Comet's Tale (15 page)

Although cracking the neighbors over the head with a walking stick still seemed like the best option, I didn't feel as if I was betraying Comet by resisting that urge. Strangely, I was energized by my new role as
her
nurse. Freddie coaxed Comet onto the bed, where she reclined for the next ten days, leaving only for short potty breaks. Some of her bites couldn't be stitched, so they required regular applications of new salve and gauze. The lacerations that were sutured started itching. Because I wouldn't make Comet wear the oversized cardboard collar that restricted her head movements, I needed to constantly stop her from licking the stitches.

Comet recovered with no obvious ill effects. Although she alertly monitored the barking from that particular yard, she once again displayed remarkable equanimity in the face of hardship. Life resumed as if nothing had happened. Taking my cue from Comet, I eventually walked to the neighbor's house and managed to explain passionately, but without resorting to violence, that Comet was not only my service dog, she was my dog, period. Animal control had been alerted to the situation. And before I left, I wanted them to know that there shouldn't be a next time. “If this ever happens again, the noose you find on your step won't necessarily be for your dog.” The couple smiled at my comment, expecting me to laugh at my own joke. I didn't. It was almost as effective as one of my walking sticks.

WHEN COMET WAS
well enough, we resumed our regular routine. One day about a month after the attack, she was especially persistent about her morning walk. Jumping onto the bed, she stood over me, whining and drumming her paws on the mattress. “Not now, Comet.” She hopped off but was back in five minutes. My eyes remained closed and I commanded, “Lie down next to me. We'll go in a minute.”

Not a chance. Comet stood over me and bugled again. This time I opened my eyes. “Go get Mama. She's home, she'll walk you.” I closed my eyes to the bright window shades. The bedsheets started shaking. My eyes flew open and there was Comet, chewing the corner of the bedcovers, her eyes directly focused on mine in challenge. “Don't even think about it! If you pull these covers off, the only reason I'll get up is to flog you with your stuffed rabbit.”

Comet pulled the corner of the sheets into her mouth, pawing them into submission with rapping front feet. The message was clear.
Get up or you'll have to punish me—that is, if you can get your fat butt up fast enough to catch me.
She definitely had my attention; I wanted to strangle her. Why, on this day with Freddie in the house and willing to walk her, did she totally refuse to heed my wishes?

Comet continued her strange behavior after she had dragged the covers from my body and helped me dress. I kept my canes by the front door, but today I was too tired to deal with them. Instead, I grabbed the detestable walker. Comet stood still, allowing me to clip her leash to it without a bit of resistance. I was so astonished that I didn't even praise her. I nearly looked over the door for a bucket of water: she had to be up to something.

We exited the house to glorious spring warmth that stirred the air but hadn't yet penetrated the ground and pavement. Neighborhood noises were comfortably muted, almost as if people didn't want to disturb Mother Nature's mood so early in the year. Comet carefully pulled ahead one or two steps at a time, allowing me to soak in the red-reflected beauty and tangy pine scent. The radiance of the day swept me into an expansive mood. Comet was in high spirits, too. Her horizontal ears perked sideways as she noted even the smallest changes in neighboring yards. Her bunny fur sparkled, vivid cinnamon separating glazed black tiger stripes. She was extra curious about every small movement in the dried pine needles and tree leaves, stopping frequently to sniff and poke at them with her long snout.

If not for our heightened senses, Comet and I would have passed by the unfamiliar couple the way we usually did with everyone except close neighbors—silently, making no eye contact. Instead, Comet made the rare effort to cross the street to investigate the strangers, heading straight for the large red-faced man. I pulled back on the walker, tugging Comet's head away.

“Comet, slow down! I'm sorry; she hardly ever just walks up to somebody she doesn't know.”

A short blond woman was hovering behind the man, her eyes fixed on Comet.

“That's okay. We like dogs,” the man said genially. He stuck out his hand. “Hi. My name is Bob. This is Arlene.”

I was hoping he understood that I couldn't shake his proffered hand without risking my balance. “Nice to meet you both. This is Comet. Sorry about her rushing right up to you, but she's as gentle a dog as you'll ever meet.” I directed the last comment at Arlene, who still hadn't emerged from behind her husband.

