A Friend Like Henry

by Nuala Gardner

  True to form, on Christmas Day, Amy loved her house and spent many a happy time, with our help, engrossed in it. The only problem was that I now had double the housework—while Amy was out at school, after I’d tidied my own house I would do likewise with hers. One day, however, I decided not to touch it, so I could show Jamie just how Amy had left it. In the lounge, she had rearranged the furniture so that all of the seats, including dining chairs, were occupied by the entire Gardner family and all of the shed dolls were watching the television. The screen, which was normally blank, had a sticker on it with a picture of a horse, depicting the nature of the program the dolls were so captivated by. Even the Henrys were there, sitting in front of the fire. Many a friend and other children have marveled at Amy’s doll’s house, and she still plays with it to this day—sometimes appropriately, sometimes rather differently, with Granda Jimmy having a ride on Hero in her bedroom, or Dale and the Henrys in our bed instead of their own.

  With Christmas behind us, it was time for Dad’s funeral. Amy did a drawing of a horse on a card to go with his flowers, and Dale wrote his own private message on a card to go in the hearse along with the coffin and flowers. There was a very good turnout and family from Dublin managed to make it across. Looking a fine young man in his suit, Dale coped with the day like any other adult, so much so that he was able to take one of the cords supporting the coffin and help lower his grandfather into his grave. Even though they didn’t know my dad personally, Dale’s friends Scott, Matthew, and David all attended, out of respect for Dale because they knew he and his grandfather had been close. It was touching to see that some of the staff from Merino Court were present.

  Ironically, given that Dale was now seventeen, his friends still didn’t know about his autism. It was very poignant that day, seeing Dale helping to bury the man who had been one of the first to make a connection with him, breaking into that lost boy’s world. At the funeral tea, family and friends who hadn’t seen Dale for years were stunned by his transformation into the mature, well-mannered, and adjusted young man before them, with his three close friends by his side.

  In January 2006, all the work with Prospect and the college paid off, and Dale successfully went through an informal induction period. He spent time sitting as an observer in an established childcare class, doing the same work as the students but on an informal basis. More importantly, the support staff and tutors were able to get to know him as a person and identify his learning needs for when he started his course officially in August.

  By now, Dale’s insight into his condition was such that he realized that doing voluntary work would bring benefits to other people with disabilities. As we had received help for Amy in the form of a Barnardos’ sitter and befriender service, Dale thought it would be good to give something back to this charity. He attended an intensive six-week training course with Barnardos to enable him to join them as a volunteer helper, working with children with a diverse range of ages and disabilities. To this day, Dale is a valued member of the team, which runs drama workshops and summer play groups, and his understanding of his own condition is surely helpful to them.

  In the first few weeks of 2006, the Metacalm that Henry had been on long term for his arthritis began to upset his stomach more often, which distressed him greatly. We had no option but to take him off it until his stomach settled, to the detriment of his mobility. He was now twelve years old, which was a fair age even for a healthy golden retriever. Many drugs used in mainstream medicine are similar to those for animals, and I was aware of the implications of the increasing frequency of these episodes with Henry. When I discussed my concerns with our vet, Nigel Martin, he told me we should prepare ourselves for the worst, saying that there may well come a moment when Henry would deteriorate rapidly. I really appreciated Nigel’s honesty as he knew what Henry meant to Dale, having witnessed my son change from a withdrawn little boy to the young man he had now become.

  After an episode of sickness in early February, thankfully Henry’s health seemed to settle down, albeit on a lower dose of the medication. We were glad of this for two reasons—firstly, because it was unbearable to see our wonderful dog in distress, and secondly, it was time to celebrate Amy’s sixth birthday, on February 14.

