Vets of the Heart

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘I’ve tried so hard to make you see what you mean to me. I’ve stood by you, supported you as much as you’ve allowed me to. You’ve been quite nasty to me in return, yet I’ve still come back.’ His voice breaks. ‘I think you are the most beautiful woman in the world. I love you, Shannon, with or without your scars, and if you still refuse to let me in . . . Well, I’m telling you now that if you let me go this time, I’m not going to try again.’ He pauses. ‘There, I’ve said it. It’s up to you. Your decision.’

  Ross is crying, I’m crying, and I can see through my tears that he has a smear of dried blood across ids cheek where he’s been scratched. He looks exhausted, as though he’s barely slept for months, but there’s something within me that stops me reaching out to him and saying, stay, it’s going to be all right. My heart is as tight as a ball and I’m still smarting at his stating of the obvious, that I’m wallowing. He stares at me, his eyes beseeching, but all I can do is stare back.

  ‘Okay, that’s it. I’m going,’ he says, standing up, ‘and this time, I’m telling you I won’t come back.’

  I raise my hand to wave him on his way, and he turns and walks out for what I’m pretty certain will be the very last time. It’s over. I bury my face in a cushion and sob until my tears run dry.

  Chapter Twenty

  On the Ball

  For a long time afterwards, I half hope that Ross will turn up again, but why should he when I spoke to him like I did? I wouldn’t. There are occasions when I wish I hadn’t been so stubborn and could have opened up about how I feel, but I know I’ve done the right thing. I’ve just gone the wrong way about it. He’s free to find someone else now. He doesn’t have to put up with me and my scar.

  Late summer turns into autumn and I settle into a routine, helping Mum in the shop every afternoon. I catch sight of Ross now and again when he’s walking along the road or riding his bike past the shop, and Celine sends me a few selfies of her and little Kit when she takes him home – she asks me round for coffee, but I don’t go. At the end of September, almost a month after Ross’s final visit, I return to the hospital to see the consultant. He talks in depth about revision surgery. There’s no guarantee of a satisfactory improvement in the appearance of the scar, which does look better than it did, according to him. To me, it looks the same, like a crevasse, except that the redness has been replaced by a purple hue and the swelling has gone down.

  ‘Would you say that it affects your life in any way? That’s the question you have to answer before you can make a decision.’ He sits back in his seat behind his desk, his hands pressed together and his forefingers forming a steeple. ‘If you decide to take this further, call my secretary and she’ll make you another appointment.’

  ‘What did the consultant say?’ Mum asks when I get home.

  I explain about the option of further surgery.

  ‘I’ve decided not to have any,’ I say.

  ‘I think that’s an excellent decision,’ she says, giving me a hug. ‘It’s time to move on and plan the rest of your life. If you aren’t going back to Otter House for whatever reason, you need to decide whether you’re going to look for a similar job elsewhere or commit to Petals.’ She gives me a look, meaning, Don’t decide now, because I’ll be revisiting this topic of conversation in the near future. I understand. I’ve been taking advantage and it’s time I earned my keep.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t come with us?’ Mum asks as I’m whizzing up a smoothie in the kitchen later the same evening.

  ‘Thanks for the offer, but no.’ The prospect of a long evening with the flat to myself is more appealing than playing third wheel to a couple of relapsed teenagers who can’t keep their hands off each other.

  ‘It’s Godfrey’s treat.’ She slips a sequinned shrug over her shoulders.

  ‘That’s very kind of him, but I’m going to stay and keep Seven company.’

  She gazes at me gently. ‘I’ve told you, you can’t spend the rest of your life dog-sitting. You should be out there. You haven’t been swimming for a while. Why don’t you give Jess a call and find out how she and Will are getting on, or arrange to meet Taylor? Don’t leave it too long or they’ll forget who you are.’

  ‘I saw Taylor last week.’

  ‘Only because she came to see you.’

  ‘Are you coming with us, Shannon?’ Godfrey joins us, moving up behind my mother, who jumps and makes an O with her mouth.

  ‘She isn’t.’ Mum turns and kisses him on the lips; I’m praying they don’t go into full snog mode when Godfrey breaks it off, taking her hand, and saying they must hurry because the table’s booked for seven thirty.

