The Days After

The Days After

The days after Bailey’s passing were some of the most difficult of my life. Despite all the loving support from family, friends and colleagues I felt completely empty.

Now, before I go on about the events subsequent to February 10^th, I should say that I am now and have always been the most sane person I know. I generally scoff at the scientifically unexplainable and certainly do not (and never have) believe in ghosts. But two days after the worst day of my life, I stood at my sink with the water running when I heard a bark. I turned off the water to listen more closely….nothing. I turned the water back on to resume shaving when I heard it again. I looked at myself in the mirror as if to say to myself: “Rob, you’re going crazy.”

As the day went on I kept thinking of the mysterious bark. In an effort to check my own sanity I told Melinn about what I had heard. While she had not heard the bark, she did say that she had heard the sound of Bailey’s collar jingling in the living room. She went to look what was causing the noise expecting to see Elle, Ivy or Lola playing with Bailey’s collar….but nothing and no one was there. At the time, we chalked it up to our incredible grief and the void that we both felt-- that was, until Sunday morning.

On Sunday morning Melinn and I were sitting in the living room near the front of the house. As we talked about how much pain we felt and how much we missed Bailey, the front door swung open. Because our front door is always locked we sprung up from the couch expecting to see someone…but no one was there. Now maybe it is possible that I was just hearing things when I heard him bark. And maybe Melinn was hearing things too when she heard the jingle of his collar. But this could not be our imagination.

In my head I know there is a reasonable explanation for everything. Maybe the door on this one occasion was not locked and the heavy winds of a February morning blew the heavy oak door wide open. Or maybe it was my best friend coming back to check on us—to let us know that he will never be far and he is here to watch over us.

Throughout my whole life I have always chosen logic over mystery and science over mythology, but just this once I have chosen to believe that he was there on that day. I choose to believe that he will always be with me and my family—watching over us, protecting us and reminding us that he loves us and maybe more importantly that he knows that we loved him.

Sadness and emptiness are powerful emotions. While they can rob us of our senses and throttle us into a deep dark depression, the power of these emotions pale in comparison to the most powerful emotion of all—love.

I have said it many times before, I am so much better as a person because I was given the opportunity to love Bailey and was even more fortunate to have him love me back.

Unfinished Business

Unfinished Business

In the time since writing about the day Bailey left us, I have strived to move on. I have a new puppy now—a beautiful silver lab named Ash’s King Clancy. Clancy has not replaced Bailey in any way, but he has helped me cry a lot less. In fact, it has been quite a long time since I last cried—until today.

In referring to one of my many stops of the day, I told my assistant Katrina: “I have to drop something off at Bailey’s vet.” As the words came out of my mouth I caught myself. Of course I meant “Clancy’s vet” but 13 years of habit is hard to break. Katrina reminded me that Bailey was a special creature that was unique in every sense of the word. As she spoke, I welled up with tears. It reminded me of my love for my friend and more importantly, that I wasn’t finished telling our story.

While I do not recall the drive home from the vet clinic, I do remember how empty our home felt the instant we walked through the door. Of my three daughters, Ivy took Bailey’s passing the worst. Even though she had just turned four years old she fully understood what had happened. I held her on our couch in the family room as we both cried. And although Bailey had been gone for less than an hour Ivy kept saying: “I miss Bailey.” Ivy is a true animal lover and from the moment that she was born she had her own special connection with Bailey. Sometimes I wonder if it was because we allowed Bailey to sleep in our room on the first night we took Ivy home from the hospital—something we did not do with our first daughter, Elle.

I didn’t fall asleep that night until about 4:00 am. When I woke up, Melinn had just come back upstairs after feeding the kids breakfast. Before saying a thing, she broke down in tears. You see, Melinn too had her own relationship with Bailey that was separate and distinct from everyone else. Melinn is an early riser—getting up before everyone else to prepare breakfast and have her morning coffee. But Melinn was rarely alone in this routine. Every morning Bailey would get up with her and go downstairs. Similarly, when Melinn went to bed, Bailey would often join her. He was her shadow—a quiet companion that kept her company in the early morning hours and made her feel safe when I was away.

I went down to the kitchen to greet the kids. As I entered, Ivy said: “I miss Bailey, Daddy.” “I know, Ives. Me too. But where is Bailey now?” I asked. “He’s at Rainbow Bridge” she replied.

In explaining the passing of Bailey to my children I had told them the story of Rainbow Bridge:

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. 



When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. 
There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. 
There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. 



All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. 
The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind. 



They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster. 



You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart. 



Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together.... 



Author unknown...

Today I was reminded of my unfinished business. Although Bailey is gone, there are at least a few more stories to tell….and so I will keep telling those stories until there are no more.

