As I went through the accelerated admittance process for emergency surgery, I quickly filled out the paperwork for a health directive and the “Five Wishes” forms. It stipulated that the hospital wouldn’t unnecessarily prolong my life if I was only being kept alive mechanically. It seemed reasonable to not keep a body alive without real life within it.
The doctor, who would insert the umbrella-shaped IVC metal filter that was designed to stop blood clots from entering major organs, stopped by the cubicle where Linda and I waited. Nurses prepped me for surgery. The surgeon looked young to me but did not have Dr. Nussbaum’s exceptionally youthful appearance. He implied that anything involving blood clots is risky. I would be sedated and feel discomfort but not severe pain.
After the surgeon left, an attendant wheeled me to the surgery room. I remained fully conscious. As my gurney passed through hospital hallways and under the fluorescent lights, scenes from my past came pounding back to regain my attention. One in particular was from my days as a cop in Atlanta.
One late afternoon when I was still a rookie cop, I patrolled a residential neighborhood. The bright sun shone in a cloudless sky, making it hard for me to see beyond the glare. A woman ran into the street and yelled for me to stop the police car. She pointed toward the end of the block. “A man has been stabbed!” she screamed.
I immediately informed dispatch and asked for backup and an EMS unit. I ran over to the man, who lay face-up on the sidewalk. The knife that had pierced his heart lay in the road a few feet away. His girlfriend, reeling with grief and shock, stood over his body. She cried and begged for someone to help him. Other people from the neighborhood gathered at the scene.
I spoke into my hand radio and asked dispatch for the EMS unit’s estimated time of arrival. I knelt down beside the conscious man, who looked to be in his early thirties. As a new cop, I immediately knew that I wasn’t prepared to handle such a situation. Still, I was the one on the scene, and I had to do my best.
I tried to stop the bleeding by placing pressure on the wound with my hand. The man looked up at me. While I stared back into his eyes, I realized he was aware that death was near. I continued to apply pressure. He reached for my right hand as if to tell me to stop.
People around watched, horrified. I centered myself and tried to remain calm. I placed my hand on his shoulder. The light and awareness inside his eyes slowly darkened and went out. His sobbing girlfriend collapsed into the arms of an older woman nearby.
The EMS unit arrived and took over attending the victim. I spoke into my radio and gave a lookout description for the suspect. Other officers found the perpetrator several blocks away. He turned out to be a recently released mental patient who had been visiting his mother. He’d found a knife in his mother’s kitchen, grabbed it, ran out the front door, and attacked the first person he saw.
The victim, nibbling on a bag of french fries, had gotten off the bus with his girlfriend. One moment a french fry was in his hand, the next he was looking into a cop’s eyes, knowing his life was over. Death came just that quickly and with just that much apparent randomness.
Once I had been delivered to the operating room, the anesthesiologist administered conscious sedation. The surgeon inserted the tube into the main artery at the back of my neck. Because I was still conscious, I watched the X-ray screen display the tube. The procedure went without a hitch, and several hours later I was released from the hospital. Linda and I drove home, with both of us deep in our own thoughts. I reflected on the bizarre twists of the day.
While I rested on the couch that evening with Leaf’s body sprawled across my lap, I felt thankful that once again I’d been given another chance. But then the unease crept in as I remembered that I still had no ticket to the “Building of Life.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Facing Fears
IF EVER I NEEDED A BREAK, IT WAS NOW. THE BEST BREAKS, WHICH TOOK me away from all my worries, were with Leaf. Our newest discovery was the massive Minnehaha Off-Leash Recreation Area, otherwise known as “dog-park heaven.” Dogs romped on the beach and swam in the river. They chased sticks.
Walking through the eight-acre dog park, with its wooded trails and the Mississippi River running through it, Leaf indulged his passion for leaves. He had two or three favorite spots where he threw himself onto the ground and rolled in dirt and leaves with gleeful abandon on every visit. This always brought smiles and laughs from me and the other dogpark patrons.
Leaf was showing me much about survival, growth, and love. I carefully observed everything he did. He and his doggy viewpoint fascinated me. He had proven to be a calm yet determined fighter, using his intelligence, skills, and intuition to focus on his goals. He was a survivor with a curious twinkle in his eyes. At this park Leaf loved to run, play, and explore. With an enthusiasm that matched my dog’s, I became part of his world on our great adventures together. No worries here.
One day I watched Leaf face one of his greatest fears: losing control of his favorite ball. While this was not exactly in the same realm as brain surgery and blood clots, it was crucial for a dog who had few coping skills around loss.
I threw his ball into the river, making sure it didn’t float out too far. Leaf dove in after it with only a bit of hesitation. He evaluated the distance and possible challenges of a swift current. With the ball floating only a few feet from shore, he repeatedly retrieved it for me to throw again.
We walked a long distance to an undisturbed inlet with dark, still, deep water feeding it from the fast-moving river. Passing boats made small waves. People chatted with each other while sipping coffee they’d brought to the park. A few ducks swam nearby. The water’s shadowy surface hid whatever unknowns lurked below.