  ‘Don’t wait up – not that we’ll be late. I intend to make sure my lady is back for her bedtime.’ Godfrey has a wicked glint in his eye and I can’t help wondering if he’s on Viagra.

  ‘Goodnight,’ I say, and I wait to hear his car drive off before deciding how I’m going to spend the next three or four hours. I notice that Seven is playing with one of the tennis balls Godfrey gave him, having bought them on offer at the garden centre the other day. He rolls the ball around the kitchen, picking it up and dropping it. I leave him to it, taking my smoothie into the living room, where I turn on the TV and sit on the sofa, glad to have the remote control to myself. Seven has other ideas, though, trotting in and dropping a ball at my feet.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not up for this right now.’

  He stares at me, his head cocked to one side and his tongue hanging out.

  ‘I really don’t want to play,’ I say firmly. ‘Please don’t make me feel guilty with that look of yours.’ His expression is quizzical, as if to say, ‘Why not, when you’re clearly at a loose end?’

  Eventually he gives up, and I watch ten minutes of Big Bang Theory before he’s back, dropping a second ball onto my foot, nudging at my shin and bowing before he grabs it up again and trots around the room, huffing and puffing and playing with it between his teeth. Okay, even my dog thinks I’m a party pooper. I bend down and pick up the second ball and throw it for him. With a yelp of joy, he chases into the corner of the room to pick it up, trapping it between his paw and the bookshelf. Unfortunately, he forgets to drop the one he’s already carrying, and in a split second, his demeanour changes from joy to fear.

  He drops one ball and retches, honking like a goose as he tries to clear the other ball from his throat. When that doesn’t work, he stands still, hanging his head, strings of saliva sliding from his open mouth.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I say as calmly as I can. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’

  I open his mouth wider, cautiously keeping my fingers over his lips so as not to get bitten. He takes a snorting intake of breath, which seems to make things worse. He stands gulping and quivering, his eyes filling with panic. Realising that this particular emergency isn’t in any of the vet nursing textbooks that I’ve ever read, I grab my mobile from the arm of the sofa and dial the surgery, praying someone will answer straight away, as I check the position of the ball. I can just see it caught between his back teeth – he’s squashed it and started to swallow it, goodness knows how.

  I’m hoping for Maz, but it’s Ross who answers the phone.

  ‘It’s Shannon here. I need you to look at Seven. He’s choking on a ball.’

  ‘Stay where you are. I’ll be with you in ten.’

  ‘I’ll meet you at the surgery,’ I say, knowing that he’ll need forceps and maybe the endoscope, and he can’t bring any kit on his motorbike. ‘There isn’t time to argue – he’s turning blue.’ I drop the phone as I stick my fingers into Seven’s mouth – all right, I know about the risks of pushing the ball further into his throat, but desperate times need desperate measures. His tongue has a horrible purple hue. It lolls from his mouth and his back legs collapse.

  I can feel the ball through his skin over his throat. I push it forwards from the outside, but it won’t budge. I grab Seven, hold him up so he’s facing away from me, and do the Heimlich manoeuvre. His chest pumps and
heaves. He swallows and the ball moves further down, but at least that means he can breathe. He takes several gasping breaths – I can see the relief on his face – his tongue grows pink and, although he rubs at his mouth when I let him down to the floor, he seems calmer.

  I cross my fingers and paws that the ball will stay put while I get him to Otter House.

  I drag him through the back to the van, which is parked in front of my car, lift him onto the passenger seat and drive him down the road to the practice. Ross’s motorbike roars up a couple of minutes later. Leaving his helmet behind, he carries Seven into the practice while I unlock doors and switch lights on.

  ‘Is it a tennis ball?’

  I nod. Seven sits on the prep bench, deep in misery and showing the whites of his eyes.

  ‘They’re like fluorescent dog-magnets.’ Ross pulls up some sedation and gives the dog a shot into the vein in his front leg, making him sleepy and relaxed. I hand him a variety of forceps, grabbed from the cupboard, and he uses them one by one, trying to get hold of the ball.