February 10, 2011

February 10, 2011

There are certain dates in everyone’s life that they will never forget. February 10, 2011 is one of those days for me. On that day, a piece of me died.

The day started like any other day. I woke up and Bailey was already downstairs eating his breakfast. After a quick shower, I took Bailey to Urban Dog for a day of fun with his buddies. Late that afternoon I did something I rarely ever do—I turned my cell phone off so I could give my full attention to a meeting I was attending at a downtown law firm. My cell phone is always on—even in the middle of the night.

At about 5:30 pm the phone rang in the meeting room at the law firm. The lawyer who answered the phone turned to me and said: “Rob, your father is looking for you very urgently.” As I picked up the telephone I heard my father say: “Rob, your dog is very sick.” Tears welled up inside and I began to feel the worst pain I had ever felt in my entire life.

My mother had picked Bailey up from Urban Dog where he had been vomiting and had diarrhea. Melinn and Mom were taking Bailey to the Veterinary Emergency Clinic to meet Dad and I. How could this be the end? He was doing so well.

When I arrived at the clinic, Bailey greeted me with his tail wagging. I looked into his eyes praying that he would tell me if he was ready to go. But there was no sign. To me Bailey looked full of life. We had too many adventures left for this to be the end.

Sometimes our heads tell us things that that the heart wants to hear. The reality was that the tumor had grown and was blocking Bailey’s urethra causing his bladder to fill up. There were a few options but none of them were very good. If we did nothing, Bailey’s bladder would explode (actually giving him some relief) and he would have maybe 12 hours to live. Alternatively, we could have tried a catheter to empty the bladder—but even if that worked his bladder would soon fill up again. And if the catheter punctured the tumor Bailey would have to be put to sleep immediately.

This was really the end and I had just one decision left: Put him at risk and watch him suffer or allow him to go peacefully before any of the serious suffering began. I looked to Melinn and my parents but they knew that the decision had to be mine. And while I could not bear the pain of living without him, the pain of watching him suffer would have been worse. With tears in my eyes I told the vet and my family that we would let him die peacefully that night.

My parents waited at the clinic while Melinn and I drove home to get Elle and Ivy. As I have said before, Bailey belonged to everyone—not just me. Elle and Ivy had known Bailey their entire lives and we wanted to give them the chance to say goodbye.

So on a cold winter evening my Melinn, my parents, Elle, Ivy and I sat in a room saying our goodbyes. We fed Bailey treats, took pictures and told him how much we loved him. When it came time, I asked everyone to leave Bailey and I in the room alone. I just figured that it all started with just him and I—and it should end that way too. I hugged him and kissed him and asked him to wait for me at Rainbow Bridge.

Bailey slowly drifted off to a deep painless sleep…and he was gone.

There are no words in the English language to properly describe the pain I felt or the love I still have for him. He was my best friend and greatest teacher in the most formative years of my life. I hope he is watching over me knowing that he changed my life forever. I hope he is proud of me and what he created. I hope I can live my life in a way that gives honor to his memory.

I love you Bailey and I always will. Rest well.

Belle’s Ace Bailey
December 2, 1997 – February 10, 2011

Treatment

Treatment

The Guide taught me more than I ever wanted to know about cancer in dogs. I learned new terminology that would help me ask the right questions and select the right treatment for Bailey.

In mid-January Bailey had a biopsy to determine the root of the cancer. While I hated the idea of sedating him, the biopsy was because knowing exactly what we were up against would determine the appropriate course of action. After the procedure, Bailey looked like he had been on a bender on St. Patrick’s Day at an Irish pub. He was wobbly and unsure of himself. I began to second-guess myself. Should I have put him through this? Was fighting the right option? But the next day, Bailey was back to being Bailey. It was as if the day before never happened. There would be no more second-guessing. We would continue to press on.

Unfortunately surgery was not an option and neither was radiation. Neither had proven to be successful in treating Bailey’s type of cancer. The only option was chemotherapy. Chemo brought both good news and bad. The good news was that chemo is administered to dogs in much lower doses than for humans. As a result, the chemo would not be painful and would at worst, cause some nausea and vomiting. The bad news was that chemo was not a cure. In many cases, chemo could extend the quality and quantity of life for another three months. The oncologist at the Veterinary Emergency Clinic provided even more hope when he said that Bailey could even have a year or more.

Despite all this information, I was not done asking questions. I needed a second opinion. A few months earlier, the Board of the Ontario SPCA retained former University of Guelph Vet School Dean Alan Meek to conduct an investigation of the ringworm outbreak at its Newmarket shelter. I reached out to Dr. Meek to see if he could introduce me to the chief veterinary oncologist at the University of Guelph. A few days later, Bailey and I drove to Guelph to meet Dr. Paul Woods.

