Finding Harmony

by Sally Hyder

  But I’d forgotten about the sheet ice. I got to the top and felt the scooter start to slide; I tried to turn back. Too late! We began to skid, or rather to fly down the hill backwards.

  It was more a case of ‘Let’s gooooooooooooooo!’ than ‘Let’s go!’

  Life went into slow motion. Right, Sally, I remember thinking. You’ve got your thick padded coat and your gloves on. Put up your hood!

  At the last minute, the scooter hit something, spun and I flew out of it.

  Luckily, one of the care assistants from Melissa’s old school spotted me from an upstairs window. She ran to get her coat on, thinking she could at least help with Melissa if she was there but once she saw that it was just me and had been reassured that Andrew was already on his way, she went home. I had landed in a ditch with the scooter on top of me. I remember my head hitting a rock with a clunk and thinking, OK, that wasn’t too bad. But then I passed out.

  I came to (I’d been unconscious for probably no more than a couple of minutes) with Harmony beside me, howling and barking away. A couple walking their Golden Retriever were standing next to her. Apparently Harmony had been running to and fro between us to alert them to my accident, just like Lassie. I had been calling out too, it seemed. The couple lifted the scooter off, but wisely didn’t try to move me.

  Andrew appeared.

  I’d called him from the ditch to say I’d had an accident although I have absolutely no recollection of this, which was disconcerting. The couple had already called an ambulance and within minutes, paramedics in green appeared and set about examining me. Harmony was very distressed: she kept getting in their way and barking at them. Andrew put on her lead. Then they lifted me up and put me onto my scooter (it was far too dangerous and icy to carry me in a stretcher). They got me to the waiting ambulance by holding me on the scooter while Andrew pressed the lever to make it move.

  Harmony went ballistic as I disappeared into the ambulance and the doors shut. Later I found out that Andrew had had to pick her up and literally stuff her into the car. He took her home for reassurance and cuddles although she then lay by the front door until I came home, some hours later.

  At the hospital they ran some X-rays. Despite having landed on my right side (my bad side), miraculously I hadn’t broken anything. However, I had to have the gash in my head glued and there was bruising under the surface of my skin. One of my frustrations is no matter how hard I fall, I never seem to have a bruise to show for it. Afterwards I was extremely sore and had a cracking headache for days.

  Harmony and I were both traumatised by the fall. For months afterwards, I had trouble getting her in the car; she associated it with separation and it triggered fears of all sorts. Over time, and with judicious use of treats, she returned to herself.

  I am still terrified of that slope but I refuse to be beaten. We do it as part of our routine walk, both up and down, with my lovely dog-walking friends walking quietly beside me. When we get to the top, Harmony walks backwards in front of me to check I’m OK. Liz and the other dog-walkers are amazed by her intelligence and technique. If I have trouble with the scooter, she stops and comes back again to make sure everything is OK. And if she hasn’t seen me for a while, she needs to sniff me – it’s her way of checking me over from top to toe to make sure I’m in one piece.

  She worries about me – it’s her job.

  Chapter 17

  Venturing Forth

  ‘Melissa, what’s your favourite game?’

  ‘Hide and seek: I hide then you say, “Sit, wait!” while I go and hide; then you say, “Go and find Melissa!” and Harmony comes and finds me.’

  Melissa loves playing with Harmony: her level of trust in her means that she also communicates through her. If she is scared or confused about something, she will say, ‘Harmony is worried about the sore leg’, or ‘Harmony doesn’t want to go shopping’. We respond to her concerns by talking to Harmony, through her.

  ‘Tell Harmony that the leg is getting better because the Band-Aid fixed it, so she doesn’t have to be scared.’

  Sometimes we ask Melissa if she really means that Melissa is scared of something, but the risk here is that by talking directly to her about a subject that scares her, she will panic.

  We’re a tactile family: we love cuddles. Melissa would sit in my lap all day if she could. She also loves putting her face in Harmony’s fur – it calms her down. I’ll put my arms around the two of them, which often leads to Harmony reaching up on her hind legs and putting her front paws on either side of my shoulders for a cuddle. She started doing this in response to us cuddling each other. When anyone comes home we have a hug, but I didn’t realise that Harmony had been watching us.

