Column: Confronting the possibility of cancer

I sat down with my iPad to fire off an email to some friends. I’d had some good news—the nodule on my thyroid was benign. Yay for me.

When I opened the tablet, though, a news bulletin awaited me. Catherine, the Princess of Wales, had just announced she was undergoing cancer treatment.

I’m not a fangirl of anyone, and only have a passing interest in the royals, but I felt my elation deflate like a pricked balloon when I saw that headline. Because I’d been obsessing about cancer for several weeks, I felt a keener sense of sorrow for Kate than I might have otherwise. I’d had the best possible outcome; she was facing the ordeal I’d dreaded.

When my primary care provider called in late February to tell me I’d need a biopsy, I had tried to remain calm. But it wasn’t the best of times. Earlier that day, I’d made an appointment with our veterinary practice. It was time to say goodbye to our 15-year-old dog, Martha. I felt I just couldn’t deal with another emotionally fraught issue. The thyroid call came at dinnertime; I could barely finish my meal.

Eventually I was able to breathe a little more easily. I’d had the nodule for a long time—maybe 15 years. When it was first discovered, during a routine exam, I was referred to an endocrinologist. He told me from the beginning that he didn’t think it was cancerous. However, I had to go through some kind of scan that required me to avoid iodine for days beforehand. Since iodine is an additive to most commercial salt, that meant I was cooking strictly from scratch. Luckily, at that time I made my own bread from time to time. I got my loaf pan out.

I believe that scan long ago was inconclusive, because I also had a biopsy afterwards. This was done by the doctor, in his office. Having needles inserted in my neck was not painful, just unpleasant. No matter. The nodule was benign.

After that, I had regular appointments with the endocrinologist. They gradually spaced out to about every three years. Then my doctor had left the practice. I was told I’d be set up with someone else.

No one ever called. I didn’t care. Years had now passed. My thyroid function was normal. I didn’t think the nodule had increased in size, though I didn’t pay much attention to it.

Fast forward to January, 2024. Time for a physical. My nurse practitioner examines the nodule and thinks I should have an ultrasound just to make sure everything’s okay. In February, I blithely go off to the procedure. It will be a breeze compared to the mammogram I have scheduled a few weeks later. I’m not worried about the outcome.

Now, I’m usually the kind of person who indulges in magical thinking. I believe that I must worry about every possible negative outcome to every possible situation. If I don’t, those outcomes will materialize.

Whoops. I hadn’t worried and—wham—bad news.

A biopsy is a precautionary measure. The rational section of my mind (it’s in there somewhere) knows this. I’d had one thyroid biopsy; I’d once had an unrelated biopsy as well. And, years ago, a suspicious area on a mammogram warranted further investigation. I’d come through it all fine.

Of course, I had family members and friends who had not been so lucky.

This time, I also had the “patient portal.” This online repository of all my medical history from the Stone Age until two hours ago is a blessing and a curse. It’s wonderful when I see  that the results of my routine blood work are excellent. It’s a horror show when I read the ultrasound report — prebiopsy —  and saw that my nodule was rated a 4 out of 4. That ain’t good.

Okay, deep breath. I do just a little bit of internet research to refresh my memory of my previous thyroid cancer scare. Reputable sources say that level 4 nodules are usually cancerous, which is not reassuring. However, the bottom line is that most nodules are benign. Also, thyroid cancer is very treatable. It usually does not spread elsewhere in the body.

I clung to this information, but I couldn’t take the risk of not worrying. I declared I was going to postpone my mammogram. Suppose some shadow showed up on the mammogram and I had to have another biopsy? I simply couldn’t face it.

A couple of days passed. Martha was now gone, and I was bereft. Oh, what the heck. I’d do the mammogram as scheduled. Bring it on. How much lower could I go?

The biopsy was scheduled for a Tuesday afternoon.  As luck would have it, I had a bone density scan in the morning. It would be a full day at Maine General. Once again: bring it on.

It all got done, and I even managed to smile a few times.  Mammogram: all good. I do have some bone loss. I’m dealing with it.

The best news: no thyroid cancer.

