by Steven Wolf
“I’m just trying to decide what you’re up to. You’re being way too quiet.”
“Freddie, I’m just mentally gearing up for a good result. After all we’ve been through, it’s taking a bit of an effort to ratchet up my inner optimist.”
“Uh-huh.” Freddie regarded me skeptically. She was familiar with my belief that mentally preparing for a good result was as important as the physical preparation, a principle echoed by Dr. Frey. But prior to the fall at the YMCA, I had been blessed with speedy recoveries all my life. If she gets even the slightest whiff that I want to be home within two weeks …
The night before the surgery I didn’t sleep. The closed eyes of a greyhound no longer fooled me; Comet was awake every moment as well. When I decided to shower at four in the morning, closing the bathroom door so that Freddie could slumber a little longer, Comet had irritatingly shoved the door open so she could keep an eye on Freddie from her position on the bath towel by the tub. Later Freddie filled her bowl with food, but Comet ignored it. When Freddie took her outside, Comet urinated on a bush next to the lobby door and immediately pulled Freddie back to our room.
Over the past year, Comet had displayed an uncanny ability to decipher speech and gestures that weren’t even directed her way. She always knew when something unusual was going on with my health, and in those instances she refused to leave my side except for the briefest of breaks. Freddie had resorted to spelling words like have to leave or go or even doctor, to no avail. On this morning Comet had no patience for dallying on a walk. She wanted to know where I was and where we were going, we being the operative word.
At 5:30 a.m. we arrived at the hospital, and Comet conducted a nook-and-cranny inspection of all exits before allowing us to proceed to the admissions desk. She repeated the drill when we moved to the surgery waiting room, where my mom, Manny, and Debbie were already gathered.
“Hey!”
“Here we are!”
Stress was sparking like electricity among the anxious clan. Freddie sat down stiffly in a chair next to the doors to the surgical wing, clutching her luggage-size purse as if it were a life raft. My mom’s face was etched with fatigue, her eyes red and swollen. I watched her nervously strike up a conversation with a nurse who was writing down the names of waiting family members. I had tried to leave Debbie out of the loop when it came to the details of my decline, but Mom kept updating her and she insisted on being here for the surgery. Watching my sister jiggle her leg while chattering to Manny, I realized how much she reminded me of Mom when she was younger.
I sat on the edge of a wing chair on the other side of the room. Because of the presurgery instructions not to eat or drink anything after midnight, it was better that I not linger next to the snack table with its warm donuts and freshly brewed coffee. But as always over the past five years, I wasn’t alone. Comet sat quietly at my feet. As I had done hundreds of times before, I lost myself for a moment admiring her sculptural form, the rabbit-soft fur, the closed eyes and perked ears. It was impossible for me to think of any scenario that would have brought me to this hospital on this day if it were not for Comet and my wife. I wiped my eyes and scratched Comet’s ears. “Enough of this. I’ll have plenty of time to ruminate while I’m glued to a hospital bed.” Comet helped me from the chair. The pastries were gone and I wanted to sit by Freddie.
“A penny for your thoughts. That’s about all that’ll be left by the time this spectacle is over.”
Freddie ignored the joke. “The nurse will be here for you pretty soon. I’ve got Lindsey’s phone number on speed dial so that you can call her right before you leave. It’s her birthday and you said you wanted to call her today. Kylie gave me a phone number to call, too. And Jackie. Your mom looks tired and—” I put my arms around her, trying to stem the nervous prattle, and tears exploded down her face. I was already crying. We hung on to each other for several minutes before Freddie took a deep breath and said, “This kind of mood isn’t going to help that old magical Wolfie mental state.” She tried to smile, but her mouth just wouldn’t turn upward.
At six thirty the door from the surgical wing to the waiting area opened. Freddie grabbed my arm, spinning me into a hug in front of the door. “Je t’aime.” She was sobbing.
I was just an Iowa farm boy who had always hankered for somebody to whisper gooey French words into my ear. “Me, too.”
