The Tao of Martha: My Year of LIVING

by Jen Lancaster

  I feel numb all over. “I don’t understand. She was okay a couple of days ago. She’s eating. She’s holding her food down. She’s playing with her sister. How can you tell me my dog is dying when she was chasing cats earlier?”

  Three years ago, when this doctor told me Maisy had six months, I replied, “You don’t know Maisy. She’ll prove you wrong.” But now Dr. Feinmehl says, “Maisy is a very, very determined little girl. She’s so stoic that she doesn’t show how she’s feeling. Looking at her now, she’s back there wagging her tail and begging for peanut butter. I’d never know she was dying if I hadn’t seen her test results.”

  That’s when Fletch and I both begin to sob. And even tough old Dr. Feinmehl, who’s been a drill sergeant/android ever since we met her three years ago, has tears in her eyes. Maisy was her best-case scenario. Maisy was her miracle dog. Maisy was proof to all her clients that their beloved dogs would be okay.

  Dr. Feinmehl hands us a box of Kleenex and gently tells us, “Listen, I’ll bring her back in here before we admit her so you can see her. And I’ll have Dr. Thornhill examine her. I don’t want you to get your hopes up, because her situation is grave, but when you’re dealing with a dog as exceptional as Maisy, anything is possible.”

  The two minutes it takes to bring Maisy back to us are the longest of my life. When she comes bounding in, I can’t reconcile the news we’ve just gotten with the happy wiggle-pup standing in front of me.

  We both try to hold it together so she isn’t upset as we hug her and cover her with kisses.

  Fletch stiffens his spine and there’s steel in his voice. “This is not over. I’m not saying good-bye. She’s coming home with us after all this. This dog is not done living.”

  I figured that since I’ve been actively dreading this moment for the past three years, I’d somehow be better equipped to handle it. I’ve been trying to prepare myself ever since her diagnosis. Yet as we sit on this cold tile floor, holding my precious baby, I can’t for one second imagine my life without her.

  She’s too important.

  When our whole world was falling apart after the dot-com crash, and when we lost our car and were about to be kicked out of our apartment, I’d spoon Maisy and know that as long as we had her and each other, everything would be okay. We’d make it.

  No matter what, Maisy was always there, ready to snuggle up when it was cold and we’d lost gas service, and happy to lie in a baby pool when it was broiling and we didn’t have air-conditioning. When we’d blow a job interview or get threatened by a bill collector, she was right beside us, readily communicating how she knew that we were awesome.

  This dog has been my touchstone for ten years and a constant source of love, affection, and acceptance. All the important decisions I’ve made in the past decade have revolved around her, from pursuing a career in writing to where we bought our house, in order to live closer to the vet specialty clinic. And she’s my first priority now in terms of the book tour. I still make travel plans based on her health.

  The great irony here is that now we’re finally living the secure, successful lives we’ve always imagined, yet I’d give up every single material thing to be huddled on the bed with my healthy, whole little girl.

  We eventually have to leave the clinic, and I don’t begin to cry again until after Maisy happily trots off with the vet tech. We won’t know anything new until after they treat her, and we’re instructed to call at seven p.m.

  When we arrive home, everything looks exactly the same, even though my entire universe feels altered. I cling to Loki and Libby long enough for them to get a little creeped out, and then I e-mail my friends to let them know what’s happening. Their support is immediate and profound.

  We spend the next couple of hours pacing around, and at four p.m., the clinic calls us to say that Maisy is stable and responding to fluids. Her levels haven’t come up, but they’ve not dropped.

  “What does that mean? Do we come back? What do we do next?” I ask the nurse. Fletch and I are both on speakerphone, as neither of us has the presence of mind to interpret for the other.

  “Please try not to worry. We’re doing all we can for her, and we’ll know more tomorrow.”

  Fletch is more direct. “She’ll have a tomorrow?”

  I hold my breath while I wait for an answer.

  “I can tell you this: She’s resting comfortably right now and she ate a little dinner. We’re having trouble getting pills in her, though. She’s fighting us.”

