“Fuck,” I mutter to the empty room. The sound of muffled laughter floats down the stairs. It’s not even eight PM and he’s already in bed watching TV.
The prospect of a restless night’s sleep on the couch isn’t very alluring, but I’m not sure I’m welcome in our shared bed. Closing my eyes, I wish for the darkness to wash over me. Lately, sleep attacks at the most inconvenient times—while working, driving, or trying to hold a conversation midafternoon—but it always hovers just outside my grasp, beyond the deep-purple haze of my tightly closed lids when I crave it most.
Out of nowhere, my dad’s quiet Yankee twang melts into my mind and warms me like an old flannel coat. Dolly Pahh-ton, Cass. Just like that dahmn dahg. He’s a man of few words, but those he chooses to speak tend to be wise ones even stubborn mules like me can’t ignore.
Dolly was my first experience with death. A ragtag yellow mutt Dad had brought home from the pound, she was my first real pet. Even though she’d been around before I could walk, she was mine as soon as I was old enough to follow her everywhere. Despite always looking a little worse for wear, Dolly seemed like she would live forever. I’ve no idea of her actual age, but she had to have been at least fifteen years old when she passed away the summer I turned six.
As a veterinarian, I know it’s likely Dolly was dying slowly for years, the creeping death brought along by a cancer that sneaks into the bones of older dogs, especially big ones. Six-year-old me didn’t understand this. One day Dad said Dolly was sick and needed to see the doggy doctor. Since I saw the doctor all the time, I thought nothing of it and watched them leave, content to play alone with my jump rope until Dolly came back and we could roam around the yard together. Claire was still a toddler and not nearly as much fun to play with.
After I waited forever, Daddy finally came back, but Dolly wasn’t sitting in the passenger seat with her big head shoved out the window. When I rushed to the station wagon, Daddy caught me in his arms and explained how Dolly was too sick to come home and was going to an enormous field in the sky to chase rabbits, one of her favorite things to do. Not satisfied with this turn of events, I raged and screamed, blaming him for stealing my best friend. I didn’t speak to him for three full days, an eternity for a six-year-old. What infuriated me most was that he didn’t even seem sad. No one seemed to care at all. I didn’t expect my mom to mind much—she was always complaining about how much hair Dolly left on the sofa—but I would have thought my dad would be upset. No one else seemed to love poor Dolly, and now she was gone. I hadn’t even had a chance to say good-bye.
On the third day, I saw my dad sobbing. He was in the garage, tinkering with the lawn mower, the one that was always in some state of disrepair during my childhood. The side door was propped open with an old cooler filled with lukewarm Coors Light, all the ice having long since melted. I was outside playing with my toy horses and needed a milk crate to craft into a makeshift barn, so I ventured into my dad’s inner sanctuary, stopping dead in my tracks when I heard the deep, guttural sound of my dad crying. At first, I was sure he was choking and almost turned on my heels to fetch my mom. Upon closer inspection, I realized he was in fact breathing and actually had tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks. Shocked by the sight, I was both horrified and fascinated to learn that adult men cry. I’d thought tears were reserved for little girls and mommies.
“Daddy?” I whispered, forgetting my vow to never speak to him again.
He looked up from the wrench and wiped a tear from his cheek before it could fall into his reddish beard. His eyes were glassy and wet. “Hey, Cassie-girl,” he said, smiling and holding his arms out wide. Without hesitation, I ran right into them and allowed him to envelope me in the type of bear hug only daddies knew how to give.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Did you hurt yourself fixing the chopper?” I reached for his hand, studying it carefully for some sort of cut or a trace of blood, some source of obvious pain that might explain the tears I saw on his face.
He spun me around on his knee so I faced him and touched his forehead to mine, leaning into me for a beat before sitting back and sighing. “I’m just sad about ol’ Dolly Pahhton,” he said, brushing a strand of hair off my sweaty face. “I loved that old dog.” His voice was gruff and raspier than normal, like his words were cutting his throat.