I waved good-bye to everybody and left. Then, just for the hell of it, I reopened the door, knowing that Comet was still standing on the other side. “Comet, take care of the women until I get back.” Freddie told me later that she could hear me laughing even after the door closed.
I LEFT COMET to protect the family, but the greyhound had other ideas. She had planted herself on the floor directly in front of the double doors through which I had vanished, and now she was stretched to her full length, eyes shut, still as a stone. As soon as I was gone Freddie pulled Comet’s leash from her purse. She badly needed to get out of there, decompress, and compose herself for what was going to be a very long day.
“Come on, Comet. Let’s go for a walk.”
Normally the word walk was jet fuel for a supersonic dash to the leash. This time Comet didn’t even open her eyes. Freddie relented and waited a few more minutes. Several nurses and doctors pushed through the doors, only to shuffle sideways in order to avoid the cinnamon-striped dog stretched at their feet. Freddie repeatedly apologized to the surprised staff, who always responded, “That’s okay, it’s no problem.” Then, “What kind of dog is that? She’s beautiful.” Comet refused to budge; flattery meant nothing to her today. She wouldn’t even raise her head.
After a few of these interchanges, Freddie kneeled on the floor beside Comet and coaxed, “Come on, girl. We’ll go outside for a walk and see if the bunnies are up yet.” No response. “Comet, I know you have to finish with your potty business. Let’s go.” Still no movement or the slightest acknowledgment that Freddie was in the room. “We can get you a treat.” Nothing. “Comet. I don’t have time for this. Come on!”
Comet’s head shot up and she pinned Freddie with a glare that warned, Back off. “She scared me,” Freddie later confessed. “I decided to just leave her alone for a while.”
In spite of the harried comings and goings of our family, other folks waiting in the lounge, and the hospital staff, Comet refused to leave the spot she had staked out. She had to be hungry, but she rejected the food and treats Freddie offered. She had to be uncomfortable because of her too-brief walk at 5:00 a.m., but she never uttered the short whine that signaled she needed a break. She had to be frustrated with the continual flow of traffic through the nearby door and the people who were forced to step directly over her, but she never moved a muscle. Comet didn’t even flinch when someone would stumble into her as they pushed through the door.
Every hour a member of the surgical team would come out and tell the family how my operation was progressing. They eventually paid Comet no heed, stepping over her as if she were a familiar street curb. The updates were sometimes technical, but usually they were general assurances that the surgery was proceeding successfully and I was still breathing. Then, at approximately thirty minutes after noon, a nurse negotiated her way past Comet to Freddie with good news. “Dr. Frey has finished with the work from the front. Once that incision is sutured, he’ll make his incision from the back and begin the work with the rods and cages. Mr. Wolf has tolerated the surgery very well and his vital signs are good.” I had been in the operating room for six hours.
“How much longer?” asked my mom.
“We just don’t know. We’ll keep you updated.” She turned to go but stopped before stepping over Comet. “Has this dog even moved?”
The afternoon stretched into a routine of medical updates and small skirmishes pitting Comet’s will against Freddie’s fire. “Comet, you have to get up. I mean it! You can’t go this long without relieving yourself!”
Comet remained totally still, eyes closed in annoyance, letting Freddi
e know that her threats were futile. When Freddie forced the collar past her snout and over her head, Comet shrugged out of it and shot Freddie another glare: Leave me alone!
“Fine, then! Just lie there and suffer!” Tense as Freddie was, she couldn’t help but laugh as Comet turned her head and slowly, deliberately, lowered it to the floor.
Sometime around seven o’clock that night, twelve hours after I first entered surgery, Dr. Frey stepped over Comet and into the waiting room. Freddie hurried to meet him. As she skidded to a stop in front of the doctor, his face split into a wide smile. Before anyone could speak, Comet popped up from the floor and pushed herself between Freddie and the doctor, ears perked and laser eyes focused on Frey. Dr. Frey chuckled at the interference, then turned his attention to Freddie. “It was a challenge, but everything appears to have gone well. We had some unexpected obstacles, but nothing serious, just time-consuming. The nurses are cleaning your husband up and he should be in the recovery room soon. He’ll be there awhile. It was a long surgery.”
