Here we go.

In which Jill gets ready to take care of things. Again.

Buster and Maggie.

The doctor entered the exam room, and I immediately knew what was coming. “We found two lesions,” she said. It was breast cancer, ten years after a lumpectomy and radiation. This was my second diagnosis.

As she explained the care plan, the surgery, the chemo, the recovery, and the prognosis, I thought:

Here we go.

We cancer warriors understand that it’s never a single treatment or a single decision. A serious illness is like a long negotiation: with your body, your doctors, your fear, and your idea of who you are. Cancer treatment is a series of steps that take time, demand expertise, and promise nothing.

I had a double mastectomy and chemotherapy. To answer the three most common questions: My boobs were emptied and refilled with fat from my belly (there was plenty), I did not lose my hair, and I am fine. In that order of importance, apparently. I have to take an estrogen-blocking drug called Aromasin. The side effect is bone loss, which is why I now do weight training. And I take a ton of supplements – yes, including turmeric! – because there’s data.

One thing about cancer: you learn a lot about yourself. Your actual pain threshold (higher than you thought). Your actual insurance coverage (lower than you thought). And exactly which friends will show up with lasagna, and which ones will forward you a podcast about turmeric.

Cancer changes the calendar.

Two weeks ago, on vacation in Chautauqua, New York, our vet called. “We got the cytology report. Maggie has cancer.”

Here we go.

Our six-year-old American Bully had developed some unusual swelling under her jaw — two lumps that felt like ripe plums. The primary care vet speculated it could be an infected salivary gland. The cytology report said otherwise: B-cell lymphoma.

It wasn’t my first lymphoma rodeo. The moment I heard the news, I understood that for the foreseeable future — hopefully, the distant foreseeable future — less of my time would be my own. I’d be seeing a lot more of Maggie’s oncologist, the pharmacist, and Susie Cakes.

I’ve done this before.

Sixteen years ago, my initial cancer diagnosis was Stage 1. I had a lumpectomy and radiation. Coincidentally, my dog at the time, a Coonhound named Colby, was diagnosed with T-cell lymphoma. On cancer days, I would drop Colby off at the vet, travel seven miles to Cedars Sinai hospital, get radiation, and then pick Colby up.

Colby eyed me in the rearview mirror on the way home. Exceptional dog that she was, it said everything: So this is what we’re doing. I nodded. Yes. This is what we’re doing. She thrived. Until she didn’t. We did everything for her. I would do it all again.

The good news is that Maggie never got the memo.

Maggie is getting chemo (specifically, the CHOP protocol). She sailed through her first treatment, and I expect she will sail through subsequent treatments. As soon as we see any type of discomfort or mood swings, we’ll refine our plan.

When it comes to cancer, humans would never put our pets through what we put ourselves through. Dogs often feel remarkably normal once treatment starts, especially if they achieve remission (which we expect for Maggie). We’re going in with everything we’ve got.

And the science is catching up. The past five years have brought real advances in canine cancer medicine: an oral chemo called Laverdia-CA1 that dogs can take at home, immunotherapy in clinical trials, and even a preventative cancer vaccine (Calviri’s VACCS trial, completed in 2024). We’re not where we need to be, but we’re moving.

Life with Maggie living with cancer will look, on most days, a lot like life with Maggie. We’ll still take our morning walks in the neighborhood. She’ll still bark at the fluffy little white dog around the corner — with the same indignation. I’ll still put castor oil on my achy left knee before we head out, because apparently, we are both falling apart on a schedule.

There will be vet appointments and Pill Pockets and days when she’s tired in a way that breaks my heart. There will be days when she’s not tired at all and I’ll forget, briefly and gratefully, that any of this is happening. That forgetting is a gift. You learn to take it.

Here we go.