  And at that exact moment, even with all the evidence to the contrary, I have the unshakable faith that Maisy will pull through. No one decides anything for Maisy but Maisy.

  After we hang up, we both decide that we can’t sit around doing nothing. We debate whether or not to cancel the Fourth of July party, but decide that ultimately we need something to occupy our time, so we head to Costco.

  Somehow we end up with two carts full of supplies, but I can’t remember a single second of having shopped for any of it.

  July 3

  Go for a Swim

  Visit Local Antiques Stores

  You know what, Martha? I’ve been on your side this whole project, standing behind you, waving your perfectly quilted banner. Whenever I’ve told someone about this project and they’ve been all, “Really? Her?” I’ve defended you.

  But today’s calendar tasks?

  They’re smug.

  Okay?

  They’re fucking smug.

  Maybe in Stewartsylvania, you have no problem taking a leisurely swim and checking out the Fiestaware for sale in Hamptons antiques shops before fifty madras-clad guests descend on your house tomorrow to not dribble ghee on themselves, but in the real world, there’s no goddamned time to sun ourselves or haggle with local merchants. We’re fucking busy, okay? We have to feed and entertain fifty people tomorrow. And some of us are pretty goddamned freaked-out over loved ones, so while you whoop it up poolside, I’m going to run around here sticking sparklers in shit, all right?

  You know what?

  I’m done with your stupid calendar.

  Why don’t you go ahead and groom your damn miniature donkeys and practice your yoga while I’ll be here doing hot-dog math, trying to figure out why buns come in eight-packs while wieners are sold in sixes. How many goddamned packages do I need to buy for the numbers to even up?

  Six?

  Sixty?

  I DON’T KNOW.

  I spend my day anger-chopping fruit and shredding lettuce and assembling little sandwiches. On some level, I realize my wrath shouldn’t be directed at Martha; she did nothing wrong, particularly since she has no inkling that I even exist.

  I just can’t stop obsessing over Maisy. She’s still holding stable, but her levels aren’t doing whatever it is her levels are supposed to do. We check in every couple of hours, and although everyone at the clinic is superhelpful, I don’t want to make them crazy with my constant vigilance. There’s nothing I want more than to be there to hug her, but Fletch and I agreed it’s best if we’re not in and out, as we don’t want to upset her by leaving without her.

  I’ve never been so happy to have something to do, because at least I can channel all this pent-up energy into something productive. I’m equally glad that we’re having this party, because I do want to see all my friends in person. They’re been such a source of strength, commiserating, supporting, and whenever possible trying to make me laugh or letting me cry. As soon as I filled Karyn in on what was happening, she took a picture of her Yorkies, Bev and Mary Margaret, with a rosary, telling me they were all praying for Maisy. I’ve looked at that shot a hundred times since yesterday. Each time it makes me cry.

  I’m in the middle of shucking forty ears of corn when the phone rings. Fletch answers and calls me into the room so I can be on speakerphone with him and Dr. Thornhill.

  He begins to tell us specifics about Maisy’s kidney functions and percentages and medications before he says something about plans for release and home treatment.r />
  “Wait, what?” I ask. “She might actually come home? I thought…I thought Dr. Feinmehl said that a four percent kidney function wasn’t consistent with life.”

  “That can be true,” he replies, “but fortunately no one’s told Maisy. I’ve had dogs who can manage with between three and five percent function, with proper care. It can be done. Maisy’s a delightful little girl, isn’t she? So happy! This would be a very different scenario if she weren’t so ebullient and full of life. The nurses and techs love her.”

  “They know her pretty well,” Fletch says. “She’s a frequent flier.” We were there for a checkup earlier this summer, and we could actually hear everyone in the back call, “Maisy!” when she walked in, as though she were Norm from Cheers.

  “Of course, she’s not out of the woods by any stretch of the imagination, and she’s going to need subcutaneous fluids for a while, but she hasn’t given up and neither will I.”