When I threw Leaf’s ball into the mysterious water, he hesitated. He looked at the ball and at me. I said, “You can do this.” The ball had floated only four or five feet from where he stood. The water rose up to his knees on his short legs. He could easily walk or swim and retrieve the ball. But venturing out into the deeper water would take a leap of faith. Who in their right mind would jump into murky, still water, not knowing what hidden dangers lurked there? I saw in him that day my own fears of what lay ahead for me.
A young man in jeans and a plaid shirt sat on a log nearby and watched Leaf. His large mixed-breed dog was also a rescue. Like Leaf, the dog had become a wonderful friend and companion. The man called out words of encouragement for Leaf to go and get his ball.
Leaf barked at the ball as it slowly floated on the placid black water. He whined and whimpered as if pleading for it to return on its own. The ball wouldn’t cooperate. Leaf took one careful step after another into the water. Three or four feet to the left of where Leaf’s ball floated, a tree branch had fallen into the inlet. Leaf looked at the branch. He assessed the situation and worked out a strategy.
Carefully, he jumped up onto the dead limb. He slowly walked toward his ball. As he drew closer, I could tell he felt conflicted. Should he continue on his quest or retreat to the safety of land? Bravely he forged onward. After arriving at the spot, Leaf had to make another decision. Would he jump into the ominous water or retreat from taking a dive into the unknown?
By then the man’s dog sat beside him. They both observed Leaf’s dilemma. The man noticed Leaf apply his problem-solving skills by using the log as his bridge. He said, “That’s the most endearing thing I’ve ever seen a dog do.” I found it amusing and touching for a stranger to become so involved in Leaf’s challenge that he rooted for him. “That’s one smart dog,” he added. “You can tell he’s afraid. But he worked out a unique way to get back his ball.”
I said nothing to Leaf. He needed the freedom to make his own decision.
He held tightly to the branch with his paws, then jumped into the murky water. His head and body dipped under the surface for a second. He emerged from the dive, spotted his ball, grabbed it in his mouth with determination, and swam back to shore.
A bright light of new confidence emanate
d from Leaf. The other man and I were enthusiastic about Leaf and his victory. He had faced the unknown. “Good boy,” I kept saying. “You did it!”
As we continued our walk through the park, I intermittently threw the ball for Leaf and thought about how my recent health traumas had tested the still waters of my life. Watching Leaf refuse to give up was a lesson for how creative and persistent I’d need to be in order to get my life back. It was refreshing to see Leaf conquer fear and anxiety. He glowed with self-confidence. He had swum into the unknown. Did I have as much courage as my little dog?
Leaf demonstrated another survival skill I’d need in my own journey. Because of Leaf’s prior abandonment and my experiences with police work, we both had to revive our trust in people. For Leaf, this test of courage took the form of allowing himself to show affection to a species that had cruelly betrayed him.
Linda had always wanted a dog who would let her pet and cuddle him. Leaf would have none of that. Linda could pet him, and he’d allow it. But if she leaned down to kiss his head, he offered nothing in return. One day she confided, “Oh, how I long for one more of Taylor’s sweet doggy kisses.”
We don’t remember the exact date when it happened, but a few months after Leaf became a member of our family, Linda bent down to kiss him on his forehead. He raised his head and examined her face carefully, as he had on our first visit to the animal shelter. Then with his raspy pink tongue, he planted a big, wet kiss not on her mouth, but on her nose.
One kiss. She said, “I think I’m going to die of happiness.”
From that point on, their kissing sessions burgeoned from one to two to three to four carefully placed nose licks. Within another couple of months, Linda was the thrilled recipient of kisses in the morning, kisses in the evening, and definitely kisses at suppertime.
Around the time that my medical drama shook our lives, Leaf started a new bedtime ritual. He’d jump up on the bed, paw at my side, pull down the covers, and prepare it for his favorite playmate’s arrival. Then he’d roll over on his back while I rubbed his tummy.
After Linda was tucked in with her head propped up on pillows and a book in her hands, Leaf would sit at her shoulder and gaze lovingly and intensely into her eyes. Then carefully and methodically, up and down and sideways, he’d lick her nose for as much as a minute.
Satisfied that he’d settled her in for the night, he’d say goodnight to me with a lick or two. Linda got many more kisses, I guess because Leaf knew she needed them. All the pain and anxiety she felt over the possibility of losing her husband to death or permanent disability drained out of her as she and Leaf held their nightly love fest. She liked to joke, “I have a husband and a fella.”
After he completed the kissing, Leaf would rest his head on Linda’s shoulder and fall asleep while she read. He’d stay there until she turned off the light. At that point he’d jump off the bed and go back to sleep on his adjacent dog bed or in the bedroom doorway—ever protective, ever watchful. Linda and I would fall asleep listening to his gentle sighs, snores, and snorts.
One night as she closed her book and prepared to go to sleep, Linda turned to me and said, “I’ve been kissed by many dogs in my life. No kisses have been sweeter than Leaf’s. Maybe it’s because I had to earn them.”
