Love is Never the Wrong Decision
My beautiful Akita Kashi had her right hind leg amputated. She was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, a primary bone tumor commonly associated with large and giant breed dogs. At 115lbs, Kashi certainly meets the criteria. Osteosarcoma in dogs is aggressive and can spread quickly so time is of the essence when treating.
She was diagnosed on a Thursday. Her leg was gone the following Tuesday. We had to make a quick decision — the cancer had not yet spread — one that (hopefully) extends her life. I share this not for the sympathy, but rather to highlight something profound I learned about how people process and respond to life challenges and make the most difficult decisions.
It helps, for context, to understand that we are “dog people.” My family’s two Akitas, both of whom are rescues, are beloved and equal members. We often joke that in my husband’s hierarchy, the dogs trump the children (and I, myself, fall to a distant third). And to be quite candid, it’s true. These dogs are my husband Peter’s life. He loves them deeply, and at eight years of age (almost nine), both have had wonderful lives because of the care he gives each and every day. To say this diagnosis hit hard is an understatement. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him so upset. My younger daughter didn’t take the news well either. Her anxiety flared and she struggled greatly on the evening we learned the news. My older daughter was deeply saddened but put on a brave face; I’m not sure she knew how to react, to be truthful. And then there was me. Stoic. I took the information in and, although stunned, I processed it and moved into action. What decisions did we need to make? How quickly did we need to make them? Who could I call for a second opinion? That’s just the way my brain works.
Fast forward to the day after surgery. My husband went to visit her; the weather was nice, and the vet tech brought Kashi outside in a cart so she could be with her people. Peter sent me a picture of her via text that showed up just as I was in the midst of a staff call. It took my breath away. The visual was startling and unsettling. What had felt initially like the best, most rational decision for Kashi now felt like a cold-hearted, rash choice with serious consequences. Here was my beautiful, sweet dog who no longer had a hind leg.
I recently began a book on Skillsoft Percipio called The Stress Effect: Why Smart Leaders Make Dumb Decisions — And What to Do About It. And while I am confident our decision to amputate was not a dumb decision, the book has served as a good guide on how and why we make decisions. It opens with a quote, which struck me to the core:
“Every great decision creates ripples — like a huge boulder dropped in a lake. The ripples merge, rebound off the banks in unforeseeable ways. The heavier the decision, the larger the waves, the more uncertain the consequences.” Benjamin Disraeli
In my job as a leader, I deal in decisions. Most of the time, those decisions are rooted in data and prudent guidance from others. Sometimes, however, I must make rapid decisions relying instead on experience and yes, gut-instinct. Those are the decisions that often weight the heaviest, but must be made, nonetheless. It comes with the role.
And I take the same approach in my personal life. I look at the data in front of me, seek input from others, and make the best possible decision. But while the process is the same as in my professional life, I feel far less confident when it comes to my loved ones. Yes, I apply the same guiding principles. But let me be clear: It’s easy to make a decision. It’s hard to live with the consequences. Particularly when they impact you personally.
This morning Kashi tried to climb the stairs. (Of course, we had them blocked.) But, she MacGyvered her way in, and fell down four stairs as I desperately tried to catch her. She was fine. I was not. I cried and cried, big fat ugly tears. It was more than just this scare; it was the magnitude of it all. Her visible scar where a leg used to be. Her inability to understand what had happened and why. Her mortality.
Yes, we had made the right decision, validated over and over by experts. Again, the decision was easy. But her absent leg and healing wound serve as a constant reminder that it’s the aftermath of our decisions that require more of our effort and thought.
This morning, I opened the door to let our other Akita out and I saw my beautiful Kashi sprint by me instead. I was taken aback. She seems to have taken to three legs quite quickly. And even as I finish this post, she is sitting underneath me wagging her tail waiting for me to pet her. It was absolutely the right decision.
