Brodie and John

John and I chatted lightheartedly as we drove along Racetrack Road Friday night in Fort Walton Beach. We were headed home at a late hour—well, it was late for me, nearly 10 o’clock—after attending the birthday party of the husband of one of my dearest friends, Sandra. Now, that woman knows how to throw a party! She is Mexican by birth, American by nationality, and she proudly shares the richness and spirit of her Mexican heritage with a community of friends that includes, among the predominantly Spanish-speaking crowd in attendance, this gringa and her gringo boyfriend, John. The rented event hall was brightly decorated; the food, authentic and delicious; and among the participants, there was laughter and smiles all around. Sandra had even hired a mariachi band to sing and play. If I had closed my eyes, I could have imagined I had been transported to La Choza Cozumel, one of the best restaurants on the island. Best of all, it gave John an opportunity to mentally go to a different, happier place, if only for a few hours.

The previous 24 hours had been some of the most difficult of John’s life. On Thursday afternoon while I was having blood drawn, speaking with my oncologist, and undergoing a CT scan of my chest, John was waiting for word about his beloved boxer, Brodie, who was in emergency surgery to remove a tumor that was lodged partially in his stomach. Neither of us was fully aware of the gravity of the situation at the time. My head was spinning with the news that my Darzalex treatments have been highly successful.

“Your biopsy results were very good,” Dr. Joudeh said. Reminiscent of a previous visit, he seemed cautiously optimistic as he further explained that the bone specimen from my 21 April biopsy was “nominal” at best. He would have been inclined to recommend yet another biopsy but said the “very good” results were consistent with the immunoelectrophoresis serum tests that measure the immunoglobulin in my blood. That, along with the m-protein being undetectable, were enough to make him comfortable that I am ready for harvesting and the transplant. He even called and talked to Dr. Selby with me in the exam room, and Dr. Selby agreed. I could be on my way to Oklahoma City in the next few weeks. A bonus is that I will endure no more Velcade shots in my belly—they cause the neuropathy in my feet and hands, which has worsened—and next Monday’s Darzalex infusion will likely be my last as well.

On a side note, I suppose I will have to start being nicer to everyone, as I will no longer have the excuse of medication for my foul moods.

I felt elated by the news, but my delight was tempered a bit by Dr. Joudeh’s recommendation that I have a CT scan done of my upper right chest. Seems the breast MRI from 20 April showed a “28 mm oval mass,” and he wanted to get a better look at it to determine if it was of any concern. He assured me that in most cases, these masses usually prove to be nothing to worry about. Of course, I did a little of my own research and found that these spots are usually common nodules that are most often benign. Other times they indicate an infection of some sort. Whatever the case, I will pray it is nothing serious.

In addition, Dr. Joudeh ordered a targeted ultrasound of an area of my right breast that I suspect looked suspicious on the MRI because I had a benign tumor removed from there many, many moons ago when I was 18. I am hopeful it is nothing more than scar tissue, but I am again thankful for the thoroughness of my medical team led by Dr. Joudeh.

As luck would have it, Imaging was able to work me in during my visit Thursday for the CT scan, and I hope to know the results of that by Monday. The ultrasound is scheduled for Tuesday morning.

In the meantime, I expect to hear from OU Medical early next week about how we will proceed. I plan to review the Adult Patient Guide again to help me gather my erratic jumble of thoughts. I will need to prepare mentally as well as plan my travel and stay while I am sequestered at The Stephenson Cancer Center.

In the midst of all my medical hubbub, John, along with his daughter, Olivia, and his two sons, Jake and Ethan, were all solemnly waiting for Brodie to come out of surgery and learn what was happening inside his belly.

I need to tell you about this special animal and how much he means to his family, but especially to John. I can’t do that without first telling you a little more about his master.

John is a veteran who served in both the US Army and the Air Force. After 20 years of service, he retired as disabled from multiple injuries due to those years of service. He has had several surgeries to repair his body that endured, as he puts it, “too many jumps out of airplanes.” As I have gotten to know this man, my perceptions of him have formed as I have watched him interact with his children, with his dog, with other people, and with nature itself. I think that since he was a child, he has always been a bit of a loner, preferring the company of the creatures he encounters on his treks in the woods. One of the most heartwarming experiences I have shared with him involved a soft-shelled tortoise that he rescued from the side of a road nowhere near the water it needed to thrive. Here is a video I captured of the rescue that will give you some insight into what makes this man tick and why I enjoy spending time with him:

To describe John’s boxer, Brodie, as a therapy dog would be completely fitting. John adopted him as a puppy in December 2014, and they have been inseparable since. Car rides quickly became a favorite activity for Brodie. Anytime he could be close to John, he was a happy dog. It was the same for John. Knowing the 70-pound, brown-eyed, lean and lanky dog would be waiting for him at his door, his nub of a tail wiggling 90 to nothing, his bright eyes full of excitement to see his master again, was some of the best therapy John could experience. But what they enjoyed most were their frequent treks to the Eglin Reservation. Sometimes it was to explore a wooded trail together. Other times, John would

park his truck at the edge of a sandy lakebed where Brodie would run freely while John poked around in the sand, often finding spent shells and even 5.56 mm ammo canisters left behind from tactical exercises conducted by the military sometime in the recent past. Brodie would sometimes disappear from my view but never from John’s watchful eye, although he did wander a good distance away from us sometimes. All it took was a whistle and he would come bounding back, racing towards us as though he would trample us under, then veer away at the last second, “full of piss and vinegar,” as John liked to say.

