When Alex returned from Florida, it only took a few days before her pain became uncontrollable. She was admitted to Johns Hopkins Hospital for what would become an extended stay.
The pediatric oncology floor had strict rules to protect patients. At the top of the list—no animals. After a lot of pushing—and more than a few uncomfortable conversations, they made an exception for Dakota, who is a registered support dog.
So Dakota came to Hopkins and was a model citizen. But the next day, the rounding doctor told us Dakota had to go. “We spoke with risk management and we just can’t have a dog on the floor,” she said.
Alex had received a lot of bad news and handled most of it without breaking. But when she was told Dakota had to go, she cried.
She was completely deflated.
Cancer had taken almost everything from her. Now it was going to take Dakota too.
I followed the doctors into the hall.
“I understand why you’re doing this,” I said. “But you need to move Alex to a floor that allows dogs.”
They told me they preferred to keep oncology patients on the oncology floor with staff more experienced in treating cancer.
“I appreciate that,” I said. “But you’re no longer treating the cancer. You’re keeping her comfortable.
“If we have to choose between you and Dakota, we choose Dakota.”
So they moved Alex to another floor and Dakota was allowed to stay. They were eventually able to control the pain enough that Alex could go home, but that was short-lived.
When Alex returned to the hospital for what we knew would be the rest of her life, I told her doctors she needed to be admitted to a floor that allowed Dakota, and she was.
That night, her doctor checked in. The tone had changed. She told us the pediatric oncology staff wanted Alex upstairs with them. “She is one of our own,” she said, and Alex’s team had gone to the highest levels of the hospital to clear Dakota’s presence on the floor. Dakota remained on the pediatric oncology floor with Alex until the day she died.
Dakota stayed with Alex for weeks. She gave Alex comfort and purpose—things cancer couldn’t take.
She made friends at the hospital as well. When we came in from walks, the receptionist would cheerfully shout, “Hey, Dakota!” Dakota’s ears perked up and she proudly pranced across the lobby to greet her. Every time.
Dakota didn’t just matter to Alex. She impacted the staff as well.
Weeks after Alex died, one of the nurses told me there were new rules about animals on the floor as outlined on a flyer with Dakota’s picture.
A short time later, I met with the director of development for Hopkins’ Division of Pediatric Oncology.
I presented her with some photos to hang on the pediatric oncology floor in Alex’s memory, and I asked if she knew about a rule change regarding dogs.
She did.
Dakota didn’t just stay with Alex. She changed something.
Her presence convinced Hopkins to change its policy.
For the first time, dogs were allowed on the pediatric oncology floor.
Dakota’s story is one of those that matter—the lessons from The Great Dog Pack that reflect what the Alex Lebovic Foundation carries forward.
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