What I Needed to Know About My Body, I Learned From My Dog

“Do you feel that?” I asked my daughter. I had my foot on a spot on the kitchen floor. There was some kind of vibration pulsing through it, which in turn was zapping my leg. 

“I don’t feel anything, Mom. You’re being totally weird.”

Weird maybe, perplexed definitely. A question briefly occurred to me, but I was too freaked out to really entertain it: Is it my apartment building that’s short-circuiting … or is it me? And then, as quickly as the buzz started, it stopped.

Later that night, I sat in bed—nowhere near the spot on the kitchen floor—and felt the tremor creep back in and travel up to my thigh. I stared at my leg, willing it to stop. I put my hands on the bed, hoping to feel some movement, but I felt nothing. Yet, the vibes in my leg were still dancing.  

Cautiously, I put my head on the pillow and that’s when a more severe rattle started. It rose through my abdomen and made its way to my chest. My body buzzed like a plane on autopilot, being tossed about in turbulence. Oddly, the minute I stood up from bed, the ride abruptly stopped. I laid back down and the craziness started up again. I stood up, gone. 

How the heck was I ever going to sleep?

This is not the first time I've ever said the words, “Well that’s weird,” regarding my body. I’d had symptoms over the years that have produced puzzling looks from practically every single doctor I visited. It took four years of pleading with doctors to take me seriously. Four years of hearing, “Well, we don’t know what you do have, but we know you don’t have cancer,” which was, PHEW, well, nobody wants that. And four years for some doctor to finally say, “Ah, we found the tumor.”

Ever since I had a brush with urothelial papillary carcinoma (a form of bladder cancer), I have been monitoring my body with bubbling anxiety. What no doctor tells you is that one of the side effects of having cancer is a newfound hypervigilance. Pains or twitches that at one time would have gone unnoticed, became potential alarm bells inside me. My past experience with the medical community led me to believe that no doctor is going to figure out what’s wrong, I alone had to! Correction: GOOGLE and I had to. Right?

“What no doctor tells you is that one of the side effects of having cancer is a newfound hypervigilance. Pains or twitches that at one time would have gone unnoticed, became potential alarm bells inside me.”

I typed in “vibration in body.” (Have you ever done this? Of course you have, everyone has.) I should know better because I also have experienced the confusing rollercoaster ride of my symptoms that are either “no big deal” or “I may die today.” In this case, according to the symptom checker, I could have had one of about 13 ghastly neurological diseases including Parkinson's, Guillain Barre, Epilepsy, MS, and ALS. No, no, no, cancer was enough, thanks.

This Google exploration forced me to make more doctor appointments. I went to all the OLOGISTS—neurologists, endocrinologists, rheumatologists, gastroenterologists, sleepologists and once again, they were all NOCLUEOLOGISTS. Not one had an explanation for the vibrations in my body. I had all the tests. ALL OF THEM. And each doctor said, “You’re fine.” 

Newsflash: I wasn’t fine.

The longer this vibrational weirdness went on without explanation, the worse it became. The tremors got so bad when I laid down, I needed hard-core sleep medications to bypass them. I started dreading night time. Dreading the effort to sleep and the horror show that would go on when I tried to.

The one thing that got me into bed was (no, it’s not what you’re thinking)—it was my dog. Roxie is a nine-pound bundle of fur and love. No matter how wigged out I got over my body, Roxie was there, ready to comfort me. She always answers my belly rub with a lick and a snuggle and that’s how we roll. Roxie is an anxiety dog, but that’s debatable because I think I'm actually her anxiety human. The relief was on an as-needed basis and clearly, I’d been the one who needed comfort the most. 

The nights when she needed me the most always coincided with heavy rain, thunder, lightning, or fireworks. Any of these cause an immediate ripple through her small body. Within seconds, she’s a 100% tremored terrier, shaking for hours. When this happens, I wrap her in a blanket like a baby and comfort her until the noise passes. When the storm’s over, she will get up and do a very brisk and intense “shake off’ until all is calm again.

Google says this is what dogs innately know to do. Fear and anxiety enter their body, they experience it, and when the time is right, they shake it off. Huh. Fascinating.

I meditated on this. I thought about how similar we humans are to animals, how basic our needs are, and how our bodies respond similarly to threats, stress, or trauma. Google “trauma and tremors” and the correlation pops up with a flag waving at me, saying, “Girl, you went through a lot. Your body is talking to you. Loudly!”

So, I started taking a leaf from Roxie’s repertoire—a wrap-up, some comfort, rest, followed by a good shake-off. I gave my body the space to heal from the trauma of a cancer diagnosis and fight because that is some hard stuff. And, the tremors lessened. Some nights I could barely feel them at all. (As for Roxie, she is officially the only OLOGIST I will ever consult with—my PUPOLOGIST.)

Catherine Porter is a mother, singer, writer and a cancer-kicking dog lover living in New Jersey. She has traveled the world as a performer, singing with diverse and notable artists such as Hugh Jackman, Michael Crawford, Brian May from Queen, Guns-N-Roses, and Kiki Dee, to name a few. She has appeared in leading roles on Broadway, in London’s West End, and in Australia.  Catherine has released several albums, most recently “GEMS FOR RUBY,” an album she made for her daughter. You can find her on Instagram: cathporter1 and on all digital platforms.