I made reservations for my flight and rental car. But in my heart I knew I wasn’t nearly ready for this assignment. Linda pleaded with me to stay home. “It’s too soon,” she said. “What if you have a relapse? What if you have a stroke? What if there is internal bleeding? Will you be near a hospital that has a neurosurgeon on staff? Will they know what to do with someone who had brain surgery only a month ago?”
Of course, she was right to be concerned. But the site and this big client were a major key to my division remaining open. Now that the merger had occurred, if our division lost money, we’d all be unemployed.
And so only a month after surgery, I sat on a plane, head wound and all, and flew to North Carolina. I had to be able to communicate effectively about the best ways to use our complex software systems. If I failed, I’d be labeled as dead weight at the site. With that kind of client feedback, I was sure that my employer would view me negatively.
Sitting in a window seat, I looked out at the clouds and tried to relax. Clouds weren’t doing it for me, so I closed my eyes and thought about Leaf and our favorite sanctuary—the large dog park by the river. Our adventures together exploring the wooded paths, hills, and river beaches brought a smile to my face. I recalled watching my canine problem-solving specialist make decisions about what direction to explore and which dogs to befriend. As usual, I counted on him to mirror back to me solutions and issues I couldn’t see in myself. So far, our lives had run uncannily parallel paths. During my recovery I had become even more observant of how Leaf dealt with challenges.
By the time we landed in North Carolina, the steroids I was still taking for healing had worn off. I was bombarded by loud noises from every direction. Adding to my already shaky nerves, the steroids made me feel as if at any moment someone might physically attack me. I again admitted to myself that although it had taken courage to keep my commitment, I truly was not in tip-top shape for traveling or for handling the subtleties of meeting our client’s needs.
I thought of Leaf, who was not really in tip-top shape for swimming in a river with strong currents because of his short legs. Like him, I was determined to succeed. I’d do my best to restrain my frontal-lobe outbursts.
After checking in at the hotel, I did what Leaf might have done: I strategized for my own well-being. “When I am not on-site, I will be in bed sleeping,” I said out loud to myself. I decided for the entire week, anytime I wasn’t working, I’d sleep. I searched the Internet for the closest emergency medical facility that could handle someone who’d recently had brain surgery. The University of North Carolina Medical Center was nearby. I took a dry run and checked out the emergency room. At some level I knew I wouldn’t need to make that trip or require an ambulance to transport me, but I prepared for it anyway.
Twice during that week I found myself in a state of paranoia. At the hotel I curled up in a corner of the room and stared at the bolted and locked door to make sure intruders didn’t break in and steal my food. I was ravenously hungry. Like a feral animal, I gobbled down dinner from a fast-food restaurant.
After a couple of days, the irrational episodes subsided. To regain balance, I’d call Linda and she’d hold the receiver to Leaf’s ear. I’d tell him how much I loved and missed him. I tried to contain my emotional breakdowns to the hotel room but my fight-or-flight response occasionally took hold at work. When someone asked me a question I couldn’t immediately answer, I didn’t know what to do and panicked. In my mind the world had turned treacherous, so the questions could be attempts to trip me up. Since everyone knew me from previous visits to this site, if they noticed my hesitation, they were polite enough not to say anything,
Somehow I managed to call upon every ounce of energy and resourcefulness I had left to solve my client’s software issues and alleviate their concerns. By the end of the week, I’d fulfilled my commitment. I was more than ready to go home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Retreat
HAGGARD BUT FEELING TRIUMPHANT, I MADE IT BACK TO MINNEAPOLIS from the North Carolina job. Mercifully, I could work from home for a while without the need for more travel.
Linda and I were on a tight deadline to respond to a request from our editors. I insisted that she take some much-needed time away by herself. I wanted her to be able to unwind and sort through all that had happened. After doing some research I found a serene lakeside cottage that was reasonably priced and only a few hours from our home.