“I didn’t know,” I murmured, my own lip starting to tremble. But at the same time, I did. My little-girl brain remembered all the times Dad had taken Dolly for car rides and let her lick his dinner plate, often leaving some big pieces of chicken or steak he’d probably wanted to eat himself. He would even cook an extra hotdog (or two) on the grill when we barbecued and sneak them to Dolly when Mom wasn’t looking. Just because Dad had never said it in so many words didn’t mean he had never loved Dolly.
“It’s okay,” he said, his smile deepening and reaching his eyes. “Everyone loves different.” He picked me up and plopped me on the ground in front of him. “You can’t guess at other people’s pain, little one,” he added, finding a screwdriver and tossing it from hand to hand. “People try, but it’s something that belongs to each of us.” He glanced at the clock and motioned toward the door. “Now go on out there and play for a little longer. I’ll make us some grilled cheeses for lunch,” he promised, his focus already drifting back to the engine in front of him. I scurried back outside, the anger at my dad forgotten. I didn’t know it yet, but my overwhelming grief over Dolly had lightened, already turning from pain into fond memories.
Thinking about it now, I realize my dad must have been in his early thirties when Dolly died, but he’d seemed wise beyond his years. It’s so easy to see your parents as “old” and forget they were once as young and scared as you. Dad probably didn’t know how to deal with grief any more than I do, but he shared his with me, and that’s what I remember now.
“Fuck,” I mutter, opening my eyes.
* * *
Owen lies in our bed with the remote pointed toward the TV as if he might actually change it to something other than 30 Rock. Guilty of watching the same four shows in rotation, we never look for something new, just start an old show from the beginning each time we’ve finished the last. Last I knew, I think we were on our sixth repeat of Tina and Alec’s comic revelation and still laughing at every episode.
Standing in the doorway, I have a feeling I’m on the precipice of something major. Part of me wants to run back down the stairs, but my heart is screaming now or never. For months I’ve wallowed in my own pain, shutting Owen out and using the miscarriage as an excuse for every shitty thing I’ve said and done. Grief has been my shield and my crutch. Instead of trying to heal, I decided I didn’t want to feel better. Moving on terrifies me. Letting Owen in, choosing my marriage and my future, requires letting go of the little bit of control my misery lends me.
“I’m no good at this,” I say, one foot in the room, the other glued to the floor of the hallway, poised to bolt. The overhead fan swirls cool air around the room and goose bumps rise on my arms, each hair standing at attention as a second turns into two … three … four. Will we break together or break apart? Five seconds … Alec Baldwin laughs on-screen, and I brace for my retreat.
Owen closes his eyes, and my stomach drops. My fight-or-flight instinct shrieks for me to run back downstairs, to avoid confrontation at all costs.
“I know,” he finally says, a ghost of a smile spreading across his face. Instantly the air feels lighter. I can breathe again.
Tentatively, I move toward the bed. He pulls back the white comforter and pats the mattress next to him. I’m across the room in three steps and fall into the cool sheets, into his arms, letting him hold me closer than I have in months. Since before. Since before the before.
“I need your help,” I whisper against his chest, careful to keep my face hidden from view. Asking for help has never come easily, and I’ve carried this burden alone for so long I’m territorial about it. The pain is my punishment and reminder. Sharing it seems like the
easy way out. Maybe I don’t deserve such relief.
Not saying a word, he strokes my hair and rests his chin on top of my head. Leaning into him, I’m eager to be closer, greedy for his touch. “I need you too,” he says, finally turning my chin up to look me in the eyes.
The pain is etched so plainly across his face. Convinced my hurt was worse, I ignored the signs all along. Owen’s been suffering every day, needing me as much as I needed him. Instead of comforting each other, I abandoned him to indulge in my own misery. A fixer, Owen tried to be there for me, to be the strong one. I pushed him away. He tried to mend his own broken heart by fixing mine, and I refused him that minor comfort.
