Joy Unleashed

by Jean Baur

  “We really enjoyed meeting you,” I said, getting ready at last to walk away.

  “Bella,” he said. And I wanted to cry.

  I never forgot that taking care of Bella and watching out for her safety was my number-one priority. If a situation wasn’t good for her, it was my job to get her out of there. I was still thinking about the boy we just saw when I realized we were too close to the girl swinging the baseball bat. We quickly walked around her and didn’t try to interact or include her. It may have seemed unfair, but it was the foundation of what all therapy dog teams did—keep the dog safe. Don’t overwhelm them. Pay attention to what they can and can’t do. Respect their boundaries.

  In the last room, children were being fed. I couldn’t make out what the food was except that it was mushy and something easy to swallow. This was another layer of sadness. These kids couldn’t eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. They couldn’t hold an ice cream cone or a cookie. I suddenly remembered a boy from my childhood. We went from kindergarten to twelfth grade together, and at a reunion, maybe fifteen years after we had graduated from high school, he said to me, “You have no idea what having a special needs child does to you.”

  I had looked at him then, wondering if he was being dramatic. Wondering why he was telling me this.

  “I guess you’re right,” I had answered, not sure what else to say.

  “Or to a marriage,” he added.

  I looked at his face then, remembering him at school, seeing in my mind the way he was always making practical jokes and laughing. He wasn’t laughing now. He was tired.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and he walked off. That was the last time I saw him. He didn’t come to any other reunions.

  I get it now, I thought, then corrected myself: No, that wasn’t right. I didn’t get it. I didn’t have a child with needs like these kids. But I got it from the outside. I got it because Bella had led me here. I was given a glimpse into this world because of my dog.

  Deb and I lasted about forty-five minutes. Then it was time to leave. The woman thanked us and invited us back. She told us that the dogs were a hit. We said we would return, but I wasn’t sure we would. Part of it was that we were busy and already committed at other places. And part of it was that this was too hard. We went where the balance was right—where what we gave and what we got were in a reciprocal, healthy relationship. That wasn’t selfish, it was smart. We had working dogs, and just like people, the work had to fit.

  Out in the hot sun in the parking lot, we gave the dogs water and let them sniff around in the grass. I didn’t have to say anything to Deb, as I saw in her face the same stunned sadness. But then I told her, “I’m glad we came.”

  She looked at me, hugged Shelby, and said, “Yeah, me too.”

  Colleges also asked for therapy dogs around exam time to reduce student stress. And sometimes they were asked to be part of a health fair since the dogs helped students feel balanced and connected. Kat Bishop knew every dog-related organization in the area and sent out an email to see which therapy dog teams could go to Connecticut College for the health fair. I signed up, wondering how Bella would do with a crowd of students and other dogs.

  We found the right building on campus and walked into a large gymnasium set up with tables, balloons, food, and clumps of students around the dogs who were already there.

  “Easy now, girl,” I told Bella as we settled into a place near the other dogs, but far enough away that Bella could stay relaxed. A freshman boy walked up and asked if he could pet her.

  “Sure,” I said. “This is Bella and she’s a bit head-shy so pet her on the back.”

  Bella moved so that he couldn’t reach her.

  “Do you mind sitting or squatting? She gets nervous when people stand over her.”

  “Oh sure,” said the student, and he plopped himself down. Bella changed into a different dog and licked him on the face.

  “Well, you’re friendly, aren’t you?” he asked Bella. She circled around him, claiming him as her own with friendly pokes of her snout.

  “Hey,” said another student, bending down quickly to pet Bella.

  She ducked. I thought to myself, This is going to be a long morning.

  The first student told the second one to sit down, so he did. Now Bella had two puppies of her own and was fine. The first boy told me he was from New York City and never had a dog. The second grew up in Connecticut and missed his dog at home. I asked them if it was hard to adjust to college, remembering my first winter a thousand miles from home.

  “Yeah, kinda,” said the first student.

  “Not bad,” said the other. “But I go home some weekends.”

  I nodded, thinking back to my freshman year and how lost I felt, how unsure I was of being able to succeed at college. A dog could have helped. I didn’t tell these boys we didn’t have cell phones in those days and that long-distance calls home were too expensive and could be made only for an emergency. So we wrote letters two or three times a week. And it cost too much to come home for Thanksgiving, so I had to make it from late August until Christmas break. That was an eternity.

  What would really blow their minds was that I didn’t even visit my college before attending. My parents drove me to the airport in New York and put me on a charter plane. I sat next to a girl from the city who ate a large salami during most of the flight. And because I had been brought up properly, I had on a suit, stockings, and heels. I was a college girl. I was a woman of the world, when in reality I was a very young, scared, seventeen-year-old kid who had grown up in the middle of nowhere and had no idea what she was doing.

  The boys left and some girls appeared, saying in high-pitched voices, “Oh, look how cute she is!” And my maternal pride kicked right in as if I had something to do with it. “Yes, she is.”

  After they left, the head of the psychology department introduced herself and thanked me for participating. She gave Bella a stuffed animal and a bag of treats. I got a button that said, laugh more. I put it on my sweater and couldn’t wait to see Bob’s face when he saw it. He’d have an ironic comment to make about laughter on demand.

