Curveballs and a Bright Beacon of HOPE

So. This morning. Emmett’s appointment.

We bucked up, said no crying, we need to be brave for Emmett. Deep breaths, etc. We drive to the animal hospital making lame attempts and jokes and reaching into the backseat to rub his silky ears.

We are ushered into an exam room, and are visited by a fairly inept surgical intern with zero social skills. Then the surgeon bursts into the room. He examines Emmett. He pokes his tumor, has him walk a bit, reads his chart, looks at us and says, “Nope.”

Um. What.

The surgeon disagrees with the assessment made by the surgeon who first evaluated Emmett. This surgeon is pretty sure – nay, entirely confident – that he can perform the surgery that the other surgeon could not, that he can remove the tumor without affecting Emmett’s ambulation. And hey, he says, if the tumor comes back, I’ll give you a discount on amputation at that point.

Um. What.

He asks us how we want to proceed. I truly felt like I had just been pantsed in front of my entire high school or something. We rely on these people and their expertise to guide us. We were finally reconciled with the decision to amputate. So now what do we do?

The conclusion is that there is a soft-tissue specialist from the Purdue University vet school who is going to meet with the surgeon and our vet tomorrow, along with me, John, and Emmett. This specialist will evaluate his condition, check through the tests, and make a recommendation. Then the surgeon and everyone is basically on board to do whatever this specialist guy says.

I think I need a drink…