Where's the Joy in Internal Bleeding?

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Some news is not the best news. At least that's one way to look at it.

Thursday night at almost midnight, an ultrasound reported that Leo had a massive tumor on his spleen and internal bleeding.

We had 4 hours to enjoy each other in the Urgent Care before that suspicion was confirmed.

And then, there were hard decisions to make and regrets to ponder.

I wished I'd found a deeper bond with Leo over the years. We were close, but we could have been closer had I tried harder.

As he laid his head in my lap at the vet's, I realized that we'd had so few brushes with death or long convalescences together. He'd been so healthy over the years.

As much as illness and caregiving drains us, it can deepen and strengthen relationships, too. Overcoming gives us confidence and shows us what we're made of.

Leo and I are made of so much more than momentary connections and disconnections. We are made of dreams. Since Leo moved in, someone in our family has been home home round the clock—almost constantly—for over 8 years. It's just worked out that way.

So you can't blame me for imagining his priming coming together with my Priming as a bridge over these troubled waters.

On my end, the bridge began with acceptance for this tumor, for the state of our current bank account, for the estimated $7,000 surgery with about a 30% chance of leapfrogging cancer to survive maybe another 3 years.

I found a place of infinite love within me to bridge these seemingly finite gaps, to reassure my friend that we are never and will never be without one another.

Acceptance and sweet surrender. Maybe Leo felt it too. We went home peacefully enough.

Then after midnight, an idea struck me. What if a different vet clinic could do the surgery for less? I Googled that. Algorithms being part of the divine, AI shared on my 3rd rephrasing of the question that a clinic an hour away could do the surgery for a thousand. What?! I couldn't believe my eyes.

By 1 AM, I'd emailed a request for that surgery and had Leo's records sent from the Urgent Care. By 9 AM, they called and asked me to bring him in at 11.

Get this: It was their day off, but they'd decided to do a different emergency surgery and could add him to the mix.

What are the chances?

I'm writing this now with my dog lying beside me. The tumor that would have killed Leo by today was removed on Friday. The biopsy is still out. We have good months ahead of us. Maybe years.

It's been a journey. An adventure.

You could call it something darker, but why? To do so would not honor the light that's been shed on this precious relationship, on life itself.

Why not find the joy in it?