Prognosis Needs to Leave Room for Dignity : A first-hand account of how concerns are sometimes expressed for the quality of life for a family’s pet dog, but not for a family member.

“If he doesn’t improve, you may want to think about putting him to sleep,” the veterinarian said sympathetically. I stared at the doctor. For a scary moment, I thought he was talking about my father rather than my dog.

It had been a long week of medical treatment for all of us, and I was coming to realize that when it comes to facing life-threatening diseases, we seem to value our animals’ rights more than our own.

My dog, a big friendly Alaskan Malamute named Charlie, had begun to slow down and show signs of his 11 years. One night I heard him howling and ran out to find him lying in a pool of vomit, his breathing shallow, refusing to get up.

The vet advised me to watch him closely. He might have had a heart attack or seizure. I hung up, worried that my friend was not long for this world.

The next morning my father called to tell me that his doctor had found spots on his left lung. He felt he was destined “to go like your mother,” who had died of lung cancer some 14 years before. He sounded scared and tentative as he asked me to drive him to the City of Hope, where they would run a bronchoscopy to determine if the spots were indeed cancer.

I found myself using the words I had to Charlie the night before, insisting everything would be all right.

Charlie had more seizures in the next few days. On Saturday morning he could not stand up. I gathered him up and took him to a clinic. The vet decided to watch him for a few days. “Just some routine tests,” he insisted. I was sure that I would never see him again.

Three days later I sat with my father in pre-op. He was nervous, talking about the pain the doctors had put my mother through, “sticking a damned tube down her throat” so they could hand her a death sentence.

After an hour and a half, the nurse came in and told us there was nothing to worry about. This was just a “routine test.” Our eyes locked for a moment, and as they wheeled him out the door I saw the fear and puzzlement that had been in Charlie’s eyes. I had the familiar feeling that I would never see him again.

When my father came out, he was told the results would be back in a few days. They gave him some reading material on cancer, and the doctor described possible chemotherapy treatments, surgical probabilities, side effects and nursing care. The treatment options seemed almost as depressing as the disease.

But my father wasn’t listening, obviously remembering the stranger his wife of 30 years had become during her battle with cancer. I knew he did not want his life to end like that, each day a small victory, each day a major loss. We drove back home in silence and awkwardly said goodby.

The vet called to say that they were still studying Charlie’s test results but he seemed well enough to go home. He seemed optimistic but broached the subject of euthanasia. “If the quality of life begins to suffer, then perhaps you might think of . . . well, letting him go,” he said. “After all, we don’t want him to have pain or loss of dignity.”

Quality of life? Loss of dignity? These were two things never mentioned in any of the cancer reading my father’s doctor had given him.

I thought of my father, the robust Irishman who hated the idea of being sick. He had never spent a day in the hospital, let alone be dependent on anyone else. The idea of him in bed with tubes and monitors stuck in his arms was as ludicrous to him as to me.

I remembered my mother in her last year, after they had removed her lung. She was in and out of the hospital, aging 50 years in one. I thought of her hair falling out, her days of not being able to get out of bed, her death in a rest home because the doctors insisted she needed round-the-clock care.

And, yes I thought of my own life. Was I prepared to become my father’s keeper? Could I relive those painful days watching a loved one slip not so quietly away?

It was scary to be entertaining such thoughts. One day I would be reading about living wills, the next worrying about playing God. I wanted to know my father’s dignity would not be removed with the cancer. I wanted a guarantee that we wouldn’t have to relive my mother’s last two years. I wanted someone to care about the quality of his life, not just the length.

After all, we would do as much for a dog.

Luckily it never came to that. Both sets of routine tests came back negative. The spots on my father’s lung were bronchitis. And while was Charlie was getting older, he was healthy and happy.

For the time being, none of us had to lose his dignity.