As I flipped my wall calendar to April earlier this week, I said a silent prayer of thanks that I wasn’t filling it with appointments for cancer treatments. Then I said one for Princess Kate, and everyone else who will be making such appointments. I’m thinking of you.

Column: Thank you for your "dog love"

My husband, Paul, and I moved to Maine from Massachusetts in 1986 and almost immediately noticed something different from back home. When we went out to do errands on a Saturday, so many vehicles we passed had dogs in them. They were hanging out the windows or, because it was not yet illegal, balancing themselves in the beds of pickup trucks.

The pups were going to the landfill, or Sears, or the supermarket, or maybe for a terrifying trip through the car wash. It didn’t matter where. They were hanging out with their people.

“Mainers and their dogs,” Paul and I would say, smiling to each other.

I was reminded, big time, of the strong connections my neighbors have to their pets after receiving many heartfelt emails responding to my last column. I had written a piece about saying goodbye to Martha, our 15-year-old lab-pit bull mix.

I heard from people who had lost their own dogs, who were dealing with “senior dog issues,” like Paul and I had done, or who just wanted to express their condolences.

“I'm so sorry for your loss, no matter her wonderful long life, it still hurts,” was one kind response.

“Sending support and care your way.”

“There are no words I can say to ease your pain. I am sad for your loss.”

My heart was full. Or so I thought. Because then I started to receive emails from Alabama, New Mexico, Texas—even Ireland. I learned my column had received thousands of page views online.

I guess my heart then overflowed.

There is so much dog  love out there!

And dog love is a very good thing.

Of course, every writer wants to be read. I always enjoy—and value—hearing from readers. To have a full inbox a week after a column has run is a dream come true. I felt a little like Sally Field at the Oscars: “You like me!”

But I found more reasons to rejoice in this response.

I was gratified that Martha’s story resonated with all those dog-loving readers. Grieving the loss of a beloved dog  can be intense. Martha’s passing felt like a limb had been ripped from my body. A huge piece of my life was gone.

Martha was my ninth dog. It never gets easier.

“God bless her dog parents,” wrote one reader. Tears welled in my eyes at that.

Readers told me, in their own ways, of feeling the same. Or of dreading the day they knew was coming soon, when they too would have to make the hard decision to let go. I heard about a 14-year-old mix who looks a lot like Martha. A 16-year-old Pomeranian. An 18-year-old poodle.

I relished the image of all those senior pups out there.

One reader mentioned that my column had turned up because he was searching for information about older dogs and the challenges they faced.

Been there, done that. The last few months of caring for Martha weren’t easy, but Paul and I have no regrets and would absolutely do it all over again.

Some readers also assured me that I could find happiness again, someday, with another dog.

I’m not sure about that at the moment, but I appreciate the encouragement.

Hearing from my dog-loving readers also improved my perspective on the state of the world. I feel surrounded by darkness right now. American politics is divisive and sometimes downright ugly. The conflicts in Ukraine and the Middle East are horrific. Climate change is bearing down on us with a sense of depressing certainty.

But through it all, people are loving their dogs. They are taking the time to read about someone else’s dog, and more time to contact the writer. They are sharing their own stories—and photos of their pups.

A picture of a rescued, grinning chihuahua brought a ray of sunshine to my day.

But this is the important thing: Treating domestic animals with respect and kindness is the highest form of humanity, in my mind. They depend on their people to care for them, to do the right thing by them. This takes heart, soul and integrity.

“Animals bring so much love into the world, especially our close companions,” wrote one reader.

The thought that there are so many good people out there—all those dog, cat and horse lovers, plus all those who swerve for squirrels or move turtles off the road—is a warm, glowing bright spot for me. I can think of these folks to help myself remain calm when I’m being tailgated on the highway, or nearly blindsided on the Cony roundabout.

Not everyone is selfish, self-absorbed. It only seems that way sometimes.

“Martha was lucky to have you as her family.” That is a sentiment I will carry with me for a long time.

Martha had an irrepressible spirit. She was, if I may say so myself, a very cute dog, lively and wiry, with what looked like a stick figure in white on her black chest. She turned heads and prompted smiles. I miss her terribly, but it is a gift to know she is still touching people’s lives.

