A Dog Named Leaf: The Hero From Heaven Who Saved My Life Page 9

  “You know I am going to make it,” I said. I silently cursed my voice for not having more conviction.

  “I know. I know.” But in her eyes I caught a glimpse of the last thing I wanted to see there—a sliver of doubt.

  Now that “The Manual” was completed, I could sit in my old tan recliner and relax. But the thoughts that swarmed like moths around a flame allowed for no rest.

  One afternoon before my surgery, I took Leaf to the dog park near our home. This was the same place where he had fallen in puppy love with Ethel the bulldog. The small dog park had become my refuge. Leaf was fast becoming my BBF—Best Buddy Forever.

  Life pounded me from all directions. Emotionally beaten and mentally exhausted, I pondered the age-old questions about what is truly important in a person’s life. Was I supposed to leave a legacy of the work I had done and the people I had affected? Without that legacy, why had I lived at all? The blood clot and brain aneurysm had brought me to the realization that in a moment, my time on earth could be over. Why did I have such a strong desire to survive? Was my purpose not yet identified or fulfilled?

  With his example, Leaf was teaching me to live in the moment. His funny antics, curiosity about all things, and genuine love of life refreshed my viewpoint. His appreciation for the smallest acts of kindness reminded me to stop thinking about my problems and what I didn’t have and cherish all I had taken for granted. It was as if he was saying, “You’re missing out on the fun and joy around you.”

  On this particular day I sorely needed to be reminded of this. Leaf and I entered the dog-park gate, which was next to an old, and what I had thought was deserted, railroad track. A residential area, a grade school, and swing sets and slides for smaller kids were visible from the park. It seemed an ideal place for getting away from the daily grind.

  While I had been writing “The Manual,” Leaf had been subdued and tended to stay nearby as if keeping an eye on me. I was glad to see him eagerly enter the park and bolt through the gate after I opened it. Normally he waited with anticipation for the windup and throw of his ball. But now he looked up at me and then sprinted toward the back part of the park, which was closest to the railroad track. Still unable to shake off my negative thoughts, I followed him.

  When I caught up to him, I saw the engine and first cars of a long freight train approaching. Leaf jumped up on top of a picnic table, sat very still, and thoughtfully watched the engine. It rumbled along and Leaf trembled with excitement, just like a little boy.

  Ignoring the other people and dogs in the park, Leaf kept his eyes glued to the train. The depth of his interest surprised me. But Leaf had always been a different kind of dog in that way. He noticed everything. Like an investigator observing details and gathering facts, he seemed to evaluate each event and store the impression of it in his memory bank. I could tell that something was going on in his intelligent brain that day. He never lost focus on the long train.

  While he sat on top of the picnic table, I slid onto the bench next to him. He did not move even slightly. Our heads were at the same level. Both of us watched, fascinated, as the freight train moved by slowly. We had front-row seats and a perfect view from a safe distance. We could see the differences in the colors and models of each. We could hear the clatter, banging, and squealing of the wheels. We were two guys, on a warm spring afternoon, sitting together and watching a train go by.

  Then, without warning, the horrid mental pounding of my life’s greatest regrets began plaguing me again. I wondered if, like my friend and mentor Bruce, I was coming to the end of my watch.

  Leaf glanced at me for an instant and then immediately turned his head back to the train. I got the feeling that rather than fearing it, he was impressed with the enormity of this moving mass of metal. While watching Leaf’s admiration for something much bigger than himself, I thought of how small I felt. Larger-than-life events barreled through my mind like this massive train.

  I looked at Leaf and the freight train again. An idea came to mind: Let me give my problems to the freight cars. Each car would take one of my painful memories and concerns about the future and noisily but efficiently move them away from me. Was this a brilliant or silly idea? I figured that anything that eased my anguish at this point was worth a try.

  Was this what Leaf wanted me to do? As soon as I had the thought, he broke his concentration on the train, glanced at me over his shoulder, and licked my cheek with his soft tongue. OK, BBF, I will do it.

  I felt lighter with each passing freight car. I unloaded one worry after another and watched the train’s cars take them away. My chest relaxed and I breathed deeper. It’s amazing what the mind can do, and even more amazing was what a canine friend can do.

  I looked over at my dog and felt so much love and gratitude for him. Completely immersed in the present moment, he continued to watch the massive train slowly go by, carrying my heavy load with it.

  PART THREE

  Uncertain Outcomes

  I talk to him when I’m lonesome—like I’m sure that he understands When he looks at me so attentively and gently licks my hands; Then he runs his nose on my tailored clothes, but I never say nought thereat,

  For the good Lord knows I can buy more clothes, but never a friend like that!

  —W. DAYTON WEDGEFARTH

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Rallying Allies

  MUCH HEAVINESS LIFTED AFTER THE TRAIN EPISODE. I COULD THINK more clearly now. Increased clarity led me to accept the fact that I needed more help than Linda or Leaf could provide. I’d need additional allies—people who would assist me in the battle for my life.