  Willing as ever to use the obsession, we fulfilled Amy’s birthday request for a 3-foot-high toy horse that looked like a small Shetland pony, which she named Butterscotch. Following the same principles as for the doll’s house and to reinforce all she had learned at Ardgowan Riding Center, we gave her not only the horse, but a replica stable to match, with all the necessary equipment and muck-out kit. Once again, Jimmy was set to work, and we cannot thank him enough for bringing our designs to fruition with his wonderful joinery skills.

  On one visit to check on progress when the stable was still under construction in Jimmy’s bedroom, Amy told him, “Granda, I love it so much. Can I sleep in it tonight?”

  The stable now towers beside Amy’s bed and looks decidedly unusual, but is totally appropriate for her, reinforcing how to care for a real horse, as well as helping to stimulate appropriate imagination, and not least letting her share with her friends her unique toy.

  While Amy’s birthday was memorable due to the stable, another event at this time stood out even more. Just as you would with any child, Jamie and I had always greeted Dale and Amy with a “Hello,” regardless of their lack of response. We had learned from the early days when Dale first called Jamie “Dad” that our persistence might pay off eventually. We also wanted to treat them with respect, because their silence did not necessarily mean a lack of comprehension and it was always possible that they would ultimately learn through repetition.

  Every morning as Amy and I walked up to school, three of the other mums, who knew of Amy’s condition, would always make a real effort and greet her with a cheerful, “Good morning, Amy.” For about six months, they never faltered as I tried to get her to look at them and respond, always using exactly the same expression in the hope that she would copy me. Day after day, she ignored them. Then, suddenly, one morning when they approached and gave their usual greeting, she stopped as they passed, turned after them with a beaming smile and shouted, “Good morning, girls!” These lovely ladies were, I think, even more delighted than I was as they realized what they had finally achieved. From that day on, Amy has continued to greet them, as well as anyone else she encounters along the way.

  In the middle of March, Henry had a severe sickness episode with the Metacalm and this time took longer to recover. In the midst of it all, Jamie and I had been concerned that the sudden deterioration the vet had described might now be upon us and that Henry would not be with us much longer. It’s strange how your mind plans ahead for such an eventuality while simultaneously hoping against hope that it will not happen. Henry managed to pull through, although not without making me think about how we might like to remember him in the future. We had Dale’s brilliant portrait of Henry, but I wanted something more, a final family picture of us all together, Little Henry included.

  At the end of March, we went to Simpson’s, a photographer in Greenock, who we always used for our family pictures, and this time Mr. Simpson worked a minor miracle. He somehow managed to conjure up a lovely still shot of us all, despite Sir Henry’s ailments, Amy manipulating the proceedings as usual with her latest horse, and Little Henry generally causing chaos.

  Easter soon came, and on Good Friday I decided to take Sir Henry out for a very gentle walk, not going too far from the house. At that time, there were two little girls a couple of doors down who often came over to play with Amy. One of them, seven-year-old Nicola, was terrified of dogs and had a real phobia. Just like the little girl in Dresling Road, though, she saw Henry was different and soon grew to know and trust him.

  That day, as I was returning to our house with Henry off the leash to let him make his way inside, Nicola was leaving her house with her father. On seeing Henry, she ran toward him, shouting his name. Her dad, knowing she was sca
red of dogs, was shocked and asked her what she was doing. She replied, “It’s OK, Dad—it’s Henry. He’s special, and I’m not scared of him.” Her dad was stunned.

  In the evening, Jamie’s friend Mark visited with his wife, Helen, for a social evening. Both Henrys were on good behavior, as you’d expect from a goldie when there is food around. Using all of their natural ability for emotional blackmail by drooling and gazing at us with their big brown eyes, they cadged as many tidbits as possible and eventually, full to the brim, cuddled up together on their specially made bed in front of the fire. It was a lovely evening, with great company, the dogs well behaved and old Henry in relatively reasonable health. With the summer coming, Jamie and I thought we were in for a period of stability with him and felt all was well as we sat with our friends and watched the two dogs as they slept.

