Today at four o'clock our vet at UC Davis called to talk about Dixie's tumor and its treatment. Four o'clock on a Sunday; I'm impressed, as well as grateful. She asked if I had any questions about the surgery everyone keeps saying Dixie needs. I had just one. What, I wondered, are the statistics on surviving the kind of operation you're recommending?
"Good," she said promptly. "We have very good success with it."
"Statistics," I replied, "please give me numbers."
She paused, thinking, and said there was one large study done in New York this decade. Of 67 dogs who went through the surgery, 43 survived the first four weeks after it and went on to have a life expectancy of three years.
"You lose a third of your patients and you call that a good success rate?" I said, aghast. She seemed a bit taken aback, wanting to defend her statistics but realizing, I suppose, that these weren't actually comforting numbers. I told her we would not consider surgery under those circumstances.
The doctor thought that was acceptable. I hereby take back my dismissal of all doctors as cretins. This vet, at least, is trying to be helpful. We talked about how to recognise the signs of the tumor metastasizing and the onset of Cushing's disease. She agreed that it was a reasonable option to simply monitor Dixie's blood levels and get ultrasounds done at our local animal hospital every six weeks just to keep an eye on the tumor. It could, after all, be benign. No one knows. And if it's not, if things start changing, then we can try drug treatments, or chemotherapy, and treat the symptoms instead of attempting to cure her.
All we really know is our adorable beast is under a double burden of this adrenal tumor and the possible regrowth of the mast cell tumors. I'm not stupid or blind; I know this will eventually be her doom. But I'm giddy with relief at having the doctor concur with my own assessment: we can delay the inevitable without surgery, we can treat her medically instead of surgically. Dealing with chemotherapy seems like a better option than a dangerous operation that kills a third of the dogs it purports to save. My shoulders feel a little less burdened. But only for now. Only for a while.
This is a Pyrrhic victory.
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