  ‘It’s well stuck,’ I say, my voice harsh with desperation.

  ‘What goes in must come out. Ah, I’ve got it.’ As he draws the ball through Seven’s throat, it slips back again and blocks his airway. I snatch a stethoscope from the hook on the wall, and listen to his heart, which is beating far too fast.

  ‘Hurry up,’ I say, biting back the tears that are threatening to spill onto my cheeks. ‘He’s stopped breathing. Ross, do something!’

  ‘Pass me the clippers, scalpel blade and spirit. Grab an ET tube.’

  I feel as if I’m in a scene from a horror movie as I watch Ross turn Seven onto his back, clip the hair from his neck and squirt some spirit over his skin. He fits a fresh blade onto a scalpel handle, glancing at me as the metallic edge glints, reflecting in his eyes that are dark with concentration and worry.

  ‘Have you done this before?’

  ‘Many times. I know what I’m doing.’ He makes a hole through skin and cartilage, takes the ET tube from me and forces it into Seven’s windpipe before connecting it to the oxygen supply and a bag in case we need to ventilate or breathe for him.

  ‘That buys us some time,’ he says gruffly, but something isn’t right. The sound of Seven’s heartbeat has been replaced by my own pulse thudding in my ears. I slide my hand across his chest to confirm what I already know. His heart has stopped too.

  ‘We’re losing him.’

  ‘Starting CPR,’ Ross says, but I’ve already grabbed the crash kit and checked the clock. We haven’t got long, three or four minutes at most before lack of oxygen starts to kill the cells in his brain.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he continues. ‘Roll him onto his side and get some adrenaline into him IV.’

  I do two minutes of chest compressions, with my elbows locked and one hand over the other, while he continues to try to dislodge the ball with a gag and a different set of forceps. There’s a little blood trickling from Seven’s mouth.

  Stay on it, I tell myself. Don’t give up.

  ‘Got it,’ Ross says, but there’s no triumph in his voice as he delivers the ball and drops it on the floor. ‘You squeeze the bag. I’ll take over from you. Don’t argue,’ he adds, detecting my hesitation. ‘You’re no use if you’re tired.’ He carries out another set of chest compressions. At two minutes, he checks the pulse.

  ‘Anything?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head, and I’m about to take over the compressions again when he touches my arm.

  ‘Hold on,’ he says, frowning. ’I can feel something.’

  I give Seven another breath of oxygen then wait, willing him to breathe for himself. There’s a quiver and the tiniest lift of his chest. I glance at his gums, but they’re still pale and grey and I prepare to give him another breath.

  ‘Leave it.’

  ‘But he’s blue and he isn’t breathing,’ I say sharply. He might be the vet, but my instincts are crying out that my dog needs more oxygen.

  ‘Hands off that bag,’ he growls, taking me by the shoulders and pulling me aside. I try to shrug him off but his fingers press firmly into my flesh. ‘Look, there’s another breath,’ he goes on. ‘Give him too much oxygen and his body assumes it doesn’t need to breathe.’ He picks up another stethoscope from the crash kit and listens to Seven’s chest while I watch for signs that he’s waking up . . . or not. I feel sick to the pit of my stomach because I know the score. His chances of survival are low and, even if he recovers from this episode without brain damage, it’s possible that he’ll go on to have a second cardiac arrest.

  ‘I’m sorry, Shannon. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.’

  ‘It’s all right. I deserved it. You were right.’

  ‘You realise this isn’t looking too good,’ he continues in a low voice.

  I nod. I can’t speak.

  ‘If he gets through this, he’s still up against it. We’ve done what we can, but it’s up to him now. He’s got to put up a fight, one he may yet lose.’

  I check the tone of Seven’s jaw, and touch the comer of his uppermost eye. He blinks.

  ‘He’s coming round,’ I whisper, hardly daring to hope.

  Ross’s hand is on my shoulder. He clears his throat.

  ‘It’s a good sign, but there’s a long way to go.’

  I stifle a sob and somehow his arm is around my back and his breath is warm and damp in my hair.