Leaf had taken the steps toward committing to his relationship with Linda and me. With his new nighttime ritual, he expressed gratitude and love. And that’s what you do with the ones you love—you kiss them on the nose.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Manual
ABOUT A WEEK BEFORE MY SCHEDULED BRAIN SURGERY, NIGHT AFTER night, never leaving his post, Leaf stretched out flat on the floor of my office, while I worked on what I called “The Manual.” It would contain all the financial and other details that Linda would require if I died or was incapacitated from the brain surgery. I had decided that creating “The Manual” was something I wanted to do alone. I told Linda that I could move faster by myself. Really, though, I didn’t want to put her through all the emotions such a document would dredge up if we sat side by side to create it. And besides, what if she had an emotional reaction to “The Manual” the way she had to “The Memo”?
Early on in our marriage, we had agreed to share household tasks. While I’d handled the day-to-day financial duties, we’d discuss any big decisions or purchases. After we began writing together, our division of labor also included my being in charge of creating and maintaining websites related to our Angel Animals Network. I maintained access to many Internet sites and functions that required passwords. “The Manual” would help Linda take over my duties and keep our household running while I recovered.
Our arrangement had worked well over the years, especially since my day job required much travel. My wife and coauthor could focus solely on the complex and time-consuming procedures involved with our books’ story contributors. She could handle most of the requests from editors and marketing people who needed input from us, even when I was temporarily out of touch.
Since I went to my office during the day, creating “The Manual” became a nighttime and sometimes into-the-early-hours-of-the-morning task. It took days of concentrated effort. Somehow, it fit that since I faced the prospect of not being able to live the life I wanted anymore, I was working on it as the sun set, and night overtook my world.
Looking over old bank statements, I recognized names of restaurants where Linda and I had eaten. I picked through records of bookstore purchases that had filled our shelves with writing and animal books. Movie theater stubs had mixed in with other receipts and reminded me of breaks we had taken to view new films. Would I ever hold my wife’s hand at a Cineplex once again? Or munch on an extra-large, shared, buttered popcorn? I longed to call up to Linda, who was working in her office upstairs, “Do you remember when we went to Three Fishes restaurant for our anniversary last year?”
After Linda went to bed, it was only Leaf and me facing my mortality. On the upside, though, the process of creating “The Manual” was reminding me that I needed to do everything possible to win the battle and continue my life’s journey.
I shuffled stacks of important papers, made phone calls to verify information, and visited websites for screen grabs and jpegs. I created flowcharts to make instructions for complicated processes that would allow a smooth transition of our duties. As I attempted to depersonalize “The Manual” and keep my emotions in check, I designed it the same way I had written software manuals for work with elements such as “click this” buttons, overviews of each section, step-by-step instructions, task assignments, and testing. I can do this, I kept reminding myself. But making business manuals didn’t require forcing down a lump in my throat.
Occasionally Leaf would raise his head and focus on me with his prescient eyes. For an instant, I would feel a glimmer of hope that Linda would only need to temporarily refer to “The Manual.” He’d plop his head back down between his two front paws and let out a loud sigh. Were my emotions taking a toll on him? He’d lost some of his vigor since I’d started working on “The Manual” and looked exhausted. I felt guilty at the thought that he might be taking on my burdens.
When it came time to gather all the necessary documents for filing medical and dental bills and possibly having to apply for disability, it overwhelmed me to think about the cost of each procedure, test, and visit to the hospital. They were adding up to beyond what our less-than-stellar insurance covered. How would we deal with the new round of medical bills? We still had to finish paying for four major surgeries that had vanquished Linda’s breast cancer. I’d come close to losing her then. Now she was facing the same prospect with me.
Unlike the memo fiasco, I did not go through a ritual or ceremony when the time came to present “The Manual” to Linda. I simply walked upstairs to her office. Leaf padded along behind me. I told her that it was finished and where she could find it on my bookshelf. I hoped that no more discussion was needed. It had already been painful enough to design it.
L
ater that night, though, I found Linda in our white-walled bedroom, sitting on the edge of our bed. She clutched a handful of tissues and dabbed at her eyes. I walked in and sat next to her. Holding her hand, I reassured her that “The Manual” would only be necessary during my recovery period after surgery. “But what if you don’t make it through this?” she asked.
She had finally spoken the unspeakable. Her words sent me reeling. Constant problem-solver that I am … this time, however, I had no answer. “I’ll get rid of the thing,” I said and bolted off the bed. I felt a sudden urge to destroy the document I’d worked so hard to create. Its very existence showed a lack of faith that I would survive.
She pulled me back to her and continued to cry softly. “I’ll read it while you’re at work tomorrow.” Then she wrapped her arms around my chest and grasped me tightly. Her body shook as she sobbed into my shoulder. Through all the doctors’ appointments, hospital tests, procedures, and preparations for my surgery, she had stayed strong. She was a professional woman who had previously run her own business and managed entire corporate departments. She didn’t cry often, which is why it unnerved me so much when she did.
“You know I am going to make it,” I said. I silently cursed my voice for not having more conviction.
“I know. I know.” But in her eyes I caught a glimpse of the last thing I wanted to see there—a sliver of doubt.
Now that “The Manual” was completed, I could sit in my old tan recliner and relax. But the thoughts that swarmed like moths around a flame allowed for no rest.
Dog Named Leaf Page 8
