Unfortunately, our little guy has taken a drastic turn for the worse.
After completing his fourth of five rounds of chemotherapy on Friday, I picked him up from the vet and took him home. He seemed to be doing fine, but later on in the evening, we noticed that he was panting heavily and was not interested in eating – even treats. He was even having trouble getting around, so we called our doctor and arranged to meet her at the clinic around 8:30 or so.
As Gallo jumped out of the car to enter the clinic, he yelped, an indication that he was having some type of internal difficulty. It reminded us of the initial time that we had to take him to the vet before this rollercoaster started, months ago. After an initial exam of his stomach (involving poking and prodding) did not cause him any noticeable pain, the doctor arranged an X-ray. When the X-ray showed that there appeared to be an unidentifiable mass near his liver, the doctor elected to do a sonogram. We were allowed to be with Gallo during this procedure as they put him on his back and smeared the jelly on his tummy. Our doctor decided that it was a tumor that had ruptured, leading to internal bleeding, but could not determine whether there was just one or more. When she asked us what we would like to do, we asked her what she would choose if it was her dog. She said that she would perform surgery to see whether it was just the one tumor, and if it was, they could remove it and give Gallo a little more time. However, if there were multiple tumors, we could have G-boy put down right on the table. The overriding prognosis was that, since Gallo was getting a tumor even as he was enduring chemotherapy, it was simply a matter of time before G passed on. Knowing how far we had gone with G’Lo along this road, I gave the go-ahead for the surgery. I had to give him one last chance to prolong his life. They would give us updates as the surgery progressed, and allow us the right to decide whether to have him put to sleep if necessary.
As they prepared him for surgery, Gallo was overly lethargic, tired and panting. They attempted to locate several veins to draw blood and establish a catheter IV. Even as they poked him repeatedly with the needle, he didn’t seem to notice or care either way. Having finally drawn the necessary blood and begun an IV designed to provide him some strength to handle the surgery, they left us alone with Gallo, who was having trouble moving and simply lay on the floor, his head on our lap.
As he was led back for the operation, G’Lo pity-hopped along, overreacting to a bandage that had been placed on his back leg. We took this as a good sign. Yet at this point, I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I didn’t believe Gallo was going to make it through yet another surgery. Chemotherapy followed by significant blood loss followed by emergency surgery … from reading his body language and behavior, it just didn’t feel like a combination of obstacles that he could overcome in his weakened state.
Yet, though Gallo’s blood pressure dropped precipitously to a point where it reached a number that the doctors didn’t feel comfortable sharing with us, he pulled through the surgery. They gave us a few different updates, then brought in the piece of liver they had cut out of him, which included the tumor. The tumor itself was very small, the size of a blister or wart. It had latched on to an artery within G’s liver, so when it burst, it caused the artery to start spurting blood into his chest cavity. Had we not made the quick decision to bring Gallo in that evening, he likely would have bled to death overnight. The insidious nature of hemangiosarcoma and how it so quickly impacts the bloodstream and organs is frightening.
We were told that, despite losing 25% of his liver, G would be able to do fine in terms of liver function. However, the job now was to raise his core temperature, stabilize him and elevate his blood count. If necessary, since his marrow was depleted already due to his chemo earlier in the day, he would need a blood transfusion. Wrapped in blankets, heating pads and water blankets, Gallo lay with his tongue out. He was hooked up to a morphine drip, a blood pressure monitor, an EKG machine and another catheter. He yelped in pain when they tried to move him a little so they could take his temperature, but he eventually recognized us a few minutes later, and even managed a wag of the tail. We were told that they felt he was too fragile at the moment to transfer to an overnight clinic, so the doctor and vet techs would alternate checking in on Gallo at 2, 4 and 6 in the morning. Saying goodbye to G-boy around midnight, we made the weary trek home, to a sleepless night and a too-quiet house.
We returned at around 8 a.m. on Saturday, with coffee and donuts from Dunkin Donuts in hand for the doctors and techs who had been working so hard on Gallo’s behalf to all hours. Everyone marveled at his strength, while we were amazed at the impact he has had on so many people: one vet tech who has grown particularly attached to our little man (the doctors refer to her as Gallo’s “girlfriend”) told us that she was called late at night to come in early and told of G’s condition, and she couldn’t sleep. One of the doctor’s dogs had come in to provide the transfusion for G’Lo, who was still lethargic and panting, but had gone outside briefly earlier in the morning. He was doing a little better, but still in a lot of pain and understandably exhausted. We were told that he would be very, very sore for a few days, but that he should pull through and be able to come home on Monday.
