MSI Press Blog

  When my beloved Murjan was dying from cancer , I was desperate for information, but my husband was dying from cancer at the same time, which gave me very little time for seeking out answers. Murjan was almost 19 years old and had been on chemotherapy for three years. His vet did not know how to help him further, but she apparently did not want to admit that -- and subconsciously I did not want to admit that she did not know what to do and had essentially given up on him. I was unable to get timely appointments, or any appointments at all, even in the emergency room. We do not have any vets in town. I have to travel no matter what. Murjan's vet was located an hour north of us. To get help, I contacted other vets. A vet to the west of us recommended hydration, and so we stated hydrating Murjan every other day. His vet to the north allowed as to how that might help. But Murjan kept losing weight. He was down to 5 pounds (from 16 pounds) when he died.  Finally, a vet to the south of

  I have written a bit about the process of pets dying before, along with the ways in which vets can be (or not) helpful. In that post, I shared a book by Barbara Karnes on understanding the pet-dying process, which I had found very helpful and which would have provided me with a fair amount of relief and guidance had I known about while Murjan was still alive. It explained much about his dying process and death that was comforting in retrospect. You can read that post HERE . In this post, I want to share the emotional aspects not only of the dying itself but also of the role of the support community (which should be supportive but in our case was not so, at least not to the extent that we needed and that could have been). As a result, my experience with Murjan's dying days were traumatic--more traumatic than they should have been because of lack of support from the veterinary hospital that should have been my source of support.  As I explained in the earlier post, Murjan had been

One of the most comforting and helpful resources we found when Carl was in the final days of hospice -- more helpful than what hospice workers could tell us and more than doctors did tell us -- was a little book, called Gone from My Sight: The Dying Experience by Barbara Karnes, RN. As Carl went through each predicted and predictable stage from being distant mentally, to not eating, and then to not drinking, this little book told us the range of expectations and what was happening to his body in preparation for death in relation to what he was and was not doing. The book description on Amazon is very accurate:  The biggest fear of watching someone die is fear of the unknown; not knowing what dying will be like or when death will actually occur. The booklet "Gone From My Sight" explains in a simple, gentle yet direct manner the process of dying from disease. Dying from disease is not like it is portrayed in the movies. Yet movies, not life, have become our role models. Death

Carl frequently complained of being cold during the last two months of living/dying with cancer. Even with the heat at, for me an uncomfortable, 72 degrees (when we typically maintain it at a comfortable 66 degrees). Even when wearing a sweater or even something heavier and smothered in blankets. He was always complaining about being cold, and only after he died did I find out why -- and that he really was very cold because body temperature drops when someone is dying. We were constantly struggling over how to compromise on temperature. My son and I were extremely uncomfortable with the amount of heat Carl would set the thermostat for, as well as having concerns with the cost of the amount of gas needed to keep the house so hot (dying can create immense financial stress -- a topic Cancer Diary will address in the future).  In general, cold registered for me, having grown up in Maine and having spent a few winters in Siberia, pictured above, on a very different scale from the perceptio

The cats in the window, Intrepid (tabby-mau mix) and Murjan (red & white Turkish van), were the best of friends. Murjan "raised" Intrepid after he was found as a small kitten crying in the grass after his mother died. Both were born in Jordan and were brought to the USA when we moved back home to California. Both were diagnosed at the same time with lymphoma though the vet said that it was pure coincidence. Intrepid was the younger by four years, but he had the worst case: his kidneys and liver were already damaged when we found out he was sick. Both began chemotherapy in summer of 2018.  Intrepid In October 2018, Intrepid , named for his daredevil approach to life, died. He was only 11 years old. As the days went by and the chemo did little more than make him loopy--actually, it was difficult to know whether the progressing disease was causing him to walk drunkenly or the chemotherapy side effect or both--he ended up on IV at home at times and IV in the pet hospital at t

  Anger, in its narrow form, is one of the stages of dying that Elizabeth Kubler-Ross identified quite some time ago in her book, On Death and Dying . People go through various stages, according to Kubler Ross (though her stages have been disputed ), the second of which in her model is anger (though she herself later stated that the stages are not necessarily sequential).  While anger of the patient was the focus of Kubler Ross and of most books and posts about cancer (and other dying) patients, my recent experience is that anger comes also within and from the caregiver, who had not planned on this life-changing (and time-changing) activity and likely is not prepared for it, whether it be lack of skills, lack of knowledge, lack of medical communication or options, lack of time to accomplish all that is necessary and thereby creating considerable stress, or lack of temperament/patience, causing anger to well up as a reaction to inability to control the environment and limited to no time

  When a dying loved one does not want to talk about the ramifications of dying is an issue I have been wanting to address for a time. it was a very difficult one for us. More than head-in-sand, it was a deliberate refusal by Carl, when he was dying, to become involved with completing really important paperwork, like advanced directives, will/family trust, power of attorney. It was as if he could avoid death by not talking about it. (Of course, to be fair in representing the situation, he found out from a fall, with no warning, that he had probably only days and weeks left to live. The local hospital said days; Stanford was more positive about taking steps to turn days into something longer.) Cancer Diary will address this topic again (and likely again). For today, though, I want to share Diane Hullet's Best Life, Best Death podcast interview with Barbara Karnes on these sticky end of life questions, from the point of view of hospice worker and family member. See related MSI Pres

  We only get to die once (well, usually, NDEs aside). How we die can be just as important as how we live. I wish that thought had been top of the mind when Carl was dying; we might have done things differently. It is not, though, that we did not have examples. We did, actually. Dottie, a dear friend from Massachusetts, had been my secretary when I was in the Army and then opened her house to me and my infant son when, during my later reserve days, the barracks would not allow him in because of his severe breathing issues from which he was in danger of dying nearly every day. (He survived, grew up, and, still with some breathing issues, is living a robust life.) Through all the intervening years, even after I moved to California, Dottie stayed in touch. Then, she got terminal brain cancer. After some initial surgery (and more planned, which, she feared, she would not survive), she decided that she wanted to spend the time she had left visiting all her family, which had spread out acros

  Since today is my birthday, this guest post seemed very apropos! DYING AND LIVING “Yet if we love one another, God dwells in us, and his love is brought to perfection in us.” --I John 4: 12     I watched Dad die. I was only seventeen at the time, too young to understand much of what was going on. My father had been diagnosed with throat cancer two years before, a disease common to heavy smokers and drinkers. He underwent brutal cobalt treatments and lost his voice. He was in constant pain, unrelieved by the medications. For the last three months of his life he was bedridden at home. Mom, my brothers, and I took turns sitting by his bedside, mostly in silence. He could not speak, and I did not know what to say. It was decided not to tell Dad he was dying, so he could keep up his hope. But he knew. The priest later told us how Dad spoke with him about his dying and not to tell us. So no one said anything about the elephant in the room. In the silence during my death wat