  Being a private person, I’d always found it difficult to ask for help. Besides, I didn’t want to be obligated to anyone. And I’ve been the one who solved problems and gave assistance when asked. I repeatedly told Linda that nobody should know about my personal medical situation. She talked me into telling a few friends, so she could have support too during the process.

  Arlene and Aubrey were two friends we relied on. They had taken care of Leaf the day I stayed at the hospital for the IVC filter procedure. In preparation for my brain surgery, their friendship also helped me come to a better state of mind. Because Arlene was a nurse, her approach to what I was about to experience had the practicality that would jolt me into becoming more proactive.

  “Allen,” she told me over the phone one night, “you need to visit the hospital floor where you’ll be recovering after surgery.” Her voice conveyed the experience and authority she must have mastered during twenty years of nursing and managing a ward of nursing staff. “Introduce yourself and Linda to the staff. Let them know your surgery date. Find out what the hospital’s infection rate is. What percentage of nurses are independent contractors, not regular hospital staff? How long will you be in ICU? I have two pages of questions for you to ask. I’ll e-mail them.”

  The conversation with Arlene made me feel empowered. Her generosity gave me an enthusiasm I hadn’t felt since the fateful call from Dr. Lucas. From her real-life experience, Arlene made me realize that visiting the hospital and introducing myself to the neurosurgery ward’s head nurse and staff would show that I was invested in my care.

  When I received her e-mail, I saw that it included many more important items, such as:

  • Make sure to have adequate pain management. It helps the healing process when pain is under control.

  • Find out what kind of name badges are worn by hospital staff members.

  • Have advocates throughout the experience who stay with you. Let them know where to take breaks. Let them get familiar with the hospital layout.

  • Be sure licensed nursing staff are actually doing the daily care, and no one else gives shots.

  • Find out what medications you’ll be taking and their side effects.

  • In addition to getting to know the head nurse in charge of the unit and the nursing supervisor or director, ask to meet the floor nursing staff.

  Most of all, she emphasized t
hat Linda and I shouldn’t be shy about asking direct-care staff to wash their hands before touching me. With Arlene’s special brand of humor, she added, “You don’t need no stinking infections!”

  I knew that Linda and I could be watchful, to the best of our abilities. We’d bring bottles of hand sanitizer and place them in strategic locations around my hospital room. But the main line of defense would be to encourage hospital staff to view me as someone they cared about rather than a faceless, nameless patient.

  My new plan was to talk to the head nurse in an effort to emotionally engage her in my survival and full recovery. So many people come in and out of recovery wards. I knew from my father’s many hospital stays what slipshod places they can be. I wanted to make myself stand out in a good way.

  I also borrowed a page from Leaf’s playbook. He had placed his favorite toy in our home’s picture window with the intention of attracting a friendly doggy playmate. I’d use our Angel Animals books to befriend the head nurse and staff of the neurosurgery ward. Armed with my typed-up sheet of questions and stash of books, Linda and I made an unannounced visit to the head nurse’s office a week before my surgery.

  “Hi, my name is Allen. I’m going to be a patient here next week,” I said softly to the nurse who typed at the nurse’s station computer. Why did I suddenly sound like someone who was tentative? What happened to Proactive Allen? Hospitals can be such intimidating, formidable places, I reasoned. And I’d be coming to this one without the certainty of leaving it alive. No wonder I’d lost some steam.

  With an easy sweet smile, the head nurse, Amy (not her real name), held out her hand, and I shook it. “Very nice to meet you,” she said.

  The conversation we had with Amy was similar to friends chatting at a social gathering. This busy head nurse didn’t rush us. Instead, she seemed pleased that a patient would make the time to have a tour of her ward. She liked that we wanted to be introduced to people who would be taking care of me. I guess this type of previsit was a novelty.

  Amy was delightful and oriented toward giving quality service. She loved our gift of books. We signed each one for her and the staff. Even though we had sprung the visit on her, she was attentive with careful answers to our prepared questions. I shook hands and chatted with the ward nurses, orderlies, residents, and other medical staff assigned to the neurosurgery recovery unit.

  That day I became an individual to them with a full life ahead of me. I’m not saying they don’t view everyone in this manner. They’re professionals who take great pride in their work. But for me, the visit gave me my power back in a positive way. Until then, I had felt mostly powerless. Arlene hit a home run with her suggestion. Leaf was also an inspiration.

  The fact that everyone we met at the hospital had an animal story to tell didn’t surprise me. This kind of thing happens to us all the time. It was fun listening to escapades and experiences the staff had with their pet dogs, cats, birds, horses, and other animals.

  One of the last things I needed to take care of before my surgery was to make a list of my unfinished business. Of course, Leaf was at the top, with his name in all capital letters. I had promised him a forever home with both Linda and me. That commitment alone would keep me going. Other items on my list included taking a long, oceanfront vacation; having more fun, laughter, and play time with my wife and our family; and moving to a more spacious home. I even wrote “take dance lessons”—a real stretch for an uncoordinated guy like me.

  As I thought of everything I wanted to achieve, I let myself dare to hope that someday I would at least attempt all of it. But in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder what lay beneath the murky waters of my future.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Be Nice, Leaf …”

  DURING THE FINAL DAYS BEFORE SURGERY, LEAF RARELY LEFT MY SIDE. He would touch my leg with his nose, bring his ball for me to throw, and distract me from my thoughts. My normally standoffish boy actually wanted me to spend more time petting him. That was a treat for me.