Freddie wiped her cheeks. “Well, what do you think?”
“He appears to have tolerated the surgery very well. Several of his major nerves, including both sciatic nerves, were seriously entrapped, but they’ve been freed up now. If nothing else, his pain should be reduced.” Dr. Frey returned Freddie’s hug before heading back into the surgical area. Over his shoulder he called, “The staff told me that Comet parked herself in front of this door and refused to move the whole time. Wow!”
The room had been stretched to its bursting point all day by the adrenaline and stress. Once the door closed, the tribe that had gathered around Freddie during the doctor’s report looked at one another for a happy, stunned moment and let out a collective sigh. The walls and furnishings regained their original shapes, more real and less threatening. Everybody was exhausted, so the subdued celebration that followed lasted only ten minutes. It was unanimously agreed that a nice meal was in order since I wouldn’t be conscious for a few more hours.
As the family collected their belongings in the now-deserted waiting room, Freddie rummaged through her purse for Comet’s leash. She turned to the spot in front of the doors to the surgery wing. “Com … where’s Comet?” Between the tears, hugs, and congratulations that had just transpired, no one had noticed that Comet was gone.
“She didn’t leave with the doctor did she?” asked my mom. The rest of the family stood glued to the floor, looking around as if they expected Comet to pop out from behind one of the small chairs.
Freddie hustled to the door leading to the main hospital corridor, calling, “Comet! Here, girl. Come here, Comet.” Seeing no sign of her, Freddie sprinted down the hall and around the corner leading to the elevators. Just like the first time in Sedona, when I had questioned Comet’s ability to find her way home, the greyhound was standing in sharp profile in front of the elevator doors, her head tilted mockingly, as if to ask Freddie, “What took you so long?”
Freddie later told me that Dr. Frey’s appearance had been like a hypnotist snapping his fingers. When the doctor had smiled with his good news, Comet instantly switched out of her intense, trancelike vigil and transformed back into the unflappable, independent spirit we recognized. She didn’t even object when Freddie left her in the hotel room while the family went to dinner. Apparently Comet had concluded that all was well.
My surgery and recovery time had taken up the entire day and night of Thursday. By Friday evening my body started to register the train wreck I had been in. Before the actual operation, I had anticipated that the initial postsurgery pain would be due to the incision from my front rib cage to my waist. If not the stomach, I assumed that the area along my spine, from just below my shoulder blades to my tailbone, might fire off jolts of pain wherever a rod or cage had been inserted. Instead, my first discomfort was from neither of those areas. An aching throb and burning stabs radiated from the muscles in my midback around to my front ribs.
“What’s wrong?” Freddie had been stationed at my bedside in the ICU for most of the day, but because my tongue and mind still hadn’t fully synchronized, I hadn’t said a word to her. Now she saw me grimace and warned, “Wolfie, you are not going to pull that macho-macho routine this time. If you’re in pain, the nurses need to know so they can get you something. What’s wrong?”
“Smy bhhoth,” I mumbled.
“What?” I could tell that Freddie was trying not to giggle. She had the wide-eyed look of innocence, but her lips twitched like a cat’s.
“Smiiii buuth …” My words were longer but no more intelligible. I lifted my right hand a few inches from the blanket. “Ubth thah!”
Freddie’s giggles started as a soft huff, but squeals soon took full possession of her. She held her hand up, signaling that she was trying to stop. But I didn’t want her to; the sound was wonderful. Then my laughter, still hoarse from the throat tubes and the effects of anesthesia, loudly joined in. God, it felt good!
The noise pulled my nurse into the doorway. “Is something wrong?” she asked. We spurted out another round of laughter while the nurse stood grinning at us. Freddie was the first to regain her senses. “I can tell that he’s in pain, but he’s having trouble explaining it to me.” Freddie wouldn’t look at me, afraid that she’d lose it again.
