Once the analgesic, hydromorphone, had been administered via the IV catheter that the vets at Leatherneck had sutured into her leg, the anesthesiologist induced general anesthesia with intravenous propofol. He intubated Lucca with an endotracheal tube, which delivered both oxygen and the gas sevoflurane, which would help keep her asleep. An end-tidal carbon dioxide monitor measured how much CO2 she was exhaling. The ventilator was activated with a switch, and the desired breathing parameters set. The ventilator would control the depth and rate of Lucca’s respiration and make it easier to keep her at the appropriate anesthetic depth.
Rod knew that even with all the monitoring, there was always a chance of a complication with anesthesia, especially when inducing and recovering. He was relieved that so far it seemed to be going well.
Because Lucca was going to have a limb removed, Giles wanted her to have a brachial plexus block. The brachial plexus is a bundle of nerves that provides movement and sensation to the front leg. If those nerves were numbed with an anesthetic agent like lidocaine, Lucca would feel less pain during and after surgery. It also meant she wouldn’t need as much anesthesia. Giles injected lidocaine directly around the leg nerves in Lucca’s armpit area, explaining the technicalities to Chumbler, who was learning how to perform the procedure. The amount Giles gave her would provide about two hours of blocked pain sensation.
There are no saws in a forequarter amputation. No bones are cut. Surgeons remove the entire forelimb, including the shoulder blade, which is attached to the body by muscles. The trick is to cut through the right muscles with a minimum of bleeding. Giles took a sterile pen and marked out the areas where the incisions should be made.
Rod looked away when he saw a scalpel poised over Lucca’s shaved leg. For the next ninety minutes, the team used scalpels and an electrosurgery device to cut through the muscle, ligating Lucca’s arteries and veins with sutures to minimize bleeding. The area they were operating on was bright red from all the exposed tissue, but there was little blood.
The vets kept Rod in the loop by telling him everything that was going on. They were positive and optimistic, which helped improve Rod’s outlook. He couldn’t bring himself to observe the surgery in too much detail, though. Beginning medical students have fainted at far less graphic surgeries and had to be removed from the operating room. Rod was determined not to leave Lucca. He frequently glanced at the monitors, even though he had no idea what most of them meant. He took comfort in seeing Lucca’s steady heartbeat on the screen and hearing the short tone that accompanied each beat.
The electrical “hot knife” cut through tissue and controlled bleeding at the same time. As it did its job, little tendrils of white smoke floated up from Lucca’s muscles. A light but noticeable scent of burning flesh reached Rod’s nose, even through his surgical mask. It was slightly different from the smell of the burns to her fur and flesh caused by the IED, but it mingled with the disinfectant and some other odors he couldn’t distinguish, and the ugly bouquet made the scene before him feel all the more raw.
THE SAME DAY the IED with Lucca’s name on it exploded, Chris and Jill Willingham were out celebrating their tenth wedding anniversary. They had sent the children to stay with friends overnight and were enjoying a night on the town in Helsinki. Jill kept her cell phone handy in case of an emergency with the kids, but otherwise, the Willinghams had better things to do than monitor e-mails.
They checked into a hotel in downtown Helsinki and had a drink at the intimate Ateljee Bar atop the Hotel Torni. From the rooftop bar, they gazed at the sparkling city below, talking about how much they had been through together during all these years of war, nursing school, and kids.
“You’re like a fine wine,” she toasted. “You truly keep getting better with time. I love you, babe.”
“Well, you know how much I love you, you wonderful woman.”
They hadn’t had much time to just sit and talk—especially about their relationship. So Jill took the opportunity to tell him how happy she was that he was doing so much better than after he returned from the Afghanistan deployment. She thanked him for sacrificing the dog career he loved so much so he could keep himself, and his marriage and family, on track.
As much as he missed the dogs, as much as he still identified himself as a dog handler, he knew he had made the right move. In the back of his mind, he was hoping there might be a way one day to get back into the military dog world, but he needed this calm after the storm. They all did.