  We met some of the other therapy dog teams, and Bella did well. Because I’d worked extensively as a career coach, I thought of Bella adding this credential to her résumé as though she had to look for work: Participated in student health fair and helped comfort freshmen students.

  Nothing made me prouder than saying she was a working dog. And that went for me, too. I was a working girl, both volunteer and paid. I was teaching my Boomer class and still doing occasional jobs for my former company. But most exciting of all, we were out there in our community, building bonds with nursing home residents, hospital patients, school children, and now college students. Bella and I were blessed to have jobs we loved.

  “Want to go home?” I asked, and she was ready. She bit the leash and played tug of war on our way out the door. It was her way of being done, of releasing her pent-up energy and the stress of being well-behaved.

  Two other colleges asked for dogs. One was a large university in Rhode Island where Bob got his undergraduate degree. He came with me, as he knew the campus. After we parked the car, we walked Bella over to a large central lawn crowded with hundreds of students.

  “Oh no,” I said, already knowing this would be overwhelming for Bella.

  Just as we approached the crowd, Bella started to squeal in pleasure. She saw Kat, Wren, and Boo, and hurled herself at the two dogs, nearly knocking them over.

  Kat laughed and the students were amused. “Well, look at you,” she said, trying to keep Bella from getting tangled in her two leashes.

  Bob helped me get her away from Wren and Boo, who were clearly stars of the show. Their coats were beautiful, multicolored, sleek invitations to be touched, and they weren’t bothered by the noise and excitement of all these students.

  Bob and I spread out a blanket on the ground a bit farther back from the center of this whirlwind and encouraged students to kneel or
sit next to her. It didn’t work. She was too nervous, too wired by all the activity. We lasted about fifteen minutes and walked back to the car. I was at war with myself, wanting her to be like Wren and Boo while realizing that wasn’t who she was. She was not easy, not relaxed, not an I-love-everybody kind of dog.

  On the long ride home, I gave myself a lecture on acceptance. On different gifts. Just because Bella wasn’t good at this kind of college fair didn’t mean she didn’t do other things well. I had to let go of what she wasn’t. A few weeks later, we went to another college during exam week. It was a beautiful, small campus overlooking the water. Bob and I had walked Bella here in the past so she was comfortable and relaxed. When we got to the student center, we found a quiet spot and several students came over to visit with her. I asked them about their studies, but their focus was on Bella.

  The girls said, “Oh, look at that face!” The boys, less verbally exuberant, got down on the floor and gave her treats. One boy told us there was free ice cream during exam week and showed me where it was. Bella and I each got a small cup of vanilla, and she thought this was a fine way to end our visit. I realized as we walked across the lawn in the spring air filled with the smell of salt water, that I would never be lonely or bored as long as I had a therapy dog. The doors kept opening.

  Chapter 25

  BEVERLY’S BLESSING

  Summer 2013

  Stonington, Connecticut

  Deb and I met as usual outside The Starfish Home with our dogs. She was excited, as her daughter had just gotten engaged, but was a bit overwhelmed with all the decisions that had to be made. I was feeling a bit giddy as it had finally occurred to me that keeping the door open with my former company was not good for my health. And I had found a good way to do it—a good way to end the tense meetings with people who had just been let go. I simply asked for more money—more in line with what I had been earning—and they never called again.

  We got into the rehab facility and after visiting with two residents, Deb turned to me and asked, “Is there a full moon?”

  I burst out laughing and told her that it would be full in about two days.

  “That explains it,” she said. “Is it me or is everyone a little more out-there than usual?”

  “It’s you,” I said, and we laughed.

  Bella and Shelby caught our giggly mood and competed in a friendly way to see who could get more treats. Bella pulled out her trump card and jumped up on a resident’s bed while Shelby, who was considerably bigger than Bella, got right up against another resident’s legs and let her pet her on the head. So there!

  When we arrived at Starfish the following week, the head of admissions, Judy, was waiting for us in the lobby. She briefed us about new patients and which ones were likely to want to see the dogs. She told us when someone was too ill to see them, or when a patient had been moved to the hospital or had died.

  “Hey, Judy,” said Deb, as she put Shelby’s harness on.

  Judy leaned down and told both Shelby and Bella that she was glad to see them.

  “I’ve got to tell you something,” she said, looking at Deb.

  We froze.

  “Wendy died this week.”

  Deb couldn’t talk or move. She just stood there.

  “I know you had a special bond,” added Judy.

  I put my hand on Deb’s shoulder. “She really loved you and Shelby.”

  Deb nodded, still unable to say anything. Wendy was only in her forties, and although she had Down’s syndrome, she still seemed young and vibrant. There were no warning signs that we noticed, no clear decline. One week she was there and the next, she wasn’t. It was too much to take in. The dogs waited quietly, but when it was time to start visiting, Deb, her voice almost a whisper, thanked Judy for telling us. Judy patted her shoulder. Shelby looked up expectantly. We avoided Wendy’s room and talked about the other residents instead. Deb soldiered on. She and Shelby were there for everyone, but for many weeks both of us expected to see Wendy being pushed down the hallway by her aide, her wide smile breaking through all the sadness when she caught sight of Shelby and Deb.