Thank you, readers, for letting me know that Martha’s magic is alive and well.

I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com 

Column: Saying goodbye to a dog who led a charmed life

The young woman passed us slowly in her car. A grin broadened on her face. In the back seat, a child peered out. She was smiling too.

My husband, Paul, and I were walking our dog, Martha, around the block. She was a 35-pound lab-pit bull mix, mostly black, though at 15-plus years, her snout had grown white. As she trotted along, Martha wore her khaki L.L. Bean dog coat, which seemed to be made of the same material as their human field jackets.

Of course they were smiling.

I felt a sense of pride. Martha had been steadily aging and developing new issues over the last six months. But she still enjoyed her walks and meals. Paul and I were working hard to keep her going.

After we were back in the house, after Martha shared a variety of treats with her feline housemates, reality set back in. She wedged herself into a corner trying to drink some water and couldn’t figure out how to get out. It was not the first time.

We said goodbye to Martha two weeks later. Paul and I were able to set a date with her veterinarian, and the process went as smoothly and peacefully as we could have hoped. I wondered if we were acting too soon, but, in retrospect, we were right on time. A little later and we might have ended up in the emergency clinic, a scenario I had dreaded.

My head tells me we did what was necessary and right, that Martha lived a long and wonderful life. That she is in a better place. My heart is simply broken.

I tell myself I need to think about how hard life had become for her in the end. Last June, I wrote a column about Martha. She was showing signs of aging, but insisted on jumping down the three steps into the den, which was her hangout. Martha prided herself on making a seamless leap onto the sofa. Of course, at her age, she didn’t always make it, but I had to admire her indomitable spirit. I imagined her motto was “gotta fly!” 

By October, however, Martha’s problems had grown more serious. As the holidays approached, I wondered how much time she had left. But we didn’t give up; we just kept trying to make accommodations.

When Martha developed some bladder incontinence, I tried cranberry treats. I believe they worked, because after a week of taking them, she never had another urinary accident except for one day when she was trying to tell us she needed to go, but we were trying to decide whether Paul needed to go to urgent care for a tetanus booster because of a nail injury.

Martha also took Cosequin treats to help with her mobility, although I think her problem was more one of balance than stiffness. Her declining eyesight probably also contributed to the trouble she was having locating her food and water bowls and crashing into the space heater.

We commandeered every water hog mat we had in the house and arranged them where Martha was likely to fall. Eventually, though, we had to put her food and water bowls on a low chest in the kitchen so she could eat more comfortably. We moved the cats’ water fountain upstairs after Martha ran into it several times, dumping gallons of water on the floor.

There wasn’t anything we could do about the way Martha would pace around the house at times. We told ourselves to assume that, when she paced, she needed to go to the bathroom or wanted water. But sometimes we just didn’t know why. Maybe she heard one of us say something about going somewhere? We finally concluded it was canine cognitive disorder.

For months, Paul and I didn’t leave the house together for more than an hour. We were afraid to leave her alone.

At the end of January, we took Martha in for a wellness check. Overall, except for some weakness in her back legs, she was in good shape for a dog her age. Of course her vet was concerned about her decline, but he assured us we were doing all we could do.

And we continued to do that for another month.

Martha truly lived a charmed life. She came to us straight out of her litter at the Kennebec Valley Humane Society. (All our other dogs had previous hardships.) Once at home, Martha bonded immediately with her big brother, Aquinnah, a chocolate lab who allowed her to sleep on his back for the rest of his life. She had no major illnesses, no major infirmities until the very end. Paul was retired by the time we adopted her, so she never even had to spend workdays alone. Martha was fun, super energetic and determined not to let her advanced age slow her down. I learned so much from her. I loved her.

I am crying as I write this, but I am also telling myself not to be maudlin. To live a long life, to have known love and joie de vivre, to exit peacefully with your loved ones by your side—who can ask for more? It is all I ever wanted for our Martha, since the day we brought that tiny bundle home so many years ago.

Martha (2008-2024)

I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Column: Dressing for success, in the third grade and beyond

The headline in this newspaper read: "After a pair of students wore suits and neckties to school, many at Chelsea Elementary School now dress up for 'Dapper Wednesday.'"