  One day, Andrew came home. Harmony waited for me to have my cuddle and then she jumped up and put her paws on his shoulder ready for her turn. She thinks of herself as a member of our family – it’s lovely to watch. Harmony has bonded with me and will choose to be with me, wherever I am, but that doesn’t stop her from having cuddles with the rest of the family. She loves her tummy rubs from Peter, hugs with Andrew and back scratches from Clara (she appreciates her strong musician’s fingers). Harmony also picks up on our moods, especially mine: if she is worried about something or concerned about me, she will put her head between my knees and just stay there. If she picks up on any feelings of sadness or pain, she will lie beside me with her head on one of my shoulders, licking my hand, long before it starts to spasm or stops working altogether (which can go on for a day). After a big spasm, I can even fall out of my chair. I’m gradually getting weaker and more spasms now occur on a weekly basis. It’s as if Harmony understands what’s going on – I just don’t know how.

  As I have mentioned before, Melissa doesn’t relish change, which means that she doesn’t like going on holiday – in fact, she finds it very stressful. We’ve recently started to go on city breaks (we’ve visited former au pairs in Berlin). Melissa goes to stay with Granny and Grandad Edinburgh (Andrew’s parents) and Harvey, their Cocker Spaniel (Melissa’s other best friend). Harvey is immensely patient with her, Granny devises outings and we leave knowing Melissa is happy.

  This year it was Bulgaria and the first time I’d left Harmony. I was so excited about visiting a new country, going abroad, but at the same time I was worried about leaving her behind.

  We were to drop her off at kennels near Biggar and they came highly recommended: the owners of Sara, the Red Setter we walk with, use them for all their dogs. I’d looked up their website and I liked the ethos, the smallness and the fact that the owner uses the profits from the kennels to fund her animal rescue work. Being a coward, I asked Peter to accompany me on the hour’s drive. We were delivering Harmony the day before we left. I felt so miserable.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the manager, as she returned from taking Harmony to her kennel. ‘She has gone in like an old pro – she’ll be fine.’

  And so she was.

  Once again, Canine Partners proved their brilliance in preparing the dogs for all eventualities and had actually sent them off to kennels for regular kennel breaks. As it turned out, Harmony was perfectly well behaved and not unduly concerned (you hear stories of some dogs chewing the bars of their cages). When we picked her up, Bunny was still intact so we knew there had been no anxious chewing.

  We had a fantastic weekend in Bulgaria. Peter and Clara specifically asked if we could visit a country about which they knew nothing, somewhere new, and somewhere neither Andrew nor I had been to. I had booked a ground-floor flat and emphasised that I was a wheelchair-user. When we got there, we discovered there were 15 steps to the front door! The ground floor turned out to be the first floor. Steps aside, we had a superb time, discovering the old and the new: beautiful churches and scenery intermingled with communist-era buildings. We were staying in a refurbished flat in one such block and the central heating was communal so we couldn’t choose when to have it on or off.

  We flew home on the Sunday night. Officially, I wasn’t
allowed to pick up Harmony for another 12 hours. The kennel rules are very strict: no collecting pets after hours to avoid people turning up day and night, but I was desperate to see Harmony and so I took a chance and rang ahead.

  ‘We’ll be passing your door at about nine o’clock tonight. Can I come and get Harmony?’

  ‘Yes, of course you can,’ said the kennel owner. ‘Usually it would be a problem but not this evening.’

  Joy! We arrived, Harmony was brought out to me and we had an emotional reunion – you’d have thought we’d been apart for months, not days. I insisted on sitting on the back seat with my dog and cuddled her all the way home.

  * * *

  I felt encouraged by Harmony’s response to being left in the kennels and in doing so, I’d also recovered my sense of self and my place in the world. Sod the MS, I could go anywhere, do anything and off-the-cuff! MS is progressive. I am marking the deterioration weekly, which means that I’m keen to do as much as I can now. Last summer, we went sailing at the Culvert Trust at Kielder. It has a huge forest and the biggest manmade lake in Europe. I sailed by myself for three hours, in a specially adapted sailing boat. The others were water skiing. Oh, the glory of rushing along in the waves, feeling the wind in my hair, the sun on my face and doing it all by myself. (Indeed, my Mum tells me that my most oft-repeated phrase as a toddler was, ‘I do it myself!’)