  At bedtime, as that feel-good night ended, Little Henry went up the stairs as always to sleep with Dale on top of his bed, the bond between them now firmly established. Sir Henry took up his accustomed position on his bed at the foot of ours. Sometimes the Metacalm would cause vomiting during the night, but I still wanted Henry with us, as at least then I would know if it was safe to give him his tablet in the morning. Apart from that, I just wanted to be there for him—he meant the world to me as well as Dale. He had done so much for us all, and in a way it gave me satisfaction to be able to nurse and take good care of him. Many a night I would sit on the floor patting and stroking him or giving a little massage on his head as he drifted into a deep sleep. It was my peaceful, private time with this amazing dog who had helped return my special children back to me. The least I could do now was show him how much I loved him.

  15

  Letting Go

  The following morning, we were awoken by the sound of Henry vomiting. I attended to him and massaged his stiff joints as usual, before helping him to stand so he could go out to the garden for his toilet needs. Thinking his sickness this time might be because he had simply overindulged the previous evening, I gently chided him for being his usual greedy self and broke the news to him that he should rest his stomach for now. Just in case, I withheld his Metacalm.

  Despite this, Henry continued to vomit throughout the morning, although he did settle a little in the afternoon. As it was a lovely day, I suggested to Dale that he could try a gentle walk with his dog to see if some fresh air would help. We had previously worked out a system for walking Henry whereby Dale and I would carefully lift him into the car, then I would drive to the top of the hill, where both of us would lift Henry out and Dale would walk him back down the hill. In this way, our ailing dog could have some gentle exercise and conserve his energy for the difficult climb up the steep slope of our front garden. Dale had his cell phone with him in case of emergency—for Henry more than himself—and I was reassured to see them both arrive back safely. Dale was so patient with Henry as they slowly climbed the slope together, understanding that his dog now had the frailty of a grand old man.

  In the afternoon, Jamie and I took Amy to Braehead to shop. Amy had a wonderful new experience in the form of bouncing six meters in the air on a bungee trampoline. She loved it and we loved watching her. Then we moved on to some retail therapy, although with Henry playing heavily on my mind, I couldn’t help calling Dale to see how things were. Fortunately, Henry was fast asleep and there’d been no further vomiting.

  Amy had emptied her piggy bank—which needless to say was in the form of a stable—with a view to blowing her savings in one go. There was a special shop in Braehead where children could choose and make their own cuddly toy from start to finish with the help of a shop assistant. Amy of course wanted a horse. For her, the experience was great fun; for me, it was another opportunity for her to interact socially with a stranger and constructively use the obsession. There was also a great incentive for her to return because the shop sold all manner of themed clothes for the toys the children could buy, and I knew Amy would love to come back and choose some of these once she had earned a bit more money. This she could do via our “sticker reward system”; because she needed so much motivation, instead of giving her pocket money, we would reward her various achievements with stickers, each of which would be converted to a pound at the end of the month.

  True to form, the shop assistant was thoroughly interrogated by my daughter and also highly impressed with her equine knowledge, as well as the way she totally threw herself into the whole process of making her cuddly toy.

  Back at home, Henry took a little drink of water and, to the relief of us all, managed to keep it down. By now, I felt guilty for accusing him of greed, because it seemed as though this was in fact his usual Metacalm sickness. We all settled down to bed, and I sat fussing him on the floor for a while, as had become my routine. Although my gut feeling about him was not great, we all felt that he would cope better with the warmer months ahead.

  In the early hours of the next morning, Easter Sunday, with Amy having joined Jamie and me in bed and now comatose between us, we were again abruptly awakened by the sound of poor Henry vomiting. This time, though, it was the worst he had ever been and he was in deep distress—as indeed were we. I immediately thought he must have some kind of intestinal spasm or obstruction and needed urgent veterinary aid. Even if he was still reacting against the Metacalm, I at least wanted him to have an anti-sickness injection as we couldn’t bear to see him in this state. Jamie and I tried to get him up, but he couldn’t stand and just collapsed in front of us, terribly weak, but alert and fully conscious. He lay there, panting excessively with the stress of it all.

