Gotcha
Whenever my cell phone's little window read "Home," I ignore it the first time, and the second. But if it rings a third time, I know that S isn't calling on a whim with a funny story or a minor complaint. Instead, something is really wrong.
"The dog might have cancer," she announced dramatically, going on to describe a bump near his spine.
"I doubt it," I said, clicking through another set of e-mails while simultaneously packing my bag for my next meeting. "I'm sure it's nothing. Let's let T look at it when she's done with night shifts, and we'll go from there."
"She's a nurse, not a vet," S said. "And I don't want to wait."
"Uh huh," I said, pulling a bag over my shoulder, checking my calendar again to make sure I was heading to the right meeting.
And then she began to cry. "I'm really scared, Mama," she said, totally sincere.
I felt a sense of panic. I hate it when she needs me and I can't be with her. I dropped my bag. "I don't know what to do," I said, or thought, I'm not sure which.
"Can I take him to the vet? Please?"
Despite my propensity for imagining the worst, I wasn't actually worried, but I knew she was, and I knew she would remain worried until someone with more authority than me gave him the all clear.
"OK," I said, calculating in my head whether we had enough money before the next pay day to pay the bill. I thought we probably did.
By the time I got home for supper, she had taken the dog, paid the vet $68, and learned that he had a non-malignant tumor, nothing to worry about, but something to be watched closely. I listened while madly chopping vegetables for supper. "I'm glad he's OK," I said, and I meant it, but my mind was on other things.
Then T rushed off to work and S and I went to the Lenten service at our church. I had been running non-stop all day, and I was exhausted. I had another 5-8 hours of work ahead of me after S went to bed. I hate this time of year. The service is meditative and beautiful and full of chanting and silence and readings read slowly twice, with a lot of space for paying attention. Only I couldn't--S was restless, pulling lipstick out of her pocket and applying it, undoing and redoing her braid, leaning against me too hard, etc.
I wanted to push her off of me and dramatically storm out of the room. I wanted to shout, "I just need one goddamned half hour to myself!"
But I didn't. Instead I managed somehow after the first 10 minutes to tune her out, focus as much as I could on my own monkey brain, slow it down at least a little.
Toward the end of the service there is time for people to say their prayers out loud. We sat in silence for a long time, no one saying anything. Finally, I said, "For the P___ family," a family at our church who has dealt with more tragedy than all the rest of us put together in the last year. I heard several people sigh.
More silence.
Then Lisa shouted, "In gratitude for my dog Cody." I tried hard not to laugh. Prayers went on awhile then, after we were warmed up, and then we ended with a final chant.
"He's OK, Mama," S said as we drove home. "Really OK. I was so scared. I mean, it looked bad. It could have been bad. But he was so good at the vet. You know how bad he usually is? They put in a needle in and everything, and he didn't get aggressive." There was a pause. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost him." Another pause. "But he's almost 9 years old. That's old for a dog. He's an old dog. He wasn't when we got him, but he is now." Pause. "But I groom him every day. I mean, I at least brush him every day. And I feed him and take him on long walks and he knows how much I love him. I don't ever want him to leave my side. I take him with me to counseling when I can. Even to counseling." I nodded, tears welling up in my eyes, remembering how, in a moment of complete insanity, I'd agreed to pick up this dog on our way home from the airport the day I brought her home.
Gotcha day, we call it. It's this weekend: gotcha day number six. Usually in the weeks leading up to it, S is nervous, wary, no doubt remembering how scary it was to move across the country to live with--let's face it--pretty much a total stranger. She had no way of knowing how it would work out. Neither did I.
"You take such good care of him," I said. "He knows you love him. You're amazing with animals. You have a real gift."
"Yeah, and I'm thinking, maybe I could become a vet tech. Maybe I could handle it after all, you know, getting a two year degree. I don't know about the dorms or how I'd get to the community college and back, but..."
She'd never before even considered this option, though I'd brought it up a few times in the last three years. Usually she refused to think about a job where "I'd have to see animals die." Eventually, I dropped the idea. She's not very good at math and science anyway...
"Yeah," she went on, "And that would help Healing Ranch because I'd have more experience. There'd be more things I could do if an animal got sick."
