Words From a Wicked Woman

There have been no new posts here in over two months, however, those months have been extremely active. I only wish I could report that the activity was positive in the whole, but that is not the case. I initially left this space on February 17, just one day prior to spinal surgery that I hoped would spare me a great deal of physical pain and preserve my ability to walk. Although I realized the surgery itself and its aftermath would be quite painful, I was still very hopeful. Unfortunately, my Internet service chose that day to malfunction and I was unable to tell readers what was going on and that I’d planned to be away for, at that time, about two weeks.

The surgery was far more complex than anyone had imagined and I ran into trouble while still on the operating table. Fortunately, I had a very skilled surgeon who valiantly kept me from dying. I thank God for his hands and his skill because I was in danger of bleeding out as he and his team worked as quickly as possible to get the job done. Unfortunately, the complications didn’t stop there. I developed a persistent leak of spinal fluid that kept me in the hospital twice as long as the average patient who undergoes the same procedure. In addition, the pain was more than I’d imagined–and I’m very used to being in constant pain.

I couldn’t get into either my first or second choices for rehabilitation and so I chose a third. One of the criteria for whatever rehab facility I chose was the ability to bring my dogs in for visits. I didn’t realize at the time how terribly important my time with them would be. Those visits served as some of the last “good times” I would spend with my much beloved baby girl, my Airedale Terrier, Lola, about whom I first wrote last October in the post Closed for the Season.

A great deal happened while I was in rehab. It was a facility more appropriate for those whose families had left them there to die. The physician in charge of my case was scary in his unwillingness to follow my surgeon’s instructions and in his motivation for profit. Some of the equipment was in need of repair and resulted in me taking a bad fall from which I have yet to recover. Getting out of that place fast and with his consent was paramount if I didn’t want to be stuck with the entire bill myself. Fortunately for me, the test he’d set thinking I wouldn’t pass was a challenge I was determined to meet. And it was just in time. Lola, unknown to me then, was getting much sicker. She was not alone. My dear great uncle–more grandfather than anything else–was also getting sicker. Neither had long for this world.

I wasn’t home more than 10 days before Lola stopped eating. We knew that she had a benign, slow-growing tumor in her liver that was diagnosed last December. I’d postponed my own surgery twice due to concerns about her health, but proceeded this time because I thought she was stable and, frankly, I was bed-ridden and couldn’t continue as I was. We took her an hour away to a veterinary hospital similar to the Cleveland Clinic, (substitute the Mayo Clinic if that is more familiar), only for dogs and cats, Akron Veterinary Referral and Emergency Center. The vets treated animals not only from across the state, but across the country. Lola was in need of their surgeons to perform the exploratory surgery we’d known she needed from the time she was first diagnosed. Although we knew of the benign liver growth, there was some suspicion that there may be other, malignant, growths that didn’t show up on ultrasound. The fact that Lola had stopped eating meant that things had taken a definite turn for the worst.

I wanted to bring my baby home, sensing that it may be the last time I could do so. Unfortunately, I was strongly advised against it because she needed the constant IV support she was getting prior to surgery. The vets weren’t even sure she’d make it through surgery, but she’d have the best chance if she remained where she was. I knew she’d make it through. Lola had the characteristic stubbornness of the breed in spades. I was right. She did make it through. Furthermore, the surgeon thought he’d gotten most of the cancerous tissue even though he couldn’t get it all. The problem, though, was getting the liver to bounce back.

My Uncle Herbert was, by far, my favorite relative. He and his mother–my great grandmother–rescued my mother and her brother when they were virtually abandoned by their own parents and raised them until my grandmother could reasonably take them back. Even then, Uncle Herbert sent money home to my mother from his Army wages during World War II so that she could have a little bit of spending money while in her freshman year of college and continued to look after her throughout his life. Her own father was an alcoholic, though he was never without a job, even during the Great Depression.

Uncle Herbert was an attorney of some renown. Sometimes, I’d go to the county courthouse just to watch him and hang out. He taught me to love the law and I thought I’d follow him into what had become the family business–practicing law. However, my body had other ideas. I developed fibromyalgia while in law school before full implementation of the Americans with Disabilities Act. Therefore, the law school I attended was unwilling to make any accommodations. Had this happened a mere two years later, I could have forced them to do so. The fact that a law school would refuse to follow the law is one of the greatest ironies of my life.

My uncle practiced until he was in his late-80s. By that time, his body had begun to show its age even though his mind was still quite sharp. Retiring gave him time to spend with his family; and, if there was anything Herb loved more than the law it was his family. He was the oldest surviving sibling of six children who, along with their mother, had been run out of rural Georgia by nightriders after their father died in a flu epidemic. He was just a small child when they moved to Cleveland, but he periodically went back and kept in touch with relatives there. I learned a great deal of my family history from him and I will be forever grateful for his presence in my mother’s life and in my own.

My cousin, Marie, his daughter, phoned me while Lola was in surgery to tell me that her father was going into hospice in the next day or so. She’d phoned because I’d been very firm in letting her know that my mother and I did not appreciate being left out of the loop when he went into the hospital, even though he did so frequently. This hospital visit was supposed to be routine. It wasn’t.

