his tail and he’d understand it was play – but that was a long, gentle process to get him to realize he had a place in our home that was his. We watched him blossom, learning it was all right to play, to ask for attention, to demand dinner. When we lost Belle, he became our only child, the sole center of our dog-world. He moved out of her shadow and started expressing himself more than ever before. He watched more television than any dog I’ve ever known.

Beast was a gentle giant, curious but insecure, loving but only just beginning, really, to understand how to ask for love, fascinated by little children. I like to think he’s running with Belle now, free and happy. Our pack is smaller, and we miss him terribly.

Grace

Me and Akeakamai

I was diagnosed with prostate cancer last year. I’ve taken the necessary steps, gone through the necessary treatments, and AFAIK, until told otherwise I will consider it taken care of.

All the same, I spend a bit more time these days pondering goals. Where do I want to be in ten years? What would my perfect life be like?

More interesting questions, to me, flow along other lines: what impact can I have on my world, socially and in my community? And what do I want that community to be?

Over time the path along most of them has been defined by a single concept:

Grace. In all it’s forms. Movement, relationships, work, society.

Belle

Six and a half years ago, I adopted a couple of Alaskan Malamutes – Beast and Belle. Those were the names they came with, and I decided to let them stay that way. Two very different personalities, both somewhere between two and four years old, one black with white accents (Belle) one white with black and sable accents (Beast). 

Since that time, these two characters have made our life richer by far, and I love them both to pieces. But I have to admit I’ve had a favorite, as Belle, in her quiet, confident, pushy way, took up more room in my heart than any dog I’ve ever known. At over a hundred pounds, she still managed to convince me that she was, in fact, a lap dog. 

Mals frequently live to be somewhere between ten and fourteen years old, and both of these guys have been for the most part healthy and definitely happy.

But cancer doesn’t care about healthy and happy. On July 19th, we found lumps in Belle’s armpits, and took her in the next day for an exam. The diagnosis was multicentric lymphoma, pretty advanced, and the prognosis wasn’t good. We discussed the options with the vet, mainly no care, palliative care using prednisone, and full-on chemotherapy. Doing nothing simply wasn’t an option, but with her age and the fact that the vet found swollen lymph glands all over her little body, and after searching everywhere for every bit of information we could find, we decided that we’d go with prednisone, manage her pain and love her all the more until the end.

Belle tolerated the medications pretty well, but the tail rarely wagged any more, her frequent vocalizations were almost nonexistent, and the playfulness wasn’t there. She lasted a few weeks, and had some good days, including a few head-butts and even a couple of here-I-am-in-your-lap moments, and I held her all the more closely, knowing they’d be among the last. 

On August 13th, something was clearly different in her behavior, an extra amount of stillness. When we arrived home from work, we had a long talk, cried a bit, and decided it was time to put Belle down. The animal hospital was backed up a bit, which turned out to be a blessing as we sat out on a lovely lawn, Belle clearly enjoying lying in the cool grass. The staff was sensitive and kind, and Belle passed away quietly with her nose up against my leg and our hands holding her.  We were, and are, devastated.

On returning home, Beast clearly knew something was up, ranging around the house, stopping and staring, parking himself at the head of the stairs, waiting for Belle to appear, even barking, just once. When I realized that he was simply doing, physically, what Sarah and I were doing in our hearts, it broke my heart all over again. 

Run fast and far and free now, my lovely girl. 

 

 

Geiger Trumps GlobalEntry

photo by pennuja (http://www.flickr.com/photos/pennuja/)
photo by pennuja (http://www.flickr.com/photos/pennuja/)

Last October, I was diagnosed with prostate cancer [Prostate Cancer: diagnosis]. After considering all the options, I elected to go through a procedure called Brachytherapy. This involves volumetric measurement of one’s prostate, and the subsequent insertion of around 100 rice-grain-sized “seeds” made of titanium and filled with Iodine 125, a radioactive isotope. The seeds are permanent, the idea being a long-term, highly-localized dose of radiation to kill off the cancer. The half-life of I125 is about six months. t the end of the procedure, I was issued a wallet card identifying me, the procedure and the isotope: the seeds can be detectable when crossing international boundaries.

On a recent flight to Mumbai, there were TSA agents in the jetway at Seatac, checking passports. As I approached one of them, a little box on his belt began to buzz. He actually looked a bit scared for a moment, like “uh oh, this is the big one” and asked “is there anything you want to tell me?” Ah. I showed him my “I’m radioactive – but it’s okay” card and he waived me on. No big deal.

I travel quite a bit, much of it internationally, and for reasons unexplained I tend to get pulled into secondary screening every time I enter back into the U.S. I decided to go through the effort to get a GlobalEntry ID in the hopes it would streamline my travel experience. On my return from Mumbai, Seatac Immigration was jam-packed, so I was glad to be able to walk past the crowds to a bank of 4 GlobalEntry kiosks, nobody using any of them. I placed my hand in the scanner, posed for a photo, tapped a few things on the touch screen and was on my merry in about 30 seconds. Awesome.

I thought I was home free – until, as I handed my Customs Declaration to the CBP officer, one of those same little boxes buzzed. My radiation card didn’t much impress the officer – other officers separated me from my luggage and led me to a waiting area where they brought out a shoebox-sided device with a handle on the top that started ticking when it got near me. The agent explained “this is a very expensive instrument that looks for radiation.” I said “um, yeah, it’s a Geiger counter.” He was surprised and responded “oh, you must be a scientist.” Said Geiger counter recorded my pattern but couldn’t match it against some database of “okay” forms, and so the sample had to be emailed to “a scientist on the Internet” (FEMA?) for verification. I ended up sitting for 30 minutes before I was cleared.

I’d like to think that in the age where we have TSA, CPB, PreCheck, GlobalEntry and the concept of a trusted traveler, the systems might somehow be connected in a productive way. Once I’d been identified with a specific isotope, and determined to have a proper explanation, it would be great to have that included as part of my trusted traveler profile. I posed that as a suggestion on the CPB website and received a call from a rather surly CPB agent who basically said “can’t do it, not now, not never. Tough luck.”

Ah, the pairing of government with technology…