  His insistence finally won out. “OK, boy, let’s go,” I said as I pulled myself away from my desk one afternoon. Soon we were driving to the small nearby dog park to get some fresh air and exercise. I glanced over at Leaf quietly watching the world outside the car window. For a moment, he looked angelic, innocent, and sweet. Was I catching a glimpse of the companionable dog he would become after he healed from his previous traumas?

  I hoped this wasn’t merely wishful thinking. Earlier that day, while I walked him around the neighborhood, he had barked and shot a little growl at a nice lady when she tried to pet him. She yanked her hand back, gave Leaf a wide berth, and quickly walked away.

  I looked at Leaf and asked, “So why didn’t you like that lady this morning? She only wanted to pet you.” He looked at me as I lectured him—a parent reasoning with a child who requires firm guidance. “You need to be nice and considerate. I want people to like you. Don’t you want to be liked?”

  Since we’d adopted him, I came to realize that Leaf was nothing like most other dogs. Most dogs I’d known wagged their tails and wanted to be friends with people. I always assumed it was natural for dogs to love people and people to love dogs. Leaf proved pickier than other canines. He definitely did not buy into the worldview that all humans were his friends. He appeared to think the reverse. How could he trust people? They hadn’t been trustworthy.

  Leaf let out a big yawn while I continued my lecture. Frustrated, I tried to get him to understand how important it was to me for him to treat people, even ones he didn’t know, with respect. “Let’s make a deal!” I said, sounding like the host of a television game show. “When you see someone you don’t know, do anything nice you can think of.”

  Leaf looked out the window, appearing oblivious to my chatter. Yeah, sure. Whatever. Now can we get to the part where you throw the ball for me, and I run and catch it?

  When we arrived at the dog park, Leaf entered with his usual gusto. My king of the park, head held high, walking tall, surveying all his dog and human subjects.

  I pulled his rubber bouncy ball out of my pocket and threw it. Lately he had been even more interested than usual in running after the ball. People at the park commented that Leaf had more retriever instincts in him than some of the retriever breeds that came there. It was fun for all of us to watch him run with enthusiasm on his short legs, his large ears flopping, as he pursued the ball. Sometimes I’d make it bounce several times. He seemed especially pleased when he caught it midbounce, before the ball rolled flat along the ground.

  I noticed an older gentleman in a short-sleeved shirt who was throwing a yellow tennis ball for his small, white, fluffy dog. Sometimes the dog would chase and retrieve it but more often, he’d ignore the ball. This meant the man had to get off his bench, hobble over to the ball, pick it up, and throw again. The man looked tired. He finally sat down to rest. The tennis ball lay on the ground a distance away and neither he nor his dog seemed interested in getting it.

  Leaf observed the interaction between the man and his dog. As soon as he dropped his ball at my feet, he tore after the yellow tennis ball. He grabbed it in his mouth and slowly walked over to the man on the bench. Casually he dropped the ball at the man’s feet. Then he patiently waited for the man’s gnarled fingers to gently pat his head. The man looked up at me and said, “Your dog is nice.”

  Leaf purposefully glanced over his shoulder and straight into my eyes as if to say, “See?”

  Assured I had gotten the message that he could be nice when he wanted to, Leaf trotted with his head high toward me. In that moment I felt like anything was possible—even lecturing to a dog and actually having him listen. Was our little dog discovering the blessings of being an angel pup?

  Just as I thought we were finishing up our time at the dog park that day, he took another opportunity to let me witness his true character.

  Normally, Leaf runs to the gate when it’s time to leave. He carries his ball in his mouth and looks like he’s ready t
o go home and enjoy his nap. That day, though, he stood about twenty feet from the gate near the only other dog left at the park. A woman sat on a bench watching the dog. Up to that point Leaf had ignored the dog and woman.

  He looked at me and at the lone dog and then back at me again. I held the gate open. Why didn’t he run over to it? I felt a nudge, my inner voice, telling me to ignore the heat and my longing for an air-conditioned car.

  Leaf and I walked over to the woman, who gently talked to the dog she had named Murphy. “I rescued him only twenty-four hours ago,” she explained. She went on to say which shelter Murphy had come from.

  “That’s the same place we found Leaf,” I said. Both dogs had been abandoned there and left to fend for themselves.

  Murphy looked traumatized, scared, and alone even with the woman’s constant reassurance. “I’m your forever mommy,” she told him repeatedly.

  “How is Murphy doing?” I asked.

  “Since the time I adopted him, he’s been so upset that he hasn’t gone to the bathroom.” The note of worry in her voice made me empathize with her immediately. I recalled all of the conversations and concerns Linda and I had about Leaf’s initial elimination issues.

  As we talked, I threw Leaf’s orange ball for him a couple of times. Murphy watched Leaf running after it. His expression conveyed that he wanted to join in the fun. I bent down, focused my eyes on his face, and said, “Murphy, you look very handsome.”