My 8th Cancerversay

November 5, 2011

We were camping, an activity I didn’t particularly enjoy. On a hike with our friends, our dog Noël had dashed off in pursuit of something and was nowhere to be seen. We had rescued her less than a year before. Noël had been in a local pet shelter for fifty-nine days. This nearby county shelter was not a “no kill” shelter, and after sixty days, the animals were euthanized. She was saved from that fate by FLAG (For the Love of Animals in Goochland), a local animal rescue group. Noël barely looked like a dog when we met her. She was just fur and bones. The fur she did have was patchy and sparse. Noël had clearly been on her own for some time. She was skittish around most people and appeared to be deathly afraid of me.

Lissa and Emma were certain: Noël was the dog we had to save. I didn’t want a new dog in our home. Lucy was my dog. I had chosen her and loved my German shepherd—Rottweiler mix for thirteen years. Lucy had died just four months before Lissa and Emma ambushed me with rescue dog pictures. I was still grieving and didn’t want to have room in my heart for another pet.

I continued running even though my lungs felt like they might explode. Bailey, the neighbors’ golden retriever, was keeping up with Noël, and I could just see a yellow ball of fur up ahead. All I could hope was that Noël wasn’t that far in front of her.

Finally, I saw the dogs slow, some smell halting their joy run. I was able to catch up and put the leash back on Noël. I let out a huge sigh of relief, thankful that the rest of our weekend wouldn’t be spent wandering the wilderness, hoping to somehow bring Noël home.

Our neighbors, Mike and Cheryl Bourdeau, had invited us camping, one last getaway before the cold of autumn set in. At least it was camping in a cabin and not in tents. I could handle staying in a cabin much easier than sleeping on the ground. We were celebrating Cheryl’s birthday, and that night Mike had a fantastic dinner of steaks planned. We toasted the birthday girl with red wine and ate gourmet cupcakes. We played games and thoroughly enjoyed one another’s company. The evening came to a close too quickly. As I was preparing for bed, I needed to use the bathroom. As I stood peeing, I watched in shock.

My urine was sangria red.

I couldn’t begin to think what was causing this. There was no pain. There was no other indication that something was wrong with me.

I commenced freaking out.

I found Lissa and told her what had happened. I grabbed my smartphone and tried to look up potential causes. There was hardly any signal. I stepped out onto the cabin porch, held my phone

above my head, and tilted it at just the right angle to get a data signal. Blood in your urine was called “gross hematuria.” I read through potential causes. At the end of a very scary list were two causes Lissa and I hoped could be the answer: vigorous exercise and an excessive amount of beets. Not only had I been running earlier, trying to catch Noël—an activity that isn’t a normal part of my routine—but Cheryl’s birthday treats had included a red velvet cupcake from a gourmet shop. Though I never would have guessed, Lissa suggested that the shop might have used concentrated beet juice to color the cupcake.

We calmed ourselves down enough to sleep, hoping that it was a freak occurrence and not something to truly worry about.