On the way to the cottage, we stopped at a nearby restaurant overlooking a pristine lake. From our table on the balcony we had all to ourselves, I watched the ripples where ducks and geese had landed on the calm lake. The occasional sound of a loon singing to his flock punctuated the stillness. I looked at the dark circles under Linda’s eyes. They reminded me of the image I’d seen in my mirror that morning. My face had aged considerably since the surgery. I’d acquired a thatch of new gray hair that had grown over the incision site. We both looked as if we had been through a long, hard-fought battle.
“What do you think is next?” I asked.
Linda looked up from her menu. “You’re alive. That’s a good place to start,” she said with a slight smile. “And I’m on a writer’s retreat to finish our edits and relax.” Her face lit up as she spoke. Taking time away from our incessant lists of things to do was the kind of change we’d promised each other before my operation.
As we ate our meal, we chatted but became silent toward the end, immersed in our own thoughts.
I did feel different. I appreciated the fact that I could make new choices. I knew I had a lot more living to do. I resolved to do it now with a carefree feeling of gratitude and love.
Later that week a truck pulled up and parked near the sidewalk in front of our house. Our yellow cockatiel Sunshine shrieked an alarm. Someone is trying to invade our home! His call to arms alerted Leaf to hurl his body against the door. Leaf made his deepest and most ferocious-sounding bark to ward off the intruder.
I opened the door as Leaf banged his nose against my ankles. A young man in jeans and a T-shirt told me he had a delivery for me that my wife had ordered. I put Leaf in his crate just to be safe.
While Sunshine and Leaf continued making a racket, a second man helped the first one carry a comfortable-looking, royal-blue, cloth lounger chair into my room. They took away the old and worn tan vinyl chair I’d used for over a decade.
Right after the deliverymen left, I called the cottage where Linda was staing for her retreat to thank her for the gift. She said that the new chair was to celebrate my promise to rest and take more time for reflection.
Of course, Leaf and I had to test-drive the new model. “Leaf, this is for us!” I told him, feeling like a kid with a new toy. After sitting down and pulling the lever to raise my feet, I invited him to hop aboard. We claimed the chair as our new daily retreat spot.
“It is perfect for us,” I told Leaf and gently ran my hands along the soft fur on his back. He closed his eyes and drifted into a doggy nap. His body’s warmth made me feel that all was right in my world.
The special soft chair transformed into a favorite place for Leaf and me to regroup. Each morning I relaxed and spent quiet time contemplating with my dog. I wrote in my journal while Leaf pressed his head against my heart and snored. He did not mind that I used his body as a tabletop for journal writing.
The blue chair symbolized a fresh start. I made a point each day of writing whatever I felt grateful for, in general or from the previous day. The practice of contemplation folded me in its arms each morning and carried me to a mountaintop perspective. I began to see what had appeared to be separate pieces of my life connecting into a unified mosaic.
Childhood as part of a military family; finding a spiritual path; my own military service, college days as an underfunded student; my father’s stroke and enmity toward me; the highs and lows of police work; meeting Linda and adopting our children; moving to Minnesota, starting Angel Animals Network; adopting Leaf and our other pet family me
mbers; an aneurysm and brain surgery—all these moments had been essential for me to arrive at this point in my life’s journey.
I was able to identify patterns of loss and distrust threaded throughout each major moment. Now here I sat with an amazing canine companion who shared many of my issues. Our paths had crossed at exactly the right place, the right time, and under the right circumstances for us to help each other heal. I marveled at the simplicity and beauty of a divine plan in which there were no coincidences or accidents, only incredible opportunities for growing into the person I was always meant to be. And for Leaf growing into the dog he was meant to be.
Who knew? I could have never predicted that a rescued cocker spaniel would become a catalyst for my spiritual growth or that he’d open my heart to new possibilities that lay ahead.