Dr. Woods and a team of three other vets greeted us with open arms. They examined Bailey and spent almost two hours answering questions about possible treatments. They were warm, caring and compassionate—and for that I am eternally grateful. I realize that we probably received special treatment because of my role with the Ontario SPCA but if it weren’t for Bailey I would have never volunteered my time to the cause of animal welfare.

I left Guelph with the confidence that chemo was the right route to go. Although I would have been willing to drive to Guelph for Bailey’s chemo treatments every three weeks, Dr. Woods gave his full endorsement to Dr. Kevin Finora at the Veterinary Emergency Clinic in Toronto.

On January 26, 2011 Bailey went for his first chemo treatment. Unlike the biopsy a week earlier, Bailey responded to chemo with flying colors. There were no adverse side effects—no nausea, no vomiting, nothing. Even when Bailey went for a follow up visit ten days later, Dr. Finora was impressed with how well Bailey was doing.

I was more hopeful than I had been in weeks. Bailey was going to fight for every moment and for every day. I knew there was no cure, but at least we had some time…or so I thought.

My Guide

My Guide

I call this journey the Cancer Iditarod. Once you find yourself on it, you must follow it all the way to the end. There are no easy off-ramps on this highway, and you must get used to the rules and the pace.

It’s totally possible to do this, especially since your partner is your dog—probably your best friend and the best team player you could wish for.

Dog Cancer Survival Guide, Demian Dressler, DVM

The first step in our fight was to find out everything. To educate myself so I could ask the right questions and select the best form of treatment. This brought me to Demian Dressler’s Dog Cancer Survival Guide. Dr. Dressler’s book appealed to me for several reasons:

Firstly, The Guide takes a Full Spectrum approach to cancer treatment. It looks at both traditional veterinary medicine as well as alternative strategies as part of its overall approach to fighting this killer.

Secondly, it identified me, Bailey’s owner, as his Primary Health Advocate. I am his best friend and his father. Only I could make the decisions that are best for Bailey.

Thirdly, The Guide did not try to act as a substitute for in-person veterinary advice. Rather it sought to arm me with as much information as possible to allow me to fulfill my role as Bailey’s Primary Health Advocate.

Fourth, it provided a keen insight into the mind of a dog. Whether I realized it or not, Bailey could sense my emotional state. I had noticed this anytime I was sick or sad—Bailey just knew. My emotional state was important not only for Bailey, but to allow me to make the very best decisions regarding his well being.

Lastly and possibly most importantly, The Guide provided hope. It reminded me that “a cancer diagnosis does not equal instant death”. And there was still some life to be lived—and still an opportunity to love and express that love.

In providing the overview of its Full Spectrum Cancer Care, The Guide provided this quote from Lance Armstrong:

If children have the ability to ignore all odds and percentages, then maybe we can all learn from them. When you think about it, what other choice is there but to hope? We have two options, medically and emotionally. Give up or fight like hell.

The opening chapters of The Guide were aimed at helping me understand the nature of the Cancer Iditarod and prepare me for becoming Bailey’s Primary Health Advocate. One of The Guide’s many exercises was designed to help me get reconnected with Bailey. Now, I know what you may be thinking—this is all hocus pocus. How could anyone me more connected with their dog than I was with Bailey? But life had become busy. Between work, three growing children, my time with the Ontario SPCA and other leisurely pursuits I had somehow neglected my “Ace”. And now it was time to fix this.

The exercise of telling Bailey his Life Story not only assisted in reconnecting with Bailey, it also helped me remember many of the stories that I have written about in this space. It also allowed me to focus less on my own feelings of distress and more on Bailey and the battle he was facing.

So on a cold winter night in January while Bailey lay quietly on the couch in our basement, I kneeled on the floor beside him and told him his Life Story. I gently stroked his head and started from the first day I held him in my arms. I laughed a little but I mostly cried. I reminded him of all our adventures. I spoke of our time in California and our many trips to Florida. I also told him about all the important events in our lives and how he had touched all of us in a way that I couldn’t fully comprehend. I also talked about the non-events in our lives—the times when we just hung out together on a warm summer day or on a night at home in front of the television.

I had my doubts about actually telling Bailey the story of his life. I, probably like you, thought that this kind of thing was too touchy-feely—even for me. But I trusted Dr. Dressler’s words that after I finished telling Bailey his Life Story I would understand why—and I did. After 13 years together, I didn’t think I could love Bailey anymore than I already did—but I was wrong. On that night, I fell in love with him all over again, just as I had 13 years earlier in Simi Valley, CA.

Cancer is horrible. It robs us of the most important things that we have. But if there is anything good that I can take from this whole experience its that it gave me the chance to thank Bailey for being my best friend and provided me with opportunity to fall in love all over again.