  But there was a penalty: as soon as my feet touched the ground, I was subjected to all-over body licking from Harmony as she checked me over. It was as if she was grumbling: How on earth am I supposed to look after you if you go off and do stupid things like sailing by yourself? As I’ve become more adventurous, her grumbles have got more vocal – the family find this hilarious. We headed off through the woodlands looking for the Wave Chamber (an architectural installation by the lake).

  ‘You can do a lot of the activities here, but you will never make the Wave Chamber,’ warned the man at the desk when we arrived at the Culvert Trust.

  The family groaned. Obviously I’d have to go to the Wave Chamber now.

  We set off. I was in my scooter, which as I’ve said before is designed for trips to the shops and not off-road adventures in muddy woodland. It took my whole family to move rocks and part trees, pushing and shoving me through bogs; the scooter by this stage was somewhat worse for wear (obviously I need a vehicle designed for more extreme terrain!). I got there in the end and took the photos to prove it. The Wave Chamber was a tiny, hollow cairn with a smooth floor that catches the sun; it ripples and makes the sound of crashing waves. Once inside the chamber with the door shut, you’re treated to an amazing sensory experience.

  The next thing I knew, Clara and I had booked flights to Amsterdam for the Easter holiday. It was our first trip away, just the two of us; it had been her idea (I’d always wanted to show her Anne Frank’s house). Clara had just read Anne Frank’s diary and was keen to visit the annexe where the family had hidden. I’d also enjoyed the diary when I was 13 (the same age as Frank, when she began writing it) and found it as poignant and haunting as Clara had. Finally, I managed my dream of visiting her attic home when I was 42 and on a trip with Andrew, with him lifting my leg up the steps. This time, my MS was far worse, though.

  ‘You will have to go in by yourself, sweetheart,’ I warned Clara, in advance of our trip.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be OK if I leave you?’ she asked, worried.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  We arrived at Edinburgh Airport and the girl at the check-in looked at Clara and enquired, ‘Has she packed her own bags?’

  Clara turned to me and asked, ‘Mum, did you pack your own bags?’

  It was a fantastic 72-hour, whistle-stop tour of Amsterdam’s cultural hotspots. We managed to use the goods lift to get me onto the canal barge; we visited the flower market and the Royal Palace, as well as hidden gems such as the best apple pie shop and the oldest distillery in Amsterdam. Clara had the map and planned out all our routes and itineraries. She pushed me over cobblestones, took the hump-backed bridges at a run and even managed to cross a busy intersection (even though I did end up in a pile of builder’s sand when she drove my chair into a pavement under renovation, but that’s another story!).

  We stayed in a wonderful B&B in the Jordaan district, a 10-minute walk from the Prinsengracht Canal and Anne Frank’s house. The manager, a lovely lady called Charlotte, explained when I rang that there were two small internal steps and a grab rail that ran down to the ground-floor bedroom. It was exactly as she had described it: brilliant!

  I did think, as Clara knelt to help me undress, I need my dog, but Canine Partners don’t allow us to take the dogs abroad (although each request is considered on a case-by-case basis). The stress on the dogs would be too much. Besides, this was my time with Clara. We laughed and chatted and had a great time.

  Andrew took time off work to look after Harmony and Melissa. The trip made me realise that not only is it possible to travel, but how important it still is to visit different places and explore the world. It was such fun seeing a new city, discovering its history and culture and sharing it with Clara.

  Then it was back home.

  Sometimes Melissa’s needs are overwhelming and our four hours’ respite a week, recently allocated and managed by the Lothian Autistic Society, is a huge help. Even with this, it’s a battle. There are no shortcuts or easy answers yet when I spend time with Melissa, it never fails to amaze me how much of life I see. She forces you to slow down: you can spend hours in the garden with her looking at ladybirds and counting petals on a rose; there’s a joy in living life in the slow lane – it’s a positive thing. It makes me realise how fortunate I am in so many ways.