With Freddie acting as interpreter, I was finally able to communicate the source of my pain. I could tell from the way she squeezed my hand that she was relieved. Freddie needed everybody, from doctor to nurses to her husband, to get their act together so she could leave for Sedona with some peace of mind. Guilt wouldn’t haunt her if she knew my care was on automatic pilot. So it was no surprise that by Saturday Freddie had made giant strides in bringing my pain under better control, convincing the doctor to prescribe my usual fentanyl suckers and instructing the nurses to bring those disgusting treats to me at regular intervals—Freddie knew I wouldn’t be smart enough to ask for one until the pain had already escalated.
Comet spent most of her time with Mom and Manny that week, although Freddie took long breaks away from me to walk her and assure her that the hotel was just temporary lodging. But by Saturday morning, Comet’s patience was gone. She wanted to see me, and when Freddie opened the SUV’s door Comet jumped in and refused to move.
“Out of the car, Comet,” Freddie commanded. The greyhound fixed her with the same stony glare she had used during my surgery. Comet got her way.
All intensive care units discourage visitors other than next of kin and very close friends. “I don’t think she can be here,” warned the floor nurse when she saw Comet and Freddie approaching the door to my room.
I heard Freddie cheerfully respond, “Oh, she’s my husband’s service dog.”
“Service or not, I don’t think animals are allowed in here.”
“Why?” Freddie no longer sounded so friendly.
The nurse’s softening tone told me that Comet had entered the discussion by simply standing there. “Good question. I don’t know. There are people who are allergic to dog hair …” The pause in the discussion sounded promising. “If she stays in your husband’s room, I can’t imagine there would be a problem.”
By that time Mom had arrived with Manny in tow. Comet led the group into my room. Until then I had been spinning in and out of reality, wrestling with irksome gaps in memory as I attempted to calculate how much time had elapsed since my surgery. A day? A week? For all I knew it could have been either.
However long it had been, it was too long for Comet. Her fidgeting beside my pillow reminded me of a lovesick teenager who hadn’t seen her boyfriend for a whole day! As everybody was settling into the space, the nurse entered and ripped the Velcro on a blood pressure monitor she was removing from a wall bracket. At the sound, Comet’s eyes dilated and her rear leg muscles tensed. Freddie saw Comet’s alarm. “Comet, don’t you—”
A chorus of gasps circled the room as Comet’s body shot off the floor. Then, as light as a Colorado snowflake, she landed on the six-inch le
ngth of mattress alongside me, not even ruffling the blanket. With a stern glance at the speechless nurse standing on the other side of the bed, Comet settled her lean body onto the narrow landing strip, eyes staring into mine, leaning just enough weight against me to let me know she was there. I was used to Comet’s amazing knack of leaping onto a bed without disturbing me in the slightest, but from the openmouthed silence that filled the room, I could tell that the others were suitably impressed. Comet comfortably rested at my side during the remainder of the visit. Freddie finally pried her from the bed with the leash for a late Saturday night departure.
Comet resumed her bed-top vigil on Sunday morning after I was moved out of ICU and into a regular room. By then I was stringing enough words together to form fairly comprehensible sentences. Freddie was surprised at the timing of the room switch, but the doctor told her, “He’s tolerating the pain extremely well.”
And I was. I didn’t want to say anything yet, but I had become increasingly aware of a strange feeling since late Saturday. In spite of the aching and burning in various parts of my sliced and hacked body, I was feeling really good. I didn’t want to jump the loading chute by telling anybody else so early on; the narcotics still floating through my abused body might have been inducing a false euphoria. But the pain radiating from the repair efforts was so much less intense than what I had been living with for eight years that I felt as if I had been in nothing more serious than a minor sledding accident.
It soon became apparent that my recovery was proceeding faster than anticipated. As other parts of my body began to catch up to my speech, I was rudely reminded that the three days since surgery was an eon to my intestines. “Freddie, the good news is that I’m finally over most of the effects of the anesthesia.” I pulled her down toward the bed so I could whisper into her ear. “The bad news is, I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Oh, good!” Freddie exclaimed. “Let me get the bedpan for you!” There are few things in life as obnoxious as the loud voice of a medical professional announcing the prospect of a bowel movement. When that person happens to be your wife broadcasting the news to the rest of the family, it’s even more humiliating.