Just as I was getting somewhat used to Linda being away and enjoying my downtime with Leaf, I got an unexpected jolt from a hospital surgeon. I had called him to ask if it was time to remove the metal IVC filter that had been embedded in my vein. The doctor who did the emergency insertion of the filter told me that I should have the filter rotated every three weeks. But with everything else that had gone on since it was inserted, I’d remembered to have it rotated only once. The surgeon I spoke to when I called the hospital said I must come in as soon as possible. “It may already be too late for a safe removal,” he cautioned.
If the filter was fixed too solidly, the vein might tear when the doctor tried to take it out. It might have to stay in my chest for the rest of my life. But I knew leaving it in could have consequences. It might actually cause clots to form at the filter’s location later in life. I didn’t intend to take that risk. The filter had served its purpose by keeping a large clot in the leg from reaching my heart. “I want it out of me,” I said.
Linda was at the lake cottage, a four-hour drive away. I had our only car. To have the filter removed right away, I’d have to go through the procedure alone. As I thought about how to handle driving to and from the surgery without my wife’s help, I concluded that I didn’t want anyone else to assist me. I was working myself back to feeling self-sufficient.
I told the doctor I would go through the filter removal without conscious sedation or pain medication. He cautioned that he would start off with no sedation, but if at any time he needed to give me sedation, he would. And I agreed. What I didn’t tell him was that after the procedure I’d drive home from the hospital, through rush-hour traffic, from St. Paul to Minneapolis, to pick up Leaf from doggy day care before it closed for the night.
Obviously I wasn’t viewing the situation clearly. Everyone I could think of would, in a minute, have offered to drive me to and from the hospital. But they all had hectic jobs that were difficult to get away from on weekdays. They’d been great through surgery and my weeks of recovery. Why impose on them again?
I called Linda and told her about what was to take place. I didn’t mention that I intended to tough it out. Even so, she practically shouted into the phone: “I need to be there!”
“There’s no time. It will be too hard on me to bring you back home. The procedure has to be done right away,” I replied. “Besides, I’ll call Aubrey and Arlene to help me if there are any complications.”
It would be an understatement to say that she reluctantly agreed with my decision. She didn’t like it at all.
I was determined not to shorten the time she needed for resting, regrouping, and finishing the editing to turn in our book manuscript by the deadline. Our editor had waited patiently and delayed final edits as long as possible due to my surgery. There was no reason to make the book miss its publication date.
The next day, after speaking with the surgeon and scheduling the procedure to remove the filter, I embarked on another early morning drive to the hospital, this time alone. I thought it was a good omen that before we left the house, I had seen Cuddles licking Leaf’s cheek with her raspy pink tongue.
An amazing sunrise painted shafts of yellow light against a royal-blue sky, still glittering with a few bright stars. I dropped Leaf off at doggy day care and headed toward the hospital. I guess a person could get used to checking in and out of hospitals if he had to do it as often as I had done in the last couple of months.
Before I knew it, I was on the surgical table. The doctor reminded me that if needed, he would sedate me. I said, “OK.” He smiled as he admitted that mine was an unusual request.
I watched with interest a live X-ray image of the filter. When the staff realized that I could see the surgery in progress, they covered my view with a blue sheet. I guess they thought I might get squeamish.
The surgeon told me in a calm voice that the IVC filter was stuck. It had been embedded in the vein too long.
“Do what you need to remove it,” I said.
He offered to try again as long as it didn’t compromise the vessel tissue.
In the background a radio played classic rock music from one of the Twin Cities’ oldies-but-goodies stations. I wondered if the beat of the music assisted the doctor’s turn, push, and pull of the device. A split second later he proclaimed that he got the filter.
After he removed it the doctor showed me the device. What are you supposed to say to a man who’s so happy to extract a piece of metal from your insides? “It’s beautiful,” I said, and I meant it. I felt relieved that the medical phase of my journey was now over. At last I’d be free. No more surgeries.
