Ziva's Army: May 2017

My father called me and told me to come home. Jude, my greyhound, wasn't doing well. I knew in an instant what that meant. And I wasn't ready. My heart started breaking in that very moment. I was in the city for a CT scan and got the call when I was done. I immediately left to be by her side. Preparing myself to be brave enough to be who she needed me to be. The entire ride back felt like an eternity. And all I could think was that it couldn't really be her time. That maybe there was some way that it could be something other than what it was. When I walked in the house, I knew better. My mother was crying, sitting with her and trying to massage her legs thinking she could help her stand again. Jude was laying there panting. I could tell she was in a lot of pain. She had lost the ability to stand on her own. So I laid on the floor next to her, started to pet her and spoke gently into her ear. "I'm here. I love you. It's ok..." Over and over. She began to calm her breathing and relax slightly. My father had made an appointment at the vet. I stayed on the floor with her, talking to her until we had to leave. We put her in the car and I laid by her side. When we got to the vet, she examined her. She did x-rays and an ultrasound. She told us that there was a bleeding carcinoma in her liver. She was bleeding internally. Her body was breaking down. It was doing its best to work by using all its energy to fight the chaos inside her which is why her legs stopped working. There was nothing they could do. They made her as comfortable as they could and put us in a non sterile, cozy room to share our last moments. She looked at me when I walked in. We both knew. I laid on the floor with her, wrapped my arms around her, placed my forehead to hers, kissed her, and began to whisper. "I love you so much. Thank you for every amazing moment. I'm here for you..." After a few moments she was gone. I felt her go. When I lifted my head up, the horror of the reality of it all overcame me. And though I had been crying since I got home, the sheer pain of losing her hit me like I had been crushed by a ton of bricks. I laid there and held her and sobbed while my heart shattered into a million tiny pieces. When I finally got up, I took one last look at her. She looked like she was sleeping. But her ears were up. My voice was the last thing she heard. She was listening to what I was saying as she took her last breath.

The day after her death I was broken and numb. Paralyzed with sadness and loss of hope. But I forced myself to go through the motions. I needed to go to my oncologist appointment. Even getting out of bed was difficult. It was physically and mentally exhausting. But one step at a time, I did it. My parents and I made our way down to Emory to see Dr. El Reyes. This appointment was very important. I would find out if I had made the clinical trial. And as much as I had been sitting on pins and needles about it for the last 2 months, I was struggling to care about it.

I got the results of my scan and it had shown that my cancer was stable. It had not grown or receded. It was, for the most part, good news. But the clinical trial I wanted so badly was now out of reach. If there had been growth, however small it may have been, it would have guaranteed my spot in that trial. I was now to be on this chemo indefinitely. This one that exhausts me, that gives me mouth ulcers, that makes me feel my body breaking down, will now be my constant companion for I don't know how long. My parents were startled by the news. Like me, they were hoping for the acceptance into this trial. So we started asking questions. Why? What now? Will there be more trials? Can I take a break? After getting all the answers needed, I decided that the next step is to start going to Winship Cancer Center at Emory for my treatments. Hoping that at some point, he will find another drug that can help me go into at least partial remission. I have about 8 drugs for chemo that will help me stay stable before I run out of options. I'm on number 2 now. Each drug will eventually stop working. So at some point, a clinical trial may be the thing that could save me. I asked about doing a procedure called gamma knife, a type of radiation, along with a few other procedures. He's showing my case to the radiation department to see if I'm eligible for any of them. We'll find out soon if I qualify. I needed time to get my head on straight. It was all too much. So I decided to give myself some. I couldn’t get my thoughts together in time to plan a costume, so my first chemo at Emory will be without one. The first since the beginning. And I decided to take one chemo off, so May will be a month to recharge and get my strength back. So I can face it all again. I just have to continue to have faith that it will all fall in line.

I left the office feeling nothing. No hope, no happiness, no sorrow. I could no longer care about anything at that point. So I went home and packed a bag. I had planned a trip to see some friends about a month ago at the beach. I had to leave. The heaviness of it all kept me from processing any of it. When I got there, I felt it all start to unravel. I wept more than I’ve ever remembered. It was cleansing. I was able to lose myself in friends and experiences. And began to feel thankful. Thankful for friends, thankful for family, thankful for being able to have a beautiful soul like Jude in my life for 8 incredible years. And I thought about the unfairness of it all. My gorgeous, sweet girl died of cancer. The very thing that has plagued me for the last 10 months. I went into a deep depression for several days. I even felt like giving up. I had lost the sweetest, most pure soul I have ever known. She stayed by my side when I wasn't well even though she was suffering in silence. She taught me by example to be strong, to cherish the good moments, to be loving. She never gave up, her body just couldn't do it anymore. Her death made me realize how afraid I've been of dying. That it has paralyzed me. Even as she died, she taught me to not be scared. I'm no longer afraid. We all face death. I've been focusing too much energy on that. None of us will escape it. It's not how we die that matters. It’s how we live. It only takes a moment to die. It takes years to be alive. And I'm going to survive. I'm going to get stronger. I'm going to find a way to live my life my way again. And love again. Because that's what truly living is all about. Life has a way of teaching lessons. Sometimes painful, sometimes wonderful. And if you're lucky enough, you come out the other side with appreciation for it all.