Uncle Herbert had been trying to prepare those closest to him for his death. He’d developed a slow-growing cancer in his chest and, at 92-years-old, knew that his time was limited. My uncle was a man of few words, even though he was a litigator. When he spoke, it was to say something important. We didn’t always talk when I went to see him. I didn’t have to. It was enough just to share space. I’d wanted to interview him about some family history the last time I saw him, but he’d seemed tired and I didn’t want to disturb him. That was just before I went into the hospital myself in February. I had a feeling that compelled me to visit him then.

My mother and I picked up and moved to Akron about 48 hours after Lola was admitted to the hospital. Being so far away from her was not working for us in any way. Nevertheless, we were only about a half hour away from the hospital where Uncle Herbert lay and thought that we had a day or so to get back to town to say our goodbyes. In reality, Herb had decided months ago that he was ready to leave this plane of existence. We’d talked about it several times. He and his immediate family had decided to try radiation treatments, but they’d taken their toll. His quality of life wasn’t what he wanted and caring for him was extremely hard on my Aunt Ethel, his deeply, deeply loved wife. She, too, had wanted to bring him home for his final days, but she never had the chance. He took a turn for the worst and died before he could take a last look out of the big bay window he loved so much. My mother and I never had a chance to say goodbye because no one called to tell us his condition at deteriorated. We could have, and would have, been there for him. My aunt, in her grief, didn’t think to call our cell phones to tell us her husband had died. I found out when I called the nurses’ station to find out where he’d been moved. I was sitting in the waiting room of the veterinary hospital waiting to visit with Lola. I don’t remember much after that except being put in an exam room where we could have some privacy to grieve.

There was nothing else we could do for Uncle Herbert and Lola still needed us. My mother and I decided to stay with her, hoping she’d bounce back. I asked her daily if she was ready to give up. Her eyes told me that she still wanted to live. We pushed on. Finally, two or three days after surgery, she did rally, even though the pathology report confirmed that she had liver cancer. She began to drink water and that was an extremely positive sign. Furthermore, she was holding on to the proteins she’d gotten from a blood transfusion that her own liver was having a hard time making itself. Even the most pessimistic vet began to think she might be able to spend her final days at home. Unfortunately, her rally didn’t last. The next day, her liver began to show signs of failing and things were about to get very ugly. I made the decision to euthanize her. I didn’t want to do it. I cannot find the words to explain how much I did not want to kill my baby. On the other hand, we had to go back home, she wouldn’t eat and it was clear that she was in much worse shape than she’d been the previous day. The vet on duty wasn’t sure she’d last the night and I would not allow her to die alone. I signed the consent form so that she could finally rest after her long fight to live.

Lola didn’t want to die any more than I wanted to euthanize her. She sensed that that was exactly what was about to happen and tried her best to show me that she could do what I wanted. She tried, but didn’t have the strength, to stand for the first time since her surgery; she tried to eat, but only got nauseous; she drank, but only vomited the water along with more bile. Her body was dying and she wanted so badly to live. My heart was broken. My heart is still broken.

I held Lola in my lap and told her how very proud I was of her courage and her grit. She’d endured months of pills, procedures and different vets, not to mention living through surgery. She had surpassed all expectations anyone could reasonably have had for her and my heart swelled with grief, enduring love and intense pride. She battled to live until her last breath on April 4, 2008–only 15 days shy of her 10th birthday. She is home now–forever. As the inscription on her urn reads, “Always Our Baby Girl.”

Uncle Herbert’s funeral was enormous. He’d served his community both professionally and as a civic leader. There were proclamations from everywhere and there was a large police escort for the funeral as a courtesy from the city. Funerals, as a rule, cannot be called “beautiful,” but his was. For some unknown reason, I noticed everything. He went out of this world the way he’d lived: with a great deal of class and muted style.

There is one thing that happened toward the end of his life I’d like to share with the political junkies who read this blog. Uncle Herbert was an active, life-long Republican. I don’t mean that he just voted Republican; he was a precinct captain and advisor to Republican officials. Nevertheless, he changed his registration to become a Democrat so that he could vote for Barack Obama. As I mentioned, he was 92-years-old. Imagine the things he’d seen in his lifetime, including other black presidential candidates. But he saw Obama and took his measure. He knew that, for the first time in his life, and very unexpectedly, he was looking at the next president of the United States and it was a black man. Barack was the real deal, he told me. Proudly, he voted as a Democrat for the first time–and the last time–in his life. Well done, Uncle Herb. Well done.

I would like to close with this poem. It seems appropriate on many levels today. It is only this week that I am beginning to get back to my life, although with an incredibly heavy heart. Lola’s death will be senseless unless I can make something positive come from it. I’ve decided to resume my involvement in the national breed club, the Airedale Terrier Club of America, where Airedale fanciers can, and have, combined their resources to work toward making the breed healthier. Cancer is the leading cause of death for Airedales and we need to learn why. They are working on it. In addition, although I can never replace Lola in a million years, I can open my heart to another Airedale puppy. I need time to heal, but I know this house–a house that hasn’t been without an Airedale since I was a child–will have a crazy, happy Airedale youngster once again. We are ‘dale folk (and I include in this my little Dachshund-Mini Schnauzer mix). It’s who we are.

Invictus

by William Ernest Henley; 1849-1903

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

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