Java Update, no. 2

My cancer treatment included radiation to my head. My oncologist warned me that I would lose my sense of taste, emphasizing that this loss would be difficult to tolerate. I could imagine loss of taste, as could my doctor who had only observed people coping with the deprivation. I remember thinking, "Well, that will be weird, but I can do anything for six weeks." In reality, absence of taste was completely demoralizing. I lost so much weight that my doctor threatened to insert a feeding tube into my stomach. I tricked the nurses by filling my pockets with keys and coins and not peeing until after I got on the scale each day.

I not only lost my sense of taste but also had to tolerate the sour radiation burn. I kept convincing myself that a specific food item would clear my mouth. If I only had a bottle of Coke over ice, for example, I'd feel better. If I only had a Ring Ding, all would be well. But the Coke and the Ring Ding, neither of which my tongue recognized, only depressed me because they didn't do what I'd hoped, rid my mouth of the burn. Before radiation, I understood intellectually what absence of taste must be like; after radiation, I had a full body knowledge of it. On the last day of zapping, the techs congratulated me. Apparently most patients getting radiation to this part of the body bail long before they complete treatment. Believe me, I knew why.

On Monday, Java's "forever dad" arrived to take Java to his "forever home." When I first agreed to foster him—before he even arrived—I imagined that I would get attached and then be sad to see him go. But again, this was an intellectual understanding of how I would feel. I wasn't prepared for the full-body sadness that consumed me as I handed over the leash, watched his new owner lift him into the SUV and drive off. I no longer controlled how often he would get walked, whether his time would be spent free of a crate, if he would get smacked for bad behavior or squirted with water. He was such a dynamo that the house seemed too quiet, too empty without him in it. The loss wasn't an idea in my head but a heaviness in all of my limbs.

Today I washed the sofa covers and kitchen floor, both of which Java had dirtied with muddy paw prints. I vacuumed up the fuzz that he had pulled off the tennis balls, the stray pieces of stuffing he had loosed from all of the stuffed toys. I threw the Nylabones into the toy chest. I imagine that Yo-Yo and Bug will ignore them now; they no longer have a puppy to steal them from, no puppy to torment as they gnaw the bones leisurely just out of reach. I won't miss all of the extra house work, but I do mourn the loss of that sweet soul, as does Bug, who let Java chew on his head so often that he now has bald spots above his eyes. Yo-Yo, however, seems satisfied that the house no longer includes Java nipping at her heels, trying to get her to play. Vaya con dios, Little Man.

It turns out that Java played a very important role around here, but I'll get to that in the next post.