  ‘No, Harmony – I don’t need my sock taken off!’

  Oh dear, Harmony is bored. I’m working and she wants to be working (and have a reward). If she can’t work, she’s just as happy playing tug o’ war with me: she has to remember not to shake her head so when she’s tugging me up from bed or shutting a door (all a variation on the tugging game), she won’t injure me (or her). She’s like a professional Gun Dog or Retriever in the way that she has to look after her jaws except no self-respecting Gun Dog would ever play tug.

  Recently, a bored Harmony found a new way to get my attention: she walked over to the table and knocked a book off it in order to retrieve it and give it to me, tail wagging, eyes sparkling.

  Can I have my reward now? I just picked up that book, didn’t I?

  Busy working in the summer of 2010, I found myself regularly presented with my shoes and her lead.

  ‘OK, Harmony, let’s go!’

  We were on holiday and had found a lovely walk, leaving Melissa with Ali and her friends in the nearby paddling pool. I joined them after the walk: we watched the kids play and had ice creams. Suddenly Harmony decided enough was enough, so she pulled my sweater out of the scooter basket and gave it to me. Then she pulled her coat out and gave that to me, too. Having completed this task, her brown eyes shining, ears pricked up and head tilted to one side, she seemed to be saying: Please, can we go home now, or DO something? I just hate sitting around!

  Harmony is quite funny these days in managing me: if she picks up a dropped item or starts to empty the washing machine, she won’t release the item from her jaws until she’s sure there’s a reward in my hand – she’s no fool! I’ve learned to be faster with the rewards.

  Recently I’ve written some articles for the press about living with an assistance dog and even been filmed for CBBC (Animals at Work will be broadcast in 2011). My kids simply roll their eyes.

  ‘Oh you and your tragic life!’

  ‘It’s not tragic at all,’ I tell them. ‘I’ve had an amazing life – I’ve seen Everest, I’ve travelled through China and I’ve got a wonderful family and Harmony!’

  Now, if Harmony sees a cameraman she will start doing all of the tasks one by one, like a performing dog. It’s hilarious. In May 2010, Canine Partners wanted to do some promotional filming an
d so we went to spend the day in the Pentland Hills. All of a sudden, I felt a tingling on my right side.

  ‘I’m going into spasm,’ I said.

  In a flash, Harmony was at my side, licking and cuddling me. Afterwards, I asked if the cameraman had got it on film. But no – he had been far too astounded and moved by Harmony’s ability to comfort me to keep the cameras rolling.

  A few days later, I was moaning to a Canine Partners’ friend on Facebook about my MS and being in a wheel-chair when she made the point: ‘But you wouldn’t have Harmony if you didn’t have MS.’

  And it’s true. Harmony has restored my sense of fun. I have to get up and get out – and I have someone to cuddle when the family are out getting on with their own lives. Harmony dissipates the everyday sadness that comes from being disabled and in pain: my gatekeeper, she keeps the tentacles of depression from descending.

  She’s also restored my taste for adventure. In June 2010 we flew to Southampton together to do some work for Canine Partners and have a team photo. It was Harmony’s first flight. I felt very nervous but I’m always ready for an injection of Heyshott, to talk about Harmony and be among the trainers – it does me the world of good. As usual, Edinburgh managed to mess up the arrangements and the ambulift wasn’t ready for us. Instead, the flight attendants decided to board all the passengers first. They then had to manhandle both me and another passenger (who was hemiplegic) onto the plane full of passengers with less space.

  ‘OK, Harmony,’ I said. ‘We can do this.’

  Harmony was terrified, crossing the bridge from the ambulift to the plane. Once in, I had to pull myself along the seats, holding onto the backs, until I got to mine. It was a long shuffle: I felt the eyes of everyone on the plane on me, which is never easy (and something I’ll never get used to). Feeling hot and bothered, I got into the seat and tried to get Harmony to settle down but there was no space: Harmony lay at my feet, about a centimetre into the aisle. The next disabled passenger was brought in and the assistants rolled the stretcher chair over Harmony’s tail, causing her to yelp.