Born to Bark (12 page)

No one was home that evening, which was how I had planned it, because I wanted to surprise my kids with a performance after Feldspar had learned the entire “dance routine.” The music was playing loudly and I was bending over touching Felfy’s front legs and getting little paw lifts as planned. Suddenly I felt a tremendous sharp pain in my back and found myself lying on the floor. My back hurt so badly that I was unable to get up again.

I lay there on the floor in a state of rising panic, afraid that I had lost my ability to stand and walk. Feldspar seemed to recognize that something was wrong and came over to lick my face. I told him, “I really should have taught you how to dial the 911 emergency line.”

After what seemed like hours, but was probably more like thirty minutes, the pain subsided enough that I could drag myself over to a chair and use it to pull myself up. I sat there hurting, and felt around to my lower back, where my fingers encountered an area of quivering muscles. Feeling these muscle spasms
actually was reassuring, since it suggested that muscles were the problem, not a more devastating spinal problem.

The next day my doctor confirmed my suspicions and announced, “Welcome to the low back pain club. You now have a lifetime membership.”

He then paused and asked, “Now, what exactly were you doing when you hurt your back?”

As soon as I said, “I was teaching my dog to square dance,” he gave me a look that we save for people who are too stupid or unbelievable to warrant any attempt at further communication.

I tried to add some information to make my previous statement seem less outrageous, but he waved his hand dismissively at me and said, “Well, whatever it was, don’t do it again.”

Thus ended Feldspar’s dancing lessons.

My life could have easily continued in the same vein that it had been going for many years. I was completely immersed in my work, which gave me a focus and a sense of accomplishment. I had earned a lot of respect, honors, and accolades for my research. On the other hand, my marriage was now pretty much in name only. For the sake of my children, whom I love dearly, I still thought we should stay married, at least until Rebecca and Benn were in their teenage years and could understand and deal with a divorce.

Over a period of a month or so, however, I began to notice that I was becoming more easily fatigued. It was becoming difficult for me to maintain my concentration when writing or doing data analysis over the long sessions of work that I had become accustomed to. I was also emotionally less responsive, and fewer of my usual activities interested me. I had had an infection a few months earlier that had produced some of these same symptoms and began to wonder if it had come back. The doctor didn’t
seem to be very concerned, but he sent me off for a number of tests. A few days later he called me and told me to pick up a form from his nurse, because he wanted some additional tests. I did, and then spent some time in a medical lab giving blood, and then in the hospital for a battery of other tests.

At the end of the week I found myself sitting in my doctor’s little examination room. He was holding a manila folder and looking at its contents. The concerned look on his face and the fact that he avoided eye contact suddenly had me worried.

“The tests came back positive,” he started.

“Positive?”

“Well, that’s actually negative for you,” he said, still looking down at the folder.

“Negative?”

The doctor took a breath and then seemed to gather his composure as he remembered what he had been taught in those medical school courses with titles like
Bedside Manner 101
or the more advanced course
Bad News 202
.

“Your immune system does not seem to be working well, and you have developed a systemic infection.”

“Systemic?” I was beginning to feel that I was just an echo following his statements and turning them into questions.

“That means that the infection is pretty widespread. It is not something where we can isolate the affected region and cut it out. I have concerns about using more antibiotics, at least any that we’ve used before, because your reaction to them may be part of the problem.”

“The problem?” There was that echo again.

“Look, the infection is advanced … There has been some organ damage … Under normal circumstances this might be reversible, but your body doesn’t seem to be cooperating. I will do what I can to make you comfortable, but our course of action—if any—is not clear. I will contact some people that I know in the Centre for Disease Control and at the Medical
Schools here and in Toronto and Halifax. Maybe one of them may have an idea. But for now I would suggest that you get your affairs in order.”

“Affairs in order?” came the echo.

“It is really difficult to put a timeline on this thing. However, if we don’t find a method of treatment that works, you have around eighteen months at most. The good news is that with pain management, you should be able to function pretty much as normal up until around the last two months.”

Normal? How could anything be normal when I had a death sentence hanging over me? I wanted to talk to someone about this—to vent my emotions—but who? I had no intention of telling my friends, family, or Clare about this. When people know that a person is dying, everything that they do around that individual changes. Human beings do not like to confront the idea of death, so when we know that someone is dying we tend to stay away from him and choose to not interact, because every contact with a dying person reminds us of our own mortality. If I had had a dog of my own, we could have talked …
But the only dog that I lived with really belonged to my kids and, although I was fond of him, I did not feel close enough for that reliable talking cure.

Later, as I stood in the pharmacy waiting for three little bottles of pills, my mind was racing as I tried to sort things out. Eighteen months—what could I—should I do in the remaining eighteen months? Did I want to remain in my cold, loveless marriage for the last eighteen months of my life? Did I want my children to watch me waste away in front of them? The answer to these last two questions was clearly “No.”