Before leaving the bar for dinner at the Savoy, he presented his wife with a little blue box. She never asked for jewelry, but he wanted to show her how much she meant to him after this decade involving three deployments, two children, and a lot of moving. She opened the Tiffany & Co. box and gazed at the ten-year-anniversary band, with its row of diamonds set in platinum. She slipped it on her finger, and it fit her perfectly. It was much more than a piece of jewelry to her. It was a symbol of how everything they’d been through had just served to make them stronger. But she didn’t say anything about that. That would be too sentimental. She just thanked him for the beautiful ring.
The next morning, as they were getting ready to check out of the hotel, Jill checked her e-mail on her Kindle. She saw one from Gunnery Sergeant Shane Green and clicked it open.
“Babe,” she said, “Shane Green sent me an e-mail asking me to have you please get in touch with him.”
He immediately knew something was wrong. Green, a longtime dog-handler friend of Willingham’s, was now the kennel master at Camp Pendleton.
“Nothing good’s going to come of that,” Willingham said. Jill handed him the Kindle and he signed in to his e-mail account.
“Lucca’s been hurt,” he told Jill as he read the brief e-mails from a couple of the dog guys at Leatherneck. “I’ve gotta call Juan.”
“She’s such a sweet dog. She’s got to be so scared and in pain.” As a nurse, she didn’t usually react like this about her patients. But there was something about a dog, about this dog . . .
The embassy where Willingham had been working for about four months had a DSN line he could use to contact Rod. They raced out of the hotel and Jill drove to the embassy to drop off her husband before picking up the kids. She didn’t want the kids to see tears in her eyes, but there they were. At the embassy, Willingham had no luck reaching Rod. He got as many details as he could from Nuckles, who was now the kennel master at Leatherneck. He sent Rod a message on Facebook and then found the e-mail Rod had sent just before surgery. It tore at him as he read it. He knew all too well the gut-wrenching guilt Rod was probably experiencing. It was bad enough that Rod had to worry about Lucca, but Willingham hated to see Rod also feeling like he let him down. He wanted Rod to benefit from what he had learned in dealing with his own guilt. He dashed off an e-mail response, hoping Rod would see it quickly.
Subject: Re: Lucca urgent
Rod,
I got this message after I sent you the one on Facebook . . .
First, I’m just glad you’re okay man. I just got off the phone with Nuckles and I received an email from Green too . . . I hear you saved her life . . . Thank you.
Please don’t feel sorry man. Truth is, you were the right choice for Lucca . . . I had decided that way before you started handling her. I knew with your personality and experience mixed with her personality and experience, y’all would make a great team. I don’t regret it for one minute and I don’t want you to feel bad. You did a helluva job with her . . . I’m proud of you man.
I lost a dog handler in Iraq and then Max in Afghanistan . . . I know there is no certainty when you deployed in a combat zone. I’m just glad you’re okay.
Lucca is a tough girl and I do love that dog and I know she will recover . . . after all she is mama Lucca Bear. If you don’t mind, tell her I love her and I’m praying for her.
I can call DSN or cell phones and I’d like to talk to you.
> Again, I’m glad you’re okay and I know Lucca will recover. I would appreciate if you would keep me up to date with her progress and I would like to see the pics if you get a chance to send them.
Thanks for letting me know everything man. Keep in touch.
Chris
“YOU MAY NOT want to look, Corporal,” Giles advised Rod. “We’re ready to remove the leg.”
Rod realized Giles must have seen him only indirectly observing the surgery. He appreciated the warning and turned his head and stared at a tray of medical supplies, reading their labels over and over again, trying not to focus on the reality of what was occurring a few feet away.
Giles lifted the leg away from Lucca’s body. It came away soundlessly, none of the popping or ripping Rod had expected. He handed it to one of the circulating nurses, who placed it in a biohazard container. It would later be incinerated.