  ‘Hey,’ he soothes. ‘You’ve done your best. Let’s keep focused. We’ll leave the tube in for now – I’ll suture it in place. I don’t want to take it out too early because there’ll be some swelling in his throat now the ball is out and we need to give that time to settle. You can set up for suction next to keep the tube clear. It’s all right,’ he adds, detecting my reluctance to leave Seven’s side, ‘I’m right here.’

  I set up the equipment and clear the mucus and blood from the tube. I lean down and kiss Seven’s head, my vision blurring.

  ‘Come on, boy, you can do this.’ I look into his eye and catch a flicker of recognition. He’s in there somewhere. He blinks, lifts his head then falls back again.

  ‘He’s had a shock. You’ll have to be patient.’ Ross pushes a stool across to me. ‘Sit down. I’ll go and put the kettle on.’ He smiles a small smile when I open my mouth to argue that it would be better if he stayed while I went to make tea. ‘Any change, no matter how small, give me a shout and I’ll come straight back. Are you okay with that?’

  I nod and listen to his footsteps fading along the corridor and the doors swinging softly shut behind him.

  He returns with two mugs of tea. I take a sip and choke myself. ‘How much sugar did you put in that?’

  ‘Just drink it.’ He pulls up a second stool and sits down opposite me on the other side of the bench, and I don’t know if it’s deliberate or not, but his leg comes to rest against mine and we stay like that, watching over the dog lying between us.

  Half an hour and more passes before he makes an attempt to get up. Disorientated and distressed, he starts to thrash about. I jump to my feet, leaning over him with one arm across his neck and the other across his flank, struggling to restrain him.

  ‘I’m not sure what’s going on,’ I say, panicking again. ‘Is he having a fit?’

  ‘I think he’s confused, trying to wake up too quickly.’ Ross prepares a sedative and injects it, at which Seven relaxes and utters a deep snore.

  ‘Is he going to be brain-damaged? Only I don’t want him to suffer. Would it be fairer to. . . ?’

  ‘Put him to sleep?’ Ross finishes for me.

  ‘You don’t have to protect me,’ I say, my voice cracking.

  ‘Don’t worry. If this reaches a point where I think that it’s wrong to continue, I’ll be straight with you. Don’t give up on him yet. Trust me.’

  I look at him. I do trust him with my dog. I’m pretty sure I could have trusted him with my heart too. He’s a good man, but it doesn’t matter any more. I wish I could be one of those
people who wear their blemishes with confidence and pride. I’d love to be able to say, I don’t care about my outward appearance, I’m still beautiful. Friends and family and all the counsellors in the world could tell me that I’m still gorgeous, but I wouldn’t believe them. I’m not sure I’m even the same person on the inside after what I’ve experienced, even though everyone tries to drill into me that I am.

  My loss of confidence is only one of my concerns though. I’m worried about being able to do my job properly because of my fears of big dogs and meeting people. If I can’t work, how am I going to earn a living? I can’t motivate myself to go swimming, and I’m frustrated at being stuck at home with Godfrey, even though he’s being very sweet.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do.

  I place a blanket across my sleeping dog, and call my mum to let her know what’s happening. She wants to come straight back to see him for herself, but I suggest that she stays at home – it’s too upsetting and he isn’t aware of what’s going on. I promise that I’ll contact her as soon as I have any further news.

  Ross fetches more tea – eating and drinking in Kennels is against the rules, but I’m on sick leave . . . Sitting here though, watching the rise and fall of Seven’s chest, inhaling the scents of dog and disinfectant, and listening to the sound of Ross’s voice, I realise how much I miss not only him, but work as well.

  ‘How’s it going being at home?’ he asks.

  ‘Much as you’d expect. I’m very good at watching daytime TV when I’m not helping out in the shop.’

  ‘Can you do all that floristry stuff?’

  ‘Mum’s the creative one. I follow her instructions.’

  ‘That’s a change, you following instructions.’

  In spite of everything, I find myself smiling.

  ‘That’s better. You know, we need you back here. It hasn’t been the same here without you. I miss you, and the clients are always asking after you. I’ve had to work with Izzy while Maz and Emma look after the locum nurses. We’ve had three so far. The latest one’s just left – she was lovely, but she could only fill in for a couple of weeks.’