Sam is sick.
X-rays have shown cancer in his lungs. This is probably a secondary cancer that has metastasized from some other cancer we haven’t discovered. There’s nothing we can do about the cancer we know about, and there’s no point in putting him through extensive exams to find the primary problem.
So far, he seems to feel fine. He coughs a little, then goes on trying to impress Silver with zoomies in the living room. He eats well; and although we’ve had a few nights of restless, interrupted sleep, the new meds (diazepam and gabapentin) seem to be helping him relax better through the night. (And since I no longer need to worry about liver damage, I’ve stepped up the meloxicam for his arthritic back--which is why he jumps and spins like a two-year-old.)
The thought of losing him so soon after losing Jacey makes me want to cry--so I just don’t think of it more than I can help. My job at this point is to keep him comfortable and spoiled. (“Spoiled” does not include kitchen trash can privileges, Sam.) I’ve promised him and myself that I won’t let him suffer if I possibly can help it. There’s some risk that I might come home one day to find that the primary cancer has reared its ugly head, but I just have to hope I’ll be handy when he needs me. At least there’s no indication that he has osteo, which could cause painful broken bones when I’m not home.
Sam is eleven and a half. He’s slept at my side every single night for more than nine years, and I love this boy more than words can say.
Silver and Sam