The News

The News

I walked through the front door and Bailey greeted me with his tail wagging—but something was different. He wasn’t himself. He was slower and more lethargic than usual. The medication had helped him pee but he wasn’t 100%.

The next day I called Dr. Tung to ask about a stronger, more aggressive medication for Bailey. Dr. Tung prescribed the stronger meds but suggested that if Bailey isn’t back to normal in a few days that I should take him for an ultrasound. Sure enough, the stronger medication worked and Bailey was back to being Bailey—but not for long. After the stronger medication was finished Bailey once again struggled to pee. I reached out for Dr. Tung once more to get another prescription, but no dice. Dr. Tung told me that if it was a urinary tract infection it would have been cured by now and Bailey would have to see a specialist and have an ultrasound.

The specialist’s office was located in the Veterinary Emergency Clinic—a 24-hour animal hospital where sad news is dispensed on a regular basis. The specialist, Dr. Mason lacked the warmth and compassion that I had hoped for—everything was just a matter of fact with him.

Dr. Mason examined Bailey before taking him in the back for his ultrasound. “What do you think?” I asked nervously. “Well, dogs his age that have this problem usually have cancer, but let’s see what the ultrasound says.” My eyes filled with tears.

There it was--the enemy staring us in the face. The bullet that had been dodged for 13 years. What were the odds that Dr. Mason was wrong? What would the ultrasound tell us? The two hours that followed were two of the longest hours of my life.

Melinn and I returned to the vet clinic where Bailey was thrilled to see us. To him, it was just another adventure. To Dr. Mason, it was a time to deliver the news. “Bailey’s ultrasound was not normal,” he said. I broke down. There was no possibility of keeping it together. Dr. Mason continued: “We can see a thickening of the bladder wall and spots on his urethra.” I looked over at Melinn to see tears running down her face. “How long does he have?” I asked. By now, Dr. Mason could tell how badly we were taking the news. “Now, what I am going to tell you is extreme. If his urethra becomes blocked, it’s a matter of just a few days. But on the other side of things, he could last three to four months.”

Dr. Mason outlined the two options: Do nothing and let nature run its course or chemotherapy, which would first require I biopsy to properly identify the source of the cancer. I was confused and conflicted. After hearing the word “cancer” not much else made much sense to me. I knew I wanted Bailey to be with my family for as long as possible but at the same time I could not bear to watch him suffer.

To fight or not to fight. We decided to take Bailey home to weigh our options. That night, somewhere in the midst of a million tears I decided that I would arm myself with as much information as possible. I realized that Bailey had no idea that something was wrong—and as long as it stayed that way I decided that the best option was to fight…and fight hard.

The Phone Call

The Phone Call

In December 1997 I opened my heart for the first time in my life. My love for Bailey made my heart grow bigger. This overwhelming love also made me keenly aware of my vulnerability: One day Bailey would be gone and life would never be the same.

As Bailey got older I became more vigilant in watching for signs of potential illnesses or other health problems. In my own mind Bailey was doing well if he was eating, sleeping, playing and going to the bathroom on a normal schedule. My concern for Bailey led to my decision to reduce his time at Urban Dog from four or five times per week to two or three times per week. This way, I could make sure that Bailey was active enough to keep him young and healthy, but not so active as to wear him down.

Fortunately Bailey steered clear of any serious health problems for three full years following his 10^th birthday. In December 2010, Bailey turned 13 and I had planned to celebrate by throwing him a Bark Mitzvah—as if he was a Jewish pup becoming a dog for the first time. However, December 2010 had proven to be a busy month. My daughter Ivy turned four, there were several year-end holiday parties and my family had planned our annual trip out to Edmonton for Christmas and Miami for New Years. The Bark Mitzvah, we decided, would be in January 2011.

Unlike some of the previous years, we made the decision not to bring Bailey to Florida. The drive was too long for both Bailey and I. Instead, Bailey would stay with my parents and his best friend Tetley.

On January 4, 2011 Melinn and I took the kids to the Shake Shack in Miami Beach for the last dinner of our vacation. The next day we would return home to Toronto—back to work, school and of course, Bailey. And then the phone rang.

The voice on the other end of the phone was my father. Bailey had been struggling to urinate and they had just returned home from Dr. Tung’s office. While there was no definitive diagnosis, Bailey was put on medication to help him pee. If the medication worked, the likely cause was a urinary tract infection. If the medication, did not work we would have to send him for more tests.

That night my heart sprung a tiny leak. Even though I kept telling myself not to jump to conclusions, somehow I knew we had reached the beginning of the end. The Bark Mitzvah would be put on hold. I couldn’t wait to get home.