The staff irrigated the wound bed using a large IV fluid bag connected to tubing. The sterile saline solution hosed off the dirt and sand that remained from the IED blast. They closed her up with absorbable sutures, stitching one layer at a time—first the muscles, then the subcutaneous tissue. Her skin was closed with staples.
The surgeons placed a Jackson-Pratt drain in Lucca’s chest area so fluids wouldn’t accumulate around the wound. Rod thought the soft plastic bulb that creates suction at the end of the catheter looked oddly like a grenade. They sutured a central line through her neck into her jugular. Unlike the leg catheter, which has one port, comes out easily, and needs to be changed often, a central line can remain in for weeks, is much more secure, and allows vet staff to run several drugs or fluids at once. It also makes it easy to collect blood for testing without another needle stick.
The anesthesiologist stopped the flow of anesthetic gas and monitored Lucca carefully until she was awake enough to try to swallow a few times. When the swallow reflex kicked in, that meant she was in control of her airway. Five more minutes of oxygen, and he removed the endotracheal tube.
“She’s doing great, Corporal,” he told Rod. “Came through like a champ.”
Rod swallowed hard and got closer to Lucca, who by now was bandaged and cleaned up. She wore stretchy netting over the site. He thought she looked like she was wearing a tube top. Her eyes were still closed, and her mouth slightly open. Rod looked at the flat spot where her leg should be.
It hit him then that she would never again walk point, she would never do the job she loved to do—that Lucca’s days of saving lives were over.
ROD WAS LYING with his hand on Lucca when she woke up in the veterinary kennel shortly after surgery. The first thing she did was try to get up and walk.
“Mama Lucca, no, it’s too early,” he told her gently as he coaxed her to stay lying down.
She needed to rest at least overnight before she started trying to walk, with assistance. A vet tech got her some water. She drank and fell back into a deep sleep.
Rod wanted to let Willingham know Lucca’s progress. Lucca looked like she’d be out for a while, so he quietly slipped out of the cage and jogged over to the kennel office to use the computer.
There was an e-mail from Willingham. He clicked on it with fear and dread—and then came a rush of relief. At some deeper level, he still couldn’t help but feel he’d let Willingham down. But—he took a breath and wrote back immediately.
Subject: Re: Lucca urgent
Thanks for your words I really needed to hear that. i’m doing fine. I did not receive any injuries from the blast. lucca saved me and everyone else on that patrol. Mamma Lucca bear did great on her surgery. has been a few hours after the surgery. she woke up and even tried to walk away. She’s a tough dog, still putting smiles in peoples faces. I have been with lucca since the blast happened, I will be flying with lucca to Germany in a few days and eventually back to the states. Here’s the DSN number to the kennels I’m located right now green line, and if I’m not there, I’m at the vets office and here’s the number
Willingham phoned him right away.
“Rod! Hey, how are ya doing?” Rod knew Willingham was doing his best to sound casual, for his sake. He was touched that Willingham’s first question was about him.
“I’m fine. They did the amputation. Mama Lucca did really good. She’s sleeping now.”
“I’m proud of you, man. You saved her life. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for her.”
TWO NURSES CAME in the morning after surgery, while Lucca was asleep with her head on Rod’s lap. Rod was asleep with his head and upper back on the rear wall of the stainless steel cage. He woke up to see two women in scrubs staring at him tenderly, with tears in their eyes. At first he thought something was wrong, but they reassured him.
“It’s so sweet watching you two lie there. Just that bond you have, you can see how much you love each other,” one said.
“She has the most beautiful, feminine face,” the other observed, wiping her eyes quickly with the back of her hand.
Giles, who had seen this many times, had a theory.
“Every day, the human hospital staff deals with dead and dying and disfigured men and women with multiple amputations who are never going to be the same. They can’t let in the pain or they couldn’t function,” he told Rod. “Sometimes it takes a dog to remind us of our humanity.”