  Because it was a bank holiday, I called the pets’ ER in Glasgow and spoke to a nurse there, who advised that we bring him to the hospital right away. It was twenty-five miles away, but our only option. I woke Dale so he that could come with me, while Jamie stayed home with Amy.

  I’m not sure how we managed what followed, but I think my nursing experience and common sense in a crisis kicked in. Due to his collapsed, floppy state, Henry seemed twice his usual size and weight as we tried to get him down the thirty steps to the car. Just as I would when moving a human patient, I rolled him on to a blanket and with Jamie at the back and Dale and me at the front, we were able to carry our dog in this makeshift hammock. Amy slept soundly throughout and Little Henry, who had been barking because of the upheaval, now watched us quietly, peeking between the bars of the wrought-iron gate as we maneuvered Sir Henry down the steps. There was the same “worried-retriever look” on Little Henry’s face that I had seen with Sir Henry a long time ago, when Dale’s violent tantrum had caused him to find his voice.

  In moments of great stress, sometimes black humor acts as a release, and I couldn’t help muttering to Jamie how suspicious it would look if anyone saw us now, in the middle of the night, loading what for all the world could be a human body into the back of the car. I then proceeded to drive as fast as I could to the hospital, Dale in the backseat cradling Henry’s head on his lap and remaining remarkably calm. He talked to his dog reassuringly throughout the journey. “It’s OK, Henry. You’ll be all right, son, as soon as we get you some help.” Henry, bless him, fell asleep in Dale’s arms.

  We arrived at the hospital at 3 a.m., the vet and a nurse carrying Henry into the emergency room in the hammock. Although Henry was in a semi-collapsed state, I was cautiously relieved when the vet recorded his observations: “Color good, pulse good, chest quite harsh panting, bladder half full. Admit for IV fluids and routine bloods, etc.”

  As I had anticipated, Henry was also given anti-sickness and gastric drugs to allow him to settle. Now that he was at last comfortable, Dale and I felt better. We stayed for a little while, but there was nothing further we could do and so we decided to leave him to sleep. Both of us planted a kiss on the top of his head, and I tried to explain the impossible to the vet and nurse. There simply were no words to convey what Henry meant to us and saying things like, “He is a very special dog,” felt so lame. I’m sure the staff heard this sort of th
ing all the time, but in our case the phrase possibly rang a little bit truer than most. We left with the knowledge that the staff would do all that Henry required and would phone us immediately should there be any further deterioration. I couldn’t shrug off the dreadful feeling that this was exactly like the situation with both of my parents, but I tried to convince myself that Henry had a good chance of responding to the drugs and IV fluids.

  Later that morning, the vet called to say Henry was brighter. Although he was still panting, he’d had no more sickness and was attempting to stand. We arranged to visit that afternoon and the whole family went along at around 3 p.m., including Little Henry for the ride. He stayed in the car while we all huddled into the confined space where sick dogs and cats lay in individual kennels, each with their respective drips and medical charts.

  Amy, standing there with her horse tucked under her arm, was in her glory—it was just like Animal Hospital. She was intrigued by all the animals surrounding her, especially Henry with his drip and clipboard chart. As he lay there panting, she said, “Where is Henry’s oxygen mask? His lungs need help to work.” Due to having her own unique doctor’s bag, she had obviously grasped the concept of her imaginative play and was now applying what she had learned to a real situation.

  Henry was wide awake and, as soon as he saw Dale, tried valiantly to get to his feet, but he couldn’t and flopped back down. Dale gave him a special cuddle while Jamie and I spoke to the vet. Henry’s panting was still a concern, and it was decided to X-ray his chest. I felt that in this alien environment, the stress alone could be a factor in his panting, but the only way we could be sure was by an X-ray. It was a huge wrench to leave our dog, but we knew he was in good hands.