I went into a hospital room and nurses monitored my blood pressure and heartbeat. Without the conscious sedation, there were no rules obliging me to stay a long period of time at the hospital or have someone there to drive me home. I was able to leave after about forty-five minutes with stable vital signs. I walked out to the parking lot, got into my car, and drove away. It was not just a lucky day. For me it was Day One of the rest of my life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Meltdown
EXHAUSTED BUT ALSO RELIEVED TO BE LEAVING THE HOSPITAL, I embarked on the forty-five-minute drive to doggy day care to pick up Leaf. Bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic bombarded me with truck fumes, impatient drivers honking horns, and people swerving from lane to lane. The bright sun reflected off car windows. What I had just been through at the hospital suddenly caught up with me, and I began to feel weak and a bit shaky.
I managed to get to the doggy-day-care facility just minutes before it closed. After I snapped his leash on, Leaf wiggled and gave a squeak of excitement. He pulled at me to take him home and feed him dinner.
On the ride home a white van swerved and stopped suddenly in front of my car. I quickly slammed on the brakes. Leaf balanced himself on the backseat. Bright sunlight bounced directly off the rear of the van. My head throbbed. I thought for a moment I might lose consciousness.
Leaf watched me from the backseat as I pounded my fists on the steering wheel. I gave no thought about how terrified Leaf must have felt. I wanted to go home. I wanted to sleep. Desperate to escape from the grating noise, harsh light, and chaos, I needed to find a deep, dark hole in which to bury myself.
Leaf quickly jumped into the front seat. He looked at me with such concern that my anger subsided. With what can only be called the intense calmness a grown-up might use to subdue a child’s temper tantrum, he gently and thoroughly licked my cheek.
Despite his own anxiety about people who had mistreated him in the past, he didn’t cower in the backseat. Instead, he focused entirely on me. His soothing, rhythmic licks and the cool moisture of his tongue on my face settled my emotions. I felt my irrational fury dissipate.
It was as if in that instant Leaf made a full commitment to being my friend. No matter what. No matter how nuts I might act. No matter how much he wanted to run, hide, or protect himself, he would be there for me.
The white van finally started moving again. I followed it and saw that the driver had merely stopped at a red light. His vehicle had inadvertently reflected the sun’s rays into my eyes. I felt embarrassed at my outburst. What was wrong? Th
is was not the real me. I thought of my father’s crazy rants after his stroke. Had my frontal lobe been so damaged that I’d never have control over my emotions again?
For the rest of the ride home, my brave, loving dog intermittently licked my cheek.
When we got home, I fed Leaf extra food and treats. He looked worn out from all the physical exercise of his day of play. It must have depleted whatever reserves he had drawn upon to deal with my emotions.
I was ready to zonk out with pain pills. We both went directly to our beds and immediately fell into a deep sleep.
The next day we drove to the cottage so Leaf and I could bring Linda home. While playing the score to the musical Les Misérables, tears sprung to my eyes. The songs about loss and unrelenting burdens brought my buried sadness to the surface.
But Leaf, my master strategist, seemed to be figuring out how to pull me out of my self-induced melancholy. Even though we had only been to the cottage together once to drop off Linda, my intelligent little pup remembered the places at which we’d stopped along the way. As we approached these spots again, he wagged his tail and bounced excitedly from window to window.
I took cues from my canine GPS and pulled over at each rest stop. As soon as the leash was snapped onto his collar, he hopped out of the car. With determination, he looked around for potential playmates. He left his mark on appropriate trees with whatever messages dogs give to one another. Watching him do his Leaf thing restored me to the safe haven of his favorite word, normal. After the last rest stop, I drove on to the cottage, and Leaf fell asleep in the backseat.
While Linda had been away, Leaf woke up often and was fretful during the nights of her absence. When he saw her again, his stumpy little tail wagged in swirling circles. He greeted her with a torrent of kisses. I did too. I needed my wife. I needed Leaf. And we all needed each other if I was going to make it past the craters on my road to a full recovery.
A Dog Named Leaf: The Hero From Heaven Who Saved My Life Page 13