"When you're ready, I'll support any dream you have," I said. "Just let me know when you're sure and we'll figure something out."
"OK," she said. "I think I'm getting closer."
"The dog might have cancer," she announced dramatically, going on to describe a bump near his spine.
"I doubt it," I said, clicking through another set of e-mails while simultaneously packing my bag for my next meeting. "I'm sure it's nothing. Let's let T look at it when she's done with night shifts, and we'll go from there."
"She's a nurse, not a vet," S said. "And I don't want to wait."
"Uh huh," I said, pulling a bag over my shoulder, checking my calendar again to make sure I was heading to the right meeting.
And then she began to cry. "I'm really scared, Mama," she said, totally sincere.
I felt a sense of panic. I hate it when she needs me and I can't be with her. I dropped my bag. "I don't know what to do," I said, or thought, I'm not sure which.
"Can I take him to the vet? Please?"
Despite my propensity for imagining the worst, I wasn't actually worried, but I knew she was, and I knew she would remain worried until someone with more authority than me gave him the all clear.
"OK," I said, calculating in my head whether we had enough money before the next pay day to pay the bill. I thought we probably did.
By the time I got home for supper, she had taken the dog, paid the vet $68, and learned that he had a non-malignant tumor, nothing to worry about, but something to be watched closely. I listened while madly chopping vegetables for supper. "I'm glad he's OK," I said, and I meant it, but my mind was on other things.
Then T rushed off to work and S and I went to the Lenten service at our church. I had been running non-stop all day, and I was exhausted. I had another 5-8 hours of work ahead of me after S went to bed. I hate this time of year. The service is meditative and beautiful and full of chanting and silence and readings read slowly twice, with a lot of space for paying attention. Only I couldn't--S was restless, pulling lipstick out of her pocket and applying it, undoing and redoing her braid, leaning against me too hard, etc.
I wanted to push her off of me and dramatically storm out of the room. I wanted to shout, "I just need one goddamned half hour to myself!"
But I didn't. Instead I managed somehow after the first 10 minutes to tune her out, focus as much as I could on my own monkey brain, slow it down at least a little.
Toward the end of the service there is time for people to say their prayers out loud. We sat in silence for a long time, no one saying anything. Finally, I said, "For the P___ family," a family at our church who has dealt with more tragedy than all the rest of us put together in the last year. I heard several people sigh.
More silence.
Then Lisa shouted, "In gratitude for my dog Cody." I tried hard not to laugh. Prayers went on awhile then, after we were warmed up, and then we ended with a final chant.
"He's OK, Mama," S said as we drove home. "Really OK. I was so scared. I mean, it looked bad. It could have been bad. But he was so good at the vet. You know how bad he usually is? They put in a needle in and everything, and he didn't get aggressive." There was a pause. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost him." Another pause. "But he's almost 9 years old. That's old for a dog. He's an old dog. He wasn't when we got him, but he is now." Pause. "But I groom him every day. I mean, I at least brush him every day. And I feed him and take him on long walks and he knows how much I love him. I don't ever want him to leave my side. I take him with me to counseling when I can. Even to counseling." I nodded, tears welling up in my eyes, remembering how, in a moment of complete insanity, I'd agreed to pick up this dog on our way home from the airport the day I brought her home.
Gotcha day, we call it. It's this weekend: gotcha day number six. Usually in the weeks leading up to it, S is nervous, wary, no doubt remembering how scary it was to move across the country to live with--let's face it--pretty much a total stranger. She had no way of knowing how it would work out. Neither did I.
"You take such good care of him," I said. "He knows you love him. You're amazing with animals. You have a real gift."
"Yeah, and I'm thinking, maybe I could become a vet tech. Maybe I could handle it after all, you know, getting a two year degree. I don't know about the dorms or how I'd get to the community college and back, but..."
She'd never before even considered this option, though I'd brought it up a few times in the last three years. Usually she refused to think about a job where "I'd have to see animals die." Eventually, I dropped the idea. She's not very good at math and science anyway...
"Yeah," she went on, "And that would help Healing Ranch because I'd have more experience. There'd be more things I could do if an animal got sick."
"When you're ready, I'll support any dream you have," I said. "Just let me know when you're sure and we'll figure something out."
"OK," she said. "I think I'm getting closer."
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