Obviously, since Gallo had been attacked by a tumor even during his chemotherapy sessions, we have ended his chemo treatment plan. I could not endure seeing him suffer through more pills, needles, shots, cones, bandages, medications, special foods, sprays, thermometers in the butt … it is time to allow Gallo the dignity of living out his life the best way he can. He continues to fight and cling to life, so we’ll give him the freedom to retain the energy he needs to maintain his personality and be the dog I have come to love and adore over the past seven years. We are taking him to the Outer Banks next weekend, a place he loves, to let him trot on the beach, bark at golfers and put his nose in the wind.
If Gallo had nine lives like a cat, he has used up a few of them already. His strength has been an awe-inspiring, emotional thing to see. Yet before his surgery, I leaned over and whispered to him that if he had to go, he could go. That he didn’t have to be brave for me anymore. That he didn’t have to prove his love or strength anymore. That he had fought longer and harder than I ever could have dreamed of asking.
Still, we treasure the opportunity to spend a little more time with him, and to enjoy the precious moments he has left, no matter how many or how few they may be.
Thanks as always for the kind words, thoughts and prayers. They have meant the world to us.
UPDATE, MONDAY, MAY 12: We went and saw Gallo three times on Saturday, just to check on his recovery and say hello. He received a blood transfusion from one of the vet's dogs on Saturday afternoon, which helped him to bounce back from a falling blood count precipitated by his chemotherapy and subsequent blood loss from the tumor. He was on a morphine drip and in a lot of pain for the entire day, so our visits mostly consisted of us giving him encouragement as he supported his body by leaning against the side of the cage. However, I spoke to the doctor later in the evening and she told me that his PVC count was up to 30, which meant that he was officially making his own red blood cells. This was a pleasant surprise to her, and one that she had trouble explaining, considering the trauma to Gallo's liver coinciding with the chemo. We took it to be very good news.
Unfortunately, his awkward sitting style as he was drugged out on morphine resulted in him sitting on his leg in a strange way that pinched off his IV tube. So they had to put a splint/aircast on his left rear leg. On top of everything else, this makes him hop around in a sort of funny way. We checked on him two more times on Sunday, and he looked to be a completely different dog, much closer to his normal, energetic self. The doctor let us know that, if Gallo would just start eating, she could release him to come home on Monday night.
We went by this morning before work to say hello to G'Lo, but we found that he still had not eaten. To aid in the process, the vet tech (Gallo's "girlfriend") had even put out three different varities of food for G to sample. But he still was not much interested, so after we took him for a brief walk and he hopped around pitifully, we told him that he could come home this evening if only he would begin eating. We think it's just a matter of time, since he is mostly likely feeling "full" from all of the intravenous fluids he has been taking. We remain hopeful that Gallo will eat at some point today so we can bring him home tonight and begin helping him to heal.
UPDATE, TUESDAY, MAY 13: We were able to get Gallo last evening from the vet and bring him home, armed with more medications. The bill was (as expected) huge, but G'Lo had achieved the ever-so-rare "miracle dog" discount ... apparently, all you have to do is survive two emergency surgeries, make it through chemotherapy, endure having 1.5 organs removed and lose most of your hair to be labeled a "
miracle dog." Whatever the criteria, I think G'Lo fits the bill -- and we'll certainly take it.
Upon arriving home, G was (understandably) very tired, after spending the previous 3.5 days in a rather small cage, surrounded by barking and meowing jailmates. He wasn't much interested in eating initially, but when I began feeding him by hand, he did manage to eat enough to make us feel better. He has made it difficult to give him all of his medications by not readily accepting his Pill Pockets, but we're hoping that is just a phase brought on by the fact that he is still a wee bit drugged. Due to the near-constant fluid intake he has undergone, he has had some pees that have lasted roughly 20 minutes since arriving home.
Gallo managed to eat a little bit more of his breakfast this morning and eventually took his meds. Unfortunately, to guard against the possibility of him biting at his stitches, we had to put a hood/cone on his head and lock him in the bedroom. That was very tough to do considering how much he has already been through, but we'll check on him at lunchtime and spend some time with him. He is scheduled to have a blood count check on Friday and then have his stitches removed the following Monday, so we'll concentrate on helping him heal the rest of this week. He can handle stairs, but we have to stop him every time he tries to run and/or play, since he doesn't have the reserve of red blood cells necessary to make up for the ones he loses when he expends a lot of energy.
Obviously, there is still a ways to go before our big guy is feeling all the way back to normal and completely pain-free, but he is getting there. It was wonderful to have him home and nearby, as you might expect. Thanks as always for the kind words and prayers, as somebody is listening and acting on behalf of our own little miracle dog.
Are
you any different, Adam Gase?