“I’m so …” I start, but before the apology can leave my lips, he gently touches his own mouth to mine, accepting the sorry with one soft kiss. He presses harder, releasing some of his pain, melding it with my own. Giving my mind a break, I let my body take control. My desire is primal, animal like in its urgency. We lose ourselves in each other and slowly find our way back together in a tangle of sheets.
♦ 21 ♦
CASSIDY
After
July 25
I COMPLETED MY SURGICAL internship at Cummings Veterinary Medical Center, the same place I’d studied during my junior and senior clinical years of veterinary school. By this point in my training I was 95 percent sure I intended on practicing large-animal medicine in a private clinical setting, but I was still curious what it would be like to work in a big hospital. So, instead of heading out on my own after graduation, I signed up for another eight months of grueling—mostly unpaid—labor in a quest to learn more about large-animal surgery.
Three months into my rotation I was scheduled for the overnight shift and charged with monitoring all the hospital inpatients. These included two horses recovering from colic surgery, both stable and set to be discharged in the next seventy-two hours but still requiring IV fluids, vital updates, and routine checks. In an isolated ward of the hospital, a stallion—minus his two prized possessions—was recovering after castration. We perform most neutering procedures as outpatient services, but this was an incredibly valuable show horse and the owners were worried about the potential risks of infection. Since we were in the area, they requested we retrieve and freeze several vials of his best swimmers before cutting off the source forever. To this day, that stallion was the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. Sadly, the spark I saw in his eye when he was admitted was diminished when he left us a few days later.
The most memorable horses of my internship, and maybe my entire career, were two mares who both went into labor at the start of my overnight shift. Elektra and Iris were healthy mares who were spending the last weeks of pregnancy in the hospital as case studies. Since Tufts was a teaching hospital, it offered this mutually beneficial service to local horse owners. The mares were available to students for learning purposes and the owners could rest easy knowing their horses were in the care of professionals at a heavily discounted price. We referred to this part of the hospital as the “Mom Shed.” Usually the Mom Shed was a straightforward part of night check. Not this fateful night.
It had been a freakishly hot and humid week in western Massachusetts, with temperatures in the high nineties and air thicker than pea soup. Out of nowhere a cold front swept through the low mountains and valleys nearby, and the temps plummeted overnight. Any good veterinarian knew this was a recipe for disaster in horses who were sensitive to even the slightest change in barometric pressure.
Warned by the head veterinarian to be ready for some potential emergency colics—the most common ailment in response to weather change—the other overnight intern and I prepared the surgical suite. The staff vet had neglected to mention how subtle weather shifts might also kick-start labor in a pregnant mare. By midnight, both mares were in active labor. This in itself wasn’t reason to panic, since most mares labor naturally without intervention, so the nurses and I monitored the horses over the stall cameras and checked in person every half hour. At first, things seemed fine. Both mares were progressing well on their own.
When the clock struck midnight, things took a turn for the worse. Suddenly, Iris’s vitals crashed and she was in respiratory distress, showing signs of not only a complicated labor but also colic. In the stall next to Iris, Elektra’s vitals were strong, but labor had slowed. Upon examination, we found her foal was in the breech position. By one in the morning, we’d roused the head surgeon and two staff vets from their beds to help with the disaster unfolding in the Mom Shed. By two in the morning, both deliveries were hanging in the balance, the fates of the mares and foals uncertain.
By three in the morning it was all over. Iris had delivered a premature but healthy foal. However, her colic symptoms had progressed so far that both her uterus and stomach had flipped, requiring immediate invasive surgery. She died on the table without ever meeting her baby.
In the next stall over, Elektra struggled with her breech birth, and despite our best attempts to aid it, the foal had been without oxygen too long and was delivered perfectly intact, but stillborn.
In stall A was a mare whose baby lay still and blue in the straw beside her, its long legs folded up in the half-broken sac. I’ll never forget the sadness in Elektra’s eyes as she desperately licked the afterbirth from her baby’s face, first gently and then with more forceful nudging, as she tried to rouse him to his feet to nurse. In stall B, a foal not even twenty minutes old stood on wobbly legs, glancing around for her mother, every instinct in her body telling her it was time to feed.