At home, Brodie was a constant reassuring presence for John, and he would routinely curl up next to him or climb into his lap, all 70 pounds of him, rest his head on John’s shoulder and go to sleep. On those occasions when John would leave the house without him, Brodie would go to Olivia’s or Ethan’s room as opposed to being in a lonely room by himself. It was his nature to seek out the companionship of his human guardians, and his love for them was undeniable. But it was his steadfast loyalty and devotion to John that was tangible to both of them, as real as the beat of Brodie’s heart or the twitch of his paws as he dreamed on the bed next to John.

On Wednesday, Brodie had been throwing up and was lethargic. Oddly, he chose to lie down in John’s office rather than in the living room or elsewhere in the house where he normally would relax. John was naturally concerned and told me he intended to call the vet first thing Thursday morning.

By the time Thursday morning came, Brodie had not improved, so John took him to his veterinary clinic in Fort Walton Beach. The examination there revealed that something serious was wrong and Brodie would need surgery. The doctor felt there was an obstruction that might be a tumor in his abdomen, possibly near his spleen or his liver. They recommended Dr. Wight, who performed only veterinary surgeries, so that’s where John took him. He was able to spend a few minutes with Brodie before the procedure. He stroked his head reassuringly and told him, “I’ll see you later, buddy.”

When I finished at the medical center, I drove straight to the surgery center in Fort Walton Beach where John and Olivia were waiting to speak with Dr. Wight once the surgery was over. We didn’t wait too long before he emerged still wearing his surgical cap and gown. I saw the briefest flash of a pained look on his face, but I couldn’t tell if it was a reflection of the stress of a difficult surgery or something else. He sat down on the bench across from John and me and began to explain the procedure he had performed.

There was indeed a tumor that was partially connected to Brodie’s stomach and was in a difficult position near his spleen as well. The tumor had split or ruptured and was hemorrhaging into Brodie’s abdomen. Dr. Wight explained that he had managed to excise most of the tumor from Brodie’s stomach. He was optimistic about the way the procedure had gone and began closing the incision, when Brodie’s heart suddenly stopped.

In that moment, it seemed that my heart stopped as well, as Dr. Wight paused for only a split second as the look of pain again crossed his face, and he continued...

“… and he died.”

Disbelief hung in the air like a dark curtain suspended by a thread that suddenly gave way, covering all of us with a sudden wave of desolate sorrow.

How could it be true? How could John leave this place without his precious friend? What could he have done differently? How did he fail him? Why was this happening?

Irrational feelings of guilt and remorse swirled in a cauldron of grief. Tears flowed for Brodie as Olivia and John and I tried to somehow comfort one another in this unfathomable moment that would take days to comprehend and months to recover from. John’s ever-present companion was gone. He felt lost. He felt as though a part of him had died. Every human being with the particular capacity to love a creature as special as a dog knows the intensity of the grief when one passes. It cannot be overstated. It is potentially debilitating, both mentally and physically. This was true even more so for John because Brodie was one of those exceptional dogs with special gifts. Now, John has just begun to grapple with it all.

Last night as we drove closer to John’s house on our route from Fort Walton Beach, we both grew quiet. A palpable feeling of sadness emerged, almost as though a sinister passenger had slowly materialized in the back seat to taunt us. There would be no wiggly-tailed, bright-eyed little buddy to eagerly greet John at the door. He was no longer there to run in crazy circle-8’s, his claws gripping the carpet as he whirled into each frenzied turn, ecstatic that his master had finally returned to him again. There would be no warm body to snuggle next to him, hogging the expanse of the king-sized bed to nuzzle closer to his friend.

It was heartbreaking, and just as I know John felt, I too felt helpless.

I know episodes like this one will repeat themselves for days and weeks to come. I know because just today, John has come to my house no less than four times. Going home, being at home, will be difficult, and John will find himself not knowing if he’s coming or going. The intensity of the sadness will eventually diminish, but the memories will linger forever, sometimes bringing comfort, other times pain. Perhaps someday John will be ready to open his heart to another companion, but I know that will take time. For now, I offer this post as a tribute to him and to Brodie. May God bring them both peace.