  We talk further and try to determine a discharge date. As of now, we’re hoping she can come home on the fifth, but that will depend on her red blood cell count. If her count isn’t satisfactory by then, they’ll take the next step, which is a full transfusion.

  None of what’s about to happen will be inexpensive, and I’m suddenly very, very thankful for all the times I’ve opted for frugality in the past six months.

  New anything simply can’t compare to old dog.

  Despite the triple-digit temperatures, the party’s a rousing success. No one seemed to mind that it was less white-tablecloth and more red-Solo-cup. Actually, the gathering was so informal that everyone was able to really kick back and relax. I loved seeing my friends’ kids have such a wonderful time. The best part of a successful party is bringing people together who’d never yet met, like when I found Laurie and Mike having a rollicking conversation with Julia and Finch.

  I credit a portion of the party’s success with Angie’s insisting I create a signature cocktail. I blended coconut Cîroc with pineapple juice and club soda, and by the end of the day, we were pretty much drinking it right out of the tap.

  Naturally, I made sure kids stayed out of it.

  Fletch was a total champ, too. He spent three hours working the grill in the blazing hundred-degree sun and never once complained. It’s possible that’s because he was swilling Dew Drivers—the whitetrash version of a screwdriver, wherein Mountain Dew is substituted for orange juice. Regardless, he was nothing short of rock-star.

  With the party out of the way and Maisy still not home, this was normally when I’d ruminate. But I’m so thankful that Julia and Finch are staying with us until the morning of the sixth. After we see them off tomorrow, we’ll pick her up.

  “It’s funny how you guys always seem to appear just when we need you most,” I tell Julia. “Here we have the shitshow that was 2011, yet you show up at the end of it to make sure we have fun. And now, the most stressful time of my life, you’re here with Apples to Apples and Catch Phrase to make sure we’re duly distracted. Thank you.”

  She shrugs. “We’re all about good timing.”

  I spoke with the vets and Maisy is now definitely coming home tomorrow. They had to give her a transfusion and there was an issue, so now her entire front leg is purple. Her nurse promised this would clear up in a week, but all I could hear was, “You’re going to have your dog at least another week.” Bring on the purple leg.

  Julia and I are sitting on the screened back porch, having gotten out of the pool. Looks like we’re about to get the first rain of the entire summer. We’re eating leftover party fruit; she’s topping her watermelon with Splenda and I’m giving mine a couple of shakes of salt.

  “How are you feeling about everything?” she asks.

  I poke at a watermelon rind with a plastic fork. “Honestly, I’m scared about bringing her home. What if we can’t give her what she needs? Her doctor said we have to administer subcutaneous fluids twice a day. We used to do this with our old cat Bones, but he was little and I could hold him. Maisy’s not exactly cooperative.” Dr. Thornhill told me she kept trying to French-kiss the vet techs when they’d give her fluids.

  Julia opens another Splenda and begins to sprinkle right as the wind picks up. All the little crystals go flying out across the tabletop. “Should we go inside?”

  I shrug. “Eh, we’re okay for now. It’s actually nice to feel the temperature drop like this.” In five minutes, it’s gone from the high nineties out here to the mid-eighties.

  “Then what I was about to say was that whatever happens, this is your new normal. As I parent, I’ve learned that you do whatever it is you need to do. You don’t hesitate. You’re going to be the same way with Maisy. If you have to hydrate her twice a day, you’ll figure out how to build your day around her. You’ll make it work and you won’t think twice about the process.”

  I mull this over and realize she’s making perfect sense. We’ll adapt to anything Maisy needs. Period. I give Julia a squeeze. “Of all the stalkers who walked into my book signings, I’m sure glad it was you.”

  Four years ago I had a book event in Atlanta and someone asked if anyone had ever stalked me and I’d said no. Then Julia raised her hand and asked if I was interested in having a stalker, as she’d like to volunteer. I replied that I wasn’t sure. But the whole nature of her question made me laugh, so I gave her my e-mail address and I told her she was welcome to try. She sent me such funny notes about her job as a pharmaceutical rep that we started to correspond with some frequency. Eventually our pen-pal relationship culminated in our hanging out each time I came to Atlanta, and now here we are.

