Max 2007
Max came to us in the late winter of 2006, via Easley, SC.
He was our second Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Looking into his warm speckled
gold and brown eyes, we recognized an old soul in a puppy’s body. Max had been
here before.
For the first seven years everything was perfect until the day
our vet told us Max had a heart murmur, and for three years he monitored his
heart. Then synchronicity stepped in.
I had to take Max to the vet for an ear infection, and our
regular vet wasn’t available. The new vet did a routine heart check and said,
“Whoa, that’s quite a heart murmur.” I mentioned our vet was keeping tabs on
it. She never said a word, but her eyes communicated alarm and concern. As soon
as I got home, I told my husband, we need to find a cardiologist for Max.
We found, 20 minutes away, in Chicago, practiced one of the
top veterinarian cardiologists in the country, Dr. Michael Luethy. We made an
appointment straight away. What Dr. Luethy said something we were prepared not
to hear; Max’s heart murmur was severe, and he probably won’t make it six more
months.
Shock doesn’t come close to the nauseating reality of those
few words. What Max needed was open heart surgery to repair his mitral valves.
The success of this type of operation in the U.S. is about 40%. Not odds we
were willing to take.
Then Dr. Luethy said, “tomorrow I have a client coming in
with his dog who had successful open-heart surgery at a clinic in Versailles,
France and is coming in for his 90-day checkup. If you would like me to, I can
give him your information.”
We learned the clinic’s success was 96% and they had been
performing this surgery for almost ten years.
The following day we were on the phone with Dr. Luethy’s
client, and with his help and guidance, we contacted the Clinque Bozon, in
Versailles. Synchronicity stepped in once again. They were going to be
performing this highly specialized surgery in six weeks, and they had one slot
open. If Max passed the testing, he would have surgery on July 3, 2016.
From there it was a whirlwind of medical tests, shots and
federal government paperwork to prepare Max for international travel. My
brilliant husband got him comfort dog status and on June 29, we boarded Air
France to Charles de Gaulle airport, Paris. We got bulk- head seats and Max was
able to make a bed at our feet.
It’s funny how 19 lbs. of adorable fur can change the mood
of a flight. Max was a handsome hit. All the flight attendants had to stop by
and say hi.
Air France Celeb
We rented an Airbnb and “lived” in Versailles for three
weeks. Because Max couldn’t walk far and we didn’t rent a car, we travelled
with a stroller. France being a very dog friendly country, we could take Max
everywhere, and we did. So, when people would see us with a stroller, first
they assumed we were French, and they assumed a child was in the stroller. To
say the least, it was a conversation starter.
Selfie with Mom
Max’s surgery lasted 10 hours and we watched the entire
operation through a big plate glass window; two surgeons, Dr. Masami Uichi (who
perfected this 96% successful surgery), assisted by Dr. Jean Hugh Bozon, his
wife, Dr. Sabine Bozon, a cardiologist and several technical assistants.
We thought if Max can go through the surgery, we can stand
watch over him, and somehow, he would know we were there.
Max stayed in the hospital for seven days, recuperating. Two
weeks later, we were back on Air France heading to Chicago’s O’Hare airport. It
was Bastille Day, and while we were on the flight, a terrorist drove a van into
a crowd of people celebrating liberation. 86 people died. It was surreal.
This past summer, I was petting Max and felt a couple of
lumps on the left side of his throat. I thought they were fatty tumors,
harmless and not uncommon in older dogs. The diagnosis was lymphoma.
We took Max to Dr. Nathaniel Vos, an oncologist practicing
with Dr. Luethy at MedVet. We learned it wasn’t just ordinary lymphoma, but a
very aggressive form. We discussed options. Option one had the best outcome for
a longer life, the treatment, chemotherapy once a week for 15 weeks.
Having gone through chemo myself 11 years ago, I immediately
pictured all sorts of nasty side effects and perhaps the worst, temporary
baldness. I was assured that dogs handle chemo differently and don’t generally
suffer the same side effects and they definitely don’t go bald. The oncologist
also mentioned that we would know within two-six days if the treatment was
working.
Max received his first treatment. No ill side effects. Appetite
as good as ever, energy level high, overall happiness pretty good. I checked
his neck several times a day. And on the third day, like a miracle, the
swelling was gone. I couldn’t feel them at all. We were ecstatic. That lasted
for four days. I didn’t want to believe what I felt on day six, not only were
his lymph nodes as large as ever on the left side, now his lymph nodes on the
right side of his neck were swollen as well. Gut punch.
We called the doctor. He was very sorry and suggested a
second chemo cocktail, not as effective, but it could extend his life, if it
worked. Since he had no ill side effects with the first cocktail, we agreed to
try this new one. It didn’t work. And the third option didn’t work, either.
Wandering around in this alternative reality, we finally
decided, enough, and Max went on palliative care.
We were feeding him pasture raised eggs, steak and lots of
love. Eventually, we couldn’t even tempt him to eat, which meant he wasn’t
getting his heart medications or the palliative care drugs. I didn’t have the
heart to force him.
Those adoring, wise gold speckled brown eyes were telling me
he was staying alive for us. It was time to say goodbye.
Max, our mighty warrior, our love, our playmate, our
bedmate, our soulmate, lost his battle and passed away on October 28, 2019.
We had the honor of being the blessed stewards of Max for 13
years, 10 months. Because of Max I am convinced that God-Dog is a spiritual
palindrome. Either way you spell it, it means LOVE.
Max has carved a resting place in my heart; there he will
nest until I draw my last breath.
Grief
The grief
it comes in waves –
like the ocean’s tide
it ebbs and flows.
My eyes are dry
but my heart cries.
I honor these moments,
they are the offerings
I lovingly place at your altar.
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