Word spread through medical staff at the human hospital about this patient and her devoted handler. Lucca and Rod had frequent visitors over the next three days.
THE DAY AFTER surgery, Lucca was allowed to take her first walk as a three-legged dog. The vet staff disconnected her from tubing and helped her stand up. Rod and a vet tech each held one end of a sling under her chest to steady her and support some of her weight. Chumbler and Giles accompanied them on the short jaunt out the front of the vet tent.
Lucca’s loppy gait reminded Rod of a rocking horse. He was thrilled she seemed undaunted by this new way of walking. She found a spot and relieved herself, and wanted to walk some more.
The following day, after starting out with the sling, it became apparent she no longer needed it. They weren’t having to hold any of her weight on it, and she was surer on her paws. Rod held her steady as the vet tech pulled the sling away. She walked without support. Rod couldn’t believe it. He wanted to applaud.
She was already back on solid food—canned—and Rod noticed a little wag in her tail a couple of times. The pain meds seemed to be working well and weren’t making her so groggy she couldn’t function.
“She’s so resilient,” Rod told Willingham on the phone that afternoon, still in awe of her recovery.
“That’s our Mama Lucca, Rod. You can’t keep a good dog down.”
The third day after surgery, Lucca was ready for the next step of the journey home. She and Rod would be flying to Dog Center Europe, in Ramstein, Germany, for a few more days of care and evaluation, and then flying back home to Pendleton to continue her recovery. He would be with her throughout.
At the flight line, Rod said his good-byes and thanked everyone for everything they had done for Lucca and for him. Giles leaned down to pet Lucca one last time. She was resting, leaning on her elbow. She looked at him and gave a single thump of her tail.
If Lucca had been injured at an earlier time in Giles’s veterinary career, she would not be going home. There would have been no surgery. Since she could no longer serve her country, he would have had to euthanize her.
As he watched the air force medical flight take off en route to Lucca’s new life as a soon-to-be civilian dog, he was grateful that policy had changed.
13
A Final Mission
LUCCA, C’MERE, GIRL! You like roast beef?”
Lucca bolted over from the other side of the kennel office at Camp Pendleton and stood on her three legs, looking up at the slice of meat dangling from the thumb and forefinger of the handler who was on
overnight duty. Her tail swept wide and fast, and her dark brows gathered in concentration on the slice of meat he’d pulled out of his Subway sandwich.
“Here ya go!”
He let it drop. Without even a chew, she gulped it down. Then she eyed him to see what else he had to offer.
“That’s enough, Lucca,” he said. “Gotta watch your weight now that you’re a tripod.”
She sat down and stared at the remaining sandwich. Her ears were erect and turned fully forward, and her eyes were calm but conveying a message. It was the same kind of stare that had alerted her handlers to so many IEDs over the years. But now, in semiretirement, she was putting the look to new use.
The handler kept eating. So she pulled out all the stops.
Lucca reached out and gave him her paw. Universal dog language for please, and usually easy to dismiss if you don’t want to give a dog what he or she wants. But when a three-legged gives a paw, it’s another matter altogether. She sat there, one leg outstretched, her paw resting on his knee. The other leg was—well, the other leg was just not there, and it was painfully obvious to the handler. Instead of a leg, there was only a furless indent.
“Oh lord,” the handler said. “OK, war hero. You got me. Just one more piece . . .”
AS LUCCA AWAITED medical retirement, her life at the Pendleton kennels was very different than it had been before her deployment. Already a kennel favorite, when she came limping home from Afghanistan she quickly became the unofficial Pendleton kennel mascot. She never had to stay in her locked, concrete-floor kennel again. Instead she spent her days and nights as a free-range dog in the large office, getting love, pats, and snacks from everyone who passed by. She slept on a mat, or on blankets in a portable kennel whose door was never locked unless a brute of a dog was coming through. Sometimes she hopped up and slept on the folding cot set up for handlers on night duty. No one minded.
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