  We’re up and ready in the morning when Julia and Finch leave this time, because we’re headed to pick up Maisy. I don’t know what to expect and I’m so nervous. Will she be the same dog as when she went in? Are we providing hospice for her next few days or might she actually have more life left in her? Will we truly be able to manage the day-to-day of the IV and the meds and getting her to eat?

  When we arrive at the clinic, there’s another couple picking up their dog. They’re ashen-faced and somber as the clerk gently hands them the package of their cherished pet, wrapped in purple velvet with the inscription. “When we meet again on the rainbow bridge.”

  Fletch and I exchange glances, and at that moment I realize that every single second we have with Maisy from here on out is a gift, whether it’s a day, a week, a month, or a year. Whatever it is we have to do, we’ll do, and we’ll be thankful for the privilege of having done it. I’m not scared anymore, and I don’t care when I pay for services rendered, because my beautiful dog is coming home on a leash and not in an urn.

  We’re brought back to another exam room, but this time it’s so we can have a crash course on how to administer meds and fluids. When we’re finally reunited with Maisy, it’s all I can do not to cry. She’s walking a little slowly because of the hematoma all over her leg, but otherwise, she’s the same dog who’s been by my side for the past ten years.

  As we load her up into the car, she gives me a look as if to say, “Well, it’s about goddamned time.”

  Funny, but our new normal seems an awful lot like our old normal.

  When we arrive home, she trots into the great room and positions herself on the love seat, allowing all the other pets to come up to her and pay homage. Regal as a queen, she lets the cats sniff around her while Libby runs circles in excitement and Loki wags his tail hard enough to knock the remote controls off the coffee table.

  Maisy’s happy to be home; ergo I’m happy.

  And in this moment, that’s everything.

  I’m not mad at Martha anymore.

  In fact, I’m ready to hit this project even harder than before. What’s so ironic is that I’ve spent seven months looking for the Tao of Martha, yet I’ve found something even more powerful.

  In many ways, Maisy’s illness has been a gift, because it’s made me take stock of how much I love her every day when we give her treatment. I hug her while I hold her stea
dy for the IV and I tell her how perfect she is. I always knew this dog had a piece of my heart, but it wasn’t until I had to muster up my own strength and determination to keep her alive that I figured out exactly how much.

  Like in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, I’ve discovered my own number forty-two through caring for her. I’ve uncovered my ultimate answer to the ultimate question of how to be happy, and that all boils down to what I’ve learned from my dog.

  I’ve discovered the Tao of Maisy, which entails three steps:

  Be awesome.

  Give awesome.

  Get awesome.

  Maisy started her life Being Awesome. She was rescued by animal control from an abandoned apartment in the projects and brought to Anti-Cruelty, a massive city shelter. Because she was a pit bull, she was automatically slated to be euthanized if no one claimed or adopted her within a week. And honestly, that would have been better than the life she’d have had if she’d not been found. Maisy would have been bred, fought, or used as bait, possibly all three.

  The thing is, Maisy was special and she knew it. She paraded herself around Anti-Cruelty in such a way that one of the clerks called the rescue I used to volunteer for and said, “This puppy is too awesome to not get a second shot. Please, please, if you have space, take her.”

  So Maisy altered the course of the miserable life she was slated for by Being Awesome.

  In turn, she’s spent the last ten years being a roly-poly ball of unconditional love, giving us the full benefit of her awesomeness. Without her, I’d have never had the push to change my own circumstances. I’d likely still be working some god-awful sales job. And would I have insisted Fletch and I get married if we didn’t have the impetus of dogs to keep us together? Who knows?

  In turn, our love for her is why she Gets Awesome in return. She’s why we wanted a house with a yard. She’s why I decided to double my workload and write fiction so I could afford a house with a pool, knowing her predilection for swimming.