During this writer's tenure with Advanced Renal Cell Carcinoma I have met, been looked after, remembered and loved by many many people and much of what good health I have today I attribute to them. However, if I had to name the one nurse that has done the most to keep my spirits up and most often seems to sense the deeper meanings of my feelings, it is Jeb. He knew I was sick before anybody else did. Before any doctor said anything; before I even admitted I felt all that bad. He would just come over and lay down on my feet, something he had never done before, lay his head on the floor and sigh in a way that can only be described as melancholy.
Jeb is a 13-year-old springer spaniel, named after Confederate cavalry general JEB Stuart. Black with big "puffy" white legs and paws, a magnificent black head with white stripe running between his eyes. He doesn't chase balls, hunt birds, play or do anything much other than nap and look absolutely gorgeous. He's the kind of house dog that every family wants: low maintenance. I didn't give old Jeb much thought for his first eleven years in the household. I had a super German Wirehaired Pointer (very high maintenance) with whom I hunted all of North America. When Jeb was 11 we got another hunting dog, Gracie, the impish Brittany you see on the opening page of the blog. Jeb's job was to see us off when when we hunting and welcome us home. Oh, he slept at the foot of the bed. End of job description.
Then I got the call that confirmed what Jeb already believed. The doctor said I had 24 tumors. It was dark...and ominous. Jeb sensed the surprise--then defeat--in my reaction. He came over, nosed my arm and then allowed me to drape it around him as he put his chin on my leg. Then I understood. Jeb already knew and he was there. When I clutched him close to me that afternoon that was the first hug of my cancer experience. And one of the best.
He has been my head nurse and helpmate ever since. He knows when things are not going well. There is no "seems to know" to it. He knows. When my appetite is bad (often), he too doesn't eat. When I am in bed from a bout of fatigue, he is on the floor right under me. He "guards" my space. Even Sherry can get a low growl or two if she approaches his "warrior" too quickly. Anytime I am on the back porch in my chair, he is in his chair, but unlike the days before cancer, he looks at me, as if he is on guard. The two times I have made emergency trips to the hospital, it was Jeb who held vigil on the foyer steps, head on paws, watching the door. Then he would go upstairs and nudge Sherry's hand. "Our old man's OK," she said he seemed to be saying. I bet he was. The reverse was also true. As I got better, Jeb let down his guard a bit. He would go into the kitchen for dinner without my escort and even into the back yard for a patrol of the property. But when things went south, no matter how insignificantly, Jeb became a full time nurse again, wet mouth, fluffy paws and all. If Jeb came to dinner without me, Sherry would say, she knew that I was fine. Nurse and counsilor Jeb.
When I got sick, Jeb was only 11. Today he is 13. He's got his own health problems, most stemming from old age. Because of my own issues, somehow I hadn't noticed, but dogs can be that way. Just fine on Monday, not so fine on Tuesday. Maybe even gone on Wednesday. The other morning he couldn't get out of bed until I coaxed him up. It frightened me. He cried quietly with pain, but finally came to his feet. Later we went to the vet. I was reminded looking at the arthritis in his lower back that this little dog that has done so much for me over the past two years, is now at a point where I have to look after him. I also know that his time is much more limited than mine and I think he knows it too.
On the way home I thought about his two years as my silent nurse, my supporter of all supporters, how sometmes you can feel his frustration by not being able to do more. Now he needs my help more than ever. But somehow I believe he is the one that feels let down that he can't do for me. What kind of nurse are you if you can't get out of bed, much less communicate to the old man what you are exactly thinking?
In two years I have grown a little older and lot less sick. During that same two years Jeb has become a geriatric and is not far from the end of his road. I will walk with him all the way and when the day comes I will weep for no one more. If there has ever been a great cancer warrior, it has been him.
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