A mother who’d lost her baby and an orphan seeking reassurance within thirty feet of each other—it seemed obvious what should be done. But things are never so black-and-white. Owners needed to be called and insurance forms filled out and processed. Medical charts required thorough updating and signing off by the properly authorized staff. After what felt like hours of back-and-forth on the phone, what only seemed natural was finally allowed to take place.
I led Elektra into the filly’s stall. We named her Lily, an ode to her beautiful mother. A tech stood near the filly’s head, urging her toward the mare. Lily balked at first, still shy, since she’d interacted only with the strange two-legged animals since birth. Carefully I allowed Elektra to walk up next to the foal, letting their noses touch. They’d warned me to keep a tight grip on the mare’s halter in case she rejected the foal and attempted to harm it, but the warnings were unnecessary. Elektra gravitated toward Lily instantly, wrapping her long neck around the baby’s cheek and pulling her close. She stepped forward, helping the filly find her teats, and the foal latched on as if it were meant to be.
Overcome with exhaustion and exultation, I wrapped my own arms around the technician, both of us aware that we bore witness to something both precious and miraculous. The tragic night had spawned something beautiful from the wreckage. In an instant, the mare and foal started to heal each other.
Lost in memories of the past, I nestle closer to Rosie. My tears burn down my cheeks, a steady stream I fear might never end. Today was another hard day at work. Thankfully the patients were all healthy, but pretending I was okay was more difficult than normal. A clueless customer asked where I was registered, oblivious that I was no longer pregnant despite my lack of a bump. I smiled and told her Amazon because it was easier than explaining the truth. I see her only a few times a year, so I can’t blame her for not knowing, but it stung just the same.
Owen is still at work, catching up on some invoicing we desperately need. He offered to bring home pizza, correctly assuming I haven’t grocery shopped or cooked again. A pang of guilt hits me, but I shrug it off. Cooking is the least of my concerns.
All I can think about is the look in Elektra’s eyes the moment she understood her baby was dead. No words can describe that pain, because it’s not meant to exist. It’s unnatural. I close my own eyes and try to envision something else, something magical. The pure love and relief I witnessed when Elektra saw Lily for the fir
st time and claimed her as her own comes to mind. Motherhood isn’t something you can always choose and plan for. But once it’s there, in your soul and in your bones, it’s there for good.
“I need a baby,” I whisper. Rosie doesn’t stir, and the dark room answers back with nothing but heavy silence.
♦ 22 ♦
OWEN
After
August 5
“WHERE DOES IT HURT the worst?” Cassidy asks, her eyes wandering around the small room.
Black-and-white sketches of skulls and roses are plastered along one wall. The other is covered in Polaroids of intricate arm sleeves and full back tattoos scattered among drawings of portraits so lifelike they look like photos themselves. No denying the artist is talented. Let’s just hope he’s also gentle with the very aggressive-looking needle gun he’s holding up to my arm.
Jimmy, the artist in question, chuckles as he applies a generous amount of rubbing alcohol to a wad of cotton. “Everyone hurts different,” he answers, catching my eye and holding it for a second. Cassidy looks at me and grimaces.
Although the room is decorated in a mix between hipster punk and nineties grunge, the instruments gleam and the chairs and tables are covered with exam paper like at a doctor’s office. Everything smells vaguely of disinfectant despite the incense burning on the front desk.
I lie back on the chair, and the paper crinkles beneath me. The alcohol hits my skin and I draw in a quick breath, waiting for the needle pinch to follow in the same spot. Everyone hurts different. Not only talented but also wise. I know this tattoo will hurt. But I’m hoping it’ll also be cathartic, like so many people claim. Why else would someone ask to be stabbed three thousand times per second by a little needle and pay for the pleasure?
“You’re doing great,” Cassidy says. She’s straddling a chair next to us, chin resting on her crossed forearms. I’m glad I lost the coin toss and had to go first. I’d much rather get it over with. I’m afraid if I watched Cassidy suffer, I’d be too chicken to offer up my own arm.
What We Carry Page 13