Lily and the Octopus(15)
Jeffrey makes decent time across the city, and when I see a sign that says Animal Hospital I make him stop even though the address does not match the street number I’ve scribbled down on the back of a Target receipt. I must have transposed some numbers in haste.
Inside, the waiting room is small and hot and chaotic and I worry about having a panic attack. The nurse hands us a clipboard with papers to fill out and I push it back at her and say, “There is no time for paperwork.” Jeffrey apologizes for my outburst, which annoys me, and he takes the clipboard and a pen. There is only one free chair and he takes it so he can write. I lean in an empty doorway and cradle Lily in her tattered swaddling. Soon a doctor materializes for a consultation, and when I explain the situation she tells us that we actually want the surgical hospital that’s across the street and two blocks down. Tick tock, tick tock. Precious moments wasted.
As we turn to leave, a woman who looks like the Log Lady from Twin Peaks (although I’m the one holding the log in the form of a paralyzed dachshund) grabs my arm and says, “Whatever they tell you, don’t kill your dog.” I want to tell her to f*ck off, but I’m frozen speechless in my tracks and tears start to well. “She can still have a happy life if you let her.” Instantly this woman is my everything.
I nod and my eyes overflow with moisture, but Lily does not attempt to kiss my tears and the part of my brain that knows I can’t waste even another second unfreezes me and I’m out the door.
Jeffrey tears into the parking lot of the surgical center, cutting off several cars at my urging. Inside they are expecting us, the last doctor having called ahead on our behalf. A surgical technician pries Lily out of my arms and they rush her behind a swinging door. Before I can protest, she is gone. No one offers us paperwork. No one tells us to sit. No one tells me not to kill my dog. Lacking anything else to do, we stand in the middle of a large, sterile room, surrounded by anxiety and tragedy, with nothing to look at but our feet. There’s free coffee, but it’s probably awful, and I know that I can’t drink black swill when the rest of the world is sipping golden New Year’s champagne.
After a short but interminable wait we’re ushered into a private examining room. Lily is not there. There are two seats, so we sit. We fidget until a veterinarian enters. She has blond hair and a kindly face and looks too laid-back to be a surgeon, but has such an authoritative air of command that I wonder if she served in the military. Based on Lily’s neurological signs, she is most suspicious of a ruptured intervertebral disc and wants to perform a myelogram to determine the site of the herniation.
I don’t know what a myelogram is, and I know I don’t have time to educate myself beyond the context that it is some test to detect pathology of the spinal column.
“And then what?”
“And then, pending the results of the myelogram, Lily’s best chance of walking again is surgery.”
“Surgery.” I’m taking this in as fast as I can.
“The sooner the better.”
Apparently there is no time to think. “So, we’ll know if surgery is the way to go after the myelogram?”
“In all honesty, I would make that decision now. She’ll already be under anesthesia for the myelogram, and if it does indeed reveal a ruptured disc, it’s best to perform the surgery right then and there.”
“So you need a decision now.”
The doctor looks at her watch. “Yes.”
Decisions. Lately they’re not my strong suit. I think of the ways recently in which I’ve felt paralyzed myself. Should I quit my job to freelance full-time as a writer? Should I talk to Jeffrey about the doubts I have in our relationship? About the suspicious text message he received? Could Lily and I start over again on our own?
“And how much does spinal surgery cost for a dog that is mostly spine?” The doctor crouches in front of me and offers a half-smile. She doesn’t need to tell me things I already know: that this is always a risk with the breed. That purebred dogs come with these health issues, as they’ve been genetically mutated for purpose or show.
“All together, everything—anesthesia, myelogram, surgery, recovery—we’re talking about six thousand dollars.”
Now it’s me who is left immobile. Six thousand dollars. I look at Jeffrey. I think of dwindling savings. Of having just paid off all my credit card debt. Of vacations that might not be taken, retirement accounts that won’t get contributed to, of having to push my dreams of writing full-time back another year.
“It’s your call,” Jeffrey says. “I can’t make this decision. She’s your dog.” Your dog.
I want to punch him. I want to punch everyone, except maybe the doctor who can save her.
“Why don’t I leave you to talk it over for a moment?” The doctor stands, and before I know it I’ve grabbed the sleeve of her lab coat.
“She has a ball. It’s red. Red ball. She loves it. She’ll play with it for hours—tossing it, chasing it, hiding it, finding it. She’ll play until she’s out of breath, and even then she’ll take it to her bed and fall asleep on top of it. She is alive when she’s playing with that ball. If she . . .”
I can’t even finish the words. Jeffrey places his hand on my shoulder as I’m reduced to tears again.
“If she can’t . . . play with that ball anymore, then I don’t know what kind of life there is left for her.”