  As we continued down the hallway, Deb said to me, “Isn’t it funny how certain patients bond with us?” And she was right. There was magic that we couldn’t control or explain. As if on cue, we saw Beverly walking very slowly down the hall, leaning on her walker, an aide at her side. The aide used one hand to hold the “baby” in front of Beverly as incentive. We had never seen Beverly walk.

  “I know you’re going to visit with your girl,” said Deb. “Shelby and I will go see Karen.”

  I nodded, still dumbfounded that Beverly could walk. The aide got her into the dining room and helped her sit down in a chair.

  “Here’s your baby,” she said, and Beverly clutched the doll to her chest.

  I sat down in a chair next to hers and said, “Hi, Beverly.”

  There was a short hesitation, a moment when she wasn’t sure who I was, but then she knew me. I got the first of a few shy smiles. I told her I’d missed her. I complemented her on the beautiful doll, and then I asked her if she’d like to give Bella a treat.

  No reaction, just a blank stare.

  The aide watched and I could see in her eyes that she thought Beverly wouldn’t do it.

  I took Beverly’s hand and slowly lowered it to Bella’s level. So far so good. Then I put a treat on her palm and saw her eyes open wide as she felt the soft fur of Bella’s chin on her hand and the lick of her tongue.

  I let go of her hand, told her “You did it!” and clapped my hands.

  Beverly clapped, too, grinning with pleasure.

  The aide looked at me and said, “Wow. I never saw her react to anything that much.”

  “It’s taken time,” I told her. More than a year of weekly visits.

  And it had also taken love. I didn’t say that, but I bet she saw it in my face.

  After the aide left, Beverly took hold of my hand. Then I felt the tiniest rocking motion, a slow back and forth. My hand was a baby.

  In that split moment—in that mother-and-child bond—my own mother was present. She was intertwined with both of us and my eyes filled with tears. She had been dead for thirteen years, and although I thought of her often, I didn’t feel her presence. She was gone. But today, as a gift from Beverly, she was somehow here again.

  The rules required that we didn’t ask questions about anyone’s condition, or how long they’d been there, or even if they had family. We only asked, “Would you like to see the dogs?” and then, if it was a yes, we asked how they were doing, or chatted about the weather, or for the ones who could talk, answered questions about the dogs.

  Deb and I were both proud that our dogs were “rescues.” It didn’t mean they were rescuing anyone, although there were moments when I thought they came close. But rather, this one word conveyed they had a rough beginning and could have easily starved to death, been abused, or put down in a high-kill shelter. It also meant in many cases that the dog wasn’t purebred. Although some breeds, like Greyhounds, had their own rescue leagues of purebred dogs that were retired from the racetrack.

  For the patients who could talk and understand, the message they got was: here was a dog who was lost, then found, and who was now giving back. This was a grateful animal, one whose life was transformed and who now helped others. So, lucky was one part of it, and the other part was training and hard work.

  The lesson I was learning, after a little more than a year there, was that I didn’t own any of it. If I came in hoping that Beverly would smile at me or clap her hands, she wouldn’t. If I expected that Joyce would share her shy grin and talk about the book she was reading (while hiding her left hand that had been crippled by a stroke), she wouldn’t. If I hoped to be rewarded by some feeling of fulfillment, it wouldn’t happen. And while I loved feeling appreciated, I knew now that I had to leave that at the door. It didn’t belong here.

  So it came down to showing up, listening, being present, and showin
g concern. In other words, Deb and I learned to be dogs. We didn’t have agendas, or we tried not to. We were simply here and we took what happened in stride. One patient who had loved to see the dogs refused to see them after her leg was amputated, afraid they’d bump into her. Afraid of too much commotion. So we waved as we went by her room.

  Chuck, another resident who had been crazy about dogs, the one Bella had decided needed her in his lap, stopped looking at them, and after a while stopped looking at us. And then he died. Although he was no longer there, we saw him every time we passed his room. We saw him and remembered the time I gave him a treat to give Bella, and before we could stop him, he popped it in his mouth.

  Another resident self-published a book about her life. Deb called her “our resident author.” She held up the book, tangible proof that she used to be something else, someone articulate with a full life. With something to say. Now she grinned at us and bit by bit was slipping away.

  Sometimes, when we couldn’t remember a patient’s name, Deb said, “They’ve got our room ready, Jean.” And we’d made a pact that when and if the time came and we’d have to be put in a rehab facility, we’d be roommates.

  From our weekly visits, we learned about loss. I thought of that wonderful Dylan Thomas poem, “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night.” And for sure there were the fighters. But others, like Olive, who was as dainty and frail as a good English tea cup, waited patiently. They took the setbacks in stride. They didn’t seem afraid. They disappeared gradually, and always thanked us for coming in, often adding, “It’s so nice of you.”

  This made me think of all that we were not: not nurses, not aides, not family, not doctors, not dietitians, not administrators. But that was part of the magic—we were extra, unnecessary, different, and we had a singular purpose: to bring joy and comfort. To be here.