I pocketed my pills and went to a newsstand. I prowled through the “Apartments for Rent” section of the classified ads. I had to find one that was close to the university and my kids. It had to be one that I could afford, since if I ended my marriage I would be using a good chunk of my salary to pay for family support. The second apartment that I looked at appeared to be
acceptable. It was on a quiet street, and it had a tiny but functional kitchen, a big living room, and a small bedroom. It was completely empty, so the landlord told me I could move in on Friday, which was only two days away, and he would not charge me for the four days before the new month began.

Over the next two days I scrounged around to find furniture. The building that my office was in was being renovated. Bookshelves had been broken down and piled up for disposal, free for the taking. Furniture from the wing that had been gutted was available from the university’s surplus center and being sold for a pittance just to clear things out. For a few dollars I managed to buy some wooden chairs, a table, something that could pass for a sofa, and so forth.

I asked for help from a close friend and colleague in the psychology department, Lawrence Ward, who was sworn to secrecy for the moment. I only told him that my marriage was breaking up, which he understood. I did not tell him about the ultimate reasons having to do with my failing body and a ticking life clock. Lawrence and I have done a lot of research together over the years and coauthored six books. We also share a love of science fiction novels, music, and films. Lawrence was also originally from Pennsylvania, which gave us a feeling of kinship so that when I was struggling to
put together my new living space, without any hesitation he volunteered to help me move my few new belongings into my apartment.

On Saturday morning I told Mossy that I was leaving. I momentarily thought of explaining my medical condition to her as some partial explanation of my decision, but it had been so long since we had shared confidences that I had to stop to consider how to tell her. Before I resolved the matter in my head, she simply walked away.

Telling the kids was much more difficult. Even though Rebecca was only 9 and Benn 7 years of age, they seemed to know that something significant was happening, and the two of
them huddled together on the sofa with Feldspar sitting between them. Rebecca had a handful of his fur clutched in her hand and seemed to draw strength from having her dog nearby. Benn simply leaned his head against the dog and listened. I don’t think that they understood that this was going to be a longer separation than for a scientific meeting or research trip or that I wouldn’t be living in the house any longer. I gave them a kiss and Felfy a pat and told them I would be back in a couple of days.

When I returned two days later to pick up some of my personal belongings, my side of the bedroom closet was bare. I asked Mossy where my clothes were and she answered, “They are your clothes—how would I know?” My collection of relatively rare books in the psychological and biological sciences, which I had put together over more than ten years of hunting in used book stores, personal library, and estate sales, was also gone, as were a number of other small personal items.

I left and returned to my apartment to look in my closet. I had three shirts, two pairs of pants, two sport jackets, a sweater, and a couple of scarves. It looked like I would have to get some new garments.

When I went to get some funds to replace my missing clothing, however, I found that our joint savings and checking accounts had not only been emptied but closed. All of my credit cards had been jointly held with my wife, and she had run them up to their maximum in just a few days so I had virtually no money to live on until my next paycheck. It was then that I went to a lawyer to have her draw up a formal separation agreement.

Living quietly in my new apartment actually turned out to be a comfort to me. I missed the kids and the dog, but I got to see Benn and Rebecca twice a week. We would make dinner together in my little place while I tried to teach them how to cook. They would work on their stamp collections, play games, or just talk a little. Although my health was failing, I actually felt more at ease by myself and closer to my children.

Just after our interim divorce had been granted, I left the city to do a short speaking tour that had been arranged before I knew about my medical problem. While I was away, Mossy secretly tried to sell the house. Her attempt was unsuccessful because the house was one of the few things that was in my name and not held jointly. The divorce agreement had stipulated that she could live in that house as long as she wanted to, and if she decided to move out, it would be sold and the proceeds divided equally between us.

A short time later, in defiance of her promise to the judge during our divorce hearing, she took the kids and moved back to Philadelphia. There she had the support not only of her family but also of mine. My parents never questioned me about the divorce and never blamed anyone for the dissolution of our marriage. They were saddened by it, but they always provided love and assistance to Mossy and the kids whenever they could and virtually never spoke to me about our breakup.

I had now lost contact with my children. Whenever I would call to try to speak to them, I was always told that they were not at home. Letters or birthday cards I sent never seemed to make it into Benn and Rebecca’s hands. I suppose that I could have sent them to my parents to deliver personally, but I did not want to involve them in a way that might poison their relationship with Mossy or affect their ability or inclination to help my kids.

With my children gone, all that I had left of real importance to me was my work. I wanted to finish as much of it as could before my time ran out. I saw Clare less often, and other than spending time with my friends Peter and Lawrence, I did not do all that much socializing. I was slowly closing in on myself—isolated, sick, and lonelier than ever.

My doctor was monitoring me more closely but was offering little in the way of long-term hope.

“Things are going pretty much the way that we expected,” he would say. “Don’t give up yet. I’ve arranged for you to see a
specialist in a few weeks, and I’ve sent your records off to some other experts in the field to see if they have any ideas.”

“Are there any changes in the timeline?” I asked.

“I can’t really say,” he replied.