My heart sang when I saw it.

I have clung to the old-fashioned, currently unfashionable, belief that appearances count. It has been a lonely stance.

But as I read that headline, I heard President John F. Kennedy’s words echoing in my ear, spoken when I myself was a wee (but well-dressed) child: “The torch has been passed to a new generation.”

Whew.

I’ve been worried about the state of dress in this country for awhile, ever since adults starting wearing pajama bottoms in public. Yuck. I thought about the time George Constanza started wearing sweatpants around the city in “Seinfeld,” prompting Jerry to make this point: “You know the message you're sending out to the world with these sweatpants? You're telling the world: ‘I give up. I can't compete in normal society. I'm miserable, so I might as well be comfortable.’”

Jerry was spot on. But the sticking point here is comfort. Do you see why I feel no one agrees with me about taking time and care with how we look before we hit the streets? That a productive member of society is out of their pj’s by 7 a.m. and doing something useful?

Comfort! That dastardly concept.

James Ramage and Lincoln Bolitho, the third graders who started the natty dress rage at Chelsea Elementary, quickly learned about the power of looking good.

“The first day I walked in the door, up the stairs, I got 20 compliments,” Lincoln said of his white three-piece suit.

Well, yeah!

I was an educator for over 30 years. One of the banes of my existence was “pajama day.” I completely understood (of course I did; I lived it) the horrors of the day before Christmas vacation. Why not make it fun and special and let the kiddos wear their flannel ensembles and plush robes so they could be comfortable as they endured the final hours before freedom and presents?

To me, it was just inviting trouble. I personally could not imagine spending a day at work in attire meant for my bed. Besides the unsavoriness of wearing intimate apparel in the germ-filled world, I always wanted to feel professional at work. And I thought students should too—in their own way.

I never dreamed I’d see 8-year-olds going to school in suits, but it’s a dream come true.

It’s simply easier to pay attention and to be on top of your game when you’re wearing a crisply starched shirt. I sincerely believe that anyone who wears a bow tie to pre-calc class walks in with a 20-point advantage over a pal wearing a grungy T-shirt with a motif of a marijuana plant on it.

I think uniforms for students are a good idea, so you can see where I’m coming from.

I grew up wearing dresses to school. We were only liberated when I was 15 and allowed to wear pants, including jeans. Of course I was thrilled. I loved my Madewell overalls, but I have to admit they did lead to slouching and perhaps to the disastrous grade on my analysis of E.M. Forster’s “A Passage to India” that I still haven’t gotten over.

Dean Paquette, a retired music teacher who works as an educational technician at Chelsea Elementary, supports the Dapper Wednesday movement. “I wore a suit and tie every day, and things have changed,” Paquette told the Central Maine Newspapers, “but for me, (wearing a suit) used to be professional looking.”

Exactly.

Since I grew up in the era when women wore hats and gloves to go shopping, I understand both the advantages and pitfalls of dressing up. My memories have been reinforced by the episodes of the original “Perry Mason” that I’ve been watching.

I enjoy the old legal drama’s vintage style—all the mid-century clothing, cars and interior design. I love it when I spot something I recognize, like the lamp with a ball-shaped base similar to the one I inherited from my mother.

But while I admire confidential secretary Della Street’s sheath dresses and pencil skirts (not to mention the pumps with peekaboo toes), I know there was a lot of pressure for women to keep thin and dress in what was deemed an appropriately feminine manner. Feminists burning their bras in the late 1960s might be a myth, but it works as a symbol. Their wired, uplifting bras and tight girdles were uncomforable and confining in more ways than one.

I’d like to think there can be a happy medium. Certainly it’s possible to look neat and attractive without being strapped into bindings that are both literal and metaphorical.

I think we do this by choosing to make a good appearance and setting our own standards for what that means. Bottom line: It involves putting in a little time and effort before heading out the door.

This was my solitary cry in the wilderness before I read about James and Lincoln and “Mr. P.” I thank them for giving me hope for a better-looking America.

As principal Allison Hernandez told Maine Public Radio, “It's a great message for James and Lincoln of all the impact they can have on the world just by being themselves.”

I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com