“Oh, don't worry about it. Do you live around here?” Bob was obviously a man who liked to take charge of the conversation. Arlene remained quiet, clinging to Bob's side and staring down at Comet, who was still as a stone. Before I could answer his question, he popped another one. “Do you know who lives at that house on the corner?” He gestured at my home.

“Yes.” I wasn't about to tell a stranger where I lived.

Several seconds of silence passed while Bob smiled at me in anticipation. I remained quiet, so he filled the gap. “I was just wondering. I have a bronze eagle for sale that would look great on top of that outdoor fireplace.” When I said nothing, Bob continued, “That's for another day anyway. So, what happened to you?”

Arlene dug her elbow into her husband's side. “Bob!”

I'll admit his question stunned me. People who encounter someone with an obvious disability very rarely acknowledge it. They divert their gaze, as if something interesting is going on near the horizon. Nervous sideways glances let the person with the unfortunate condition know that he's still included in the conversation. I was not prepared for anyone to be so forthright.

“Oh, I have a bad back,” I replied.

Arlene looked bewildered, and Bob's expression was equally dubious. “Bad back? What do you mean bad back? It looks to me like you can hardly walk.”

I couldn't help but laugh at his bluntness. “My spine sort of collapsed on itself—a lot of nerves are pinched and inflamed. It makes it hard for me to control my feet and legs. Just something that happened.” My attempt to be flippant sounded hollow, but these were total strangers asking about a very intimate situation.

“Can't it be fixed?” Arlene's voice was soft and perplexed, as if she were talking to a foreigner who wasn't aware of the grand things that could be accomplished by health care in the United States.

I don't know why, but I started spilling the details. I explained the childhood years of pain and surgery. I described the lifetime of dealing with side effects I thought were normal. I told them about how the years of searching for solutions and failing to find a fix had ultimately brought me to that street on that day at that time. Comet was an integral part of the last pieces of my story.

When I was done, a shocked bubble of silence encompassed the four of us. Bob and Arlene took turns looking at Comet and then back to me. I suddenly felt awkward; I was embarrassed that my little story was so disturbing. “Well, I better finish with Comet's walk.”

Arlene was petting Comet, the two of them now fully at ease with each other. She looked up at me and said simply, “We know somebody who can help you.” Not probably. Not maybe. Not we can ask.

Bob jumped in with both feet. “We sure do. A friend of ours from Wisconsin retired here not long ago—”

This was Arlene's idea, and she wasn't about to let her husband steal the punch line. “His son is a physician's assistant for somebody who's a very skilled spinal surgeon. We'll call them and have Kai—that's their son's name, Kai Stobbe—get the doctor to call you.”

The entire time from greetings to good-byes couldn't have taken more than ten minutes. But for some strange reason, I left the encounter with a good feeling. It wasn't because I expected anything to come of the talk. Countless times over the last several years some well-meaning person had suggested to Freddie or me that we investigate “this doctor who helped my daughter with her back,” or “this chiropractor who can just move one bone and you're cured.” We had been assured that “magical things can happen with Sedona energy vortexes,” and even that “different light frequencies will make Wolf forget his pain.” We had pursued so many different leads that it became a family joke. “Dad, have you tried pond scum? How about Botox to renew your spine? Have you contacted a faith healer or a medicine man?” Other than Botox and pond scum, I had. So when somebody told us that they knew about the best back doctor in the world, skepticism reigned.

“Wolfie, a doctor who is any good at all is too busy to just pick up the phone and call some guy who isn't even his patient.” Freddie had listened to my description of the encounter, no doubt wondering why I thought this couple would have better information than what we had compiled over the years.

“I know that. I was just wondering if I could somehow get the doctor's name and look him up on the Internet.” The flicker of whatever I had felt when I talked to the couple was fading fast.

“Uh-huh.” Freddie's tone extinguished the last ember.

So imagine my surprise when I stumbled to answer the phone a week later. “Could I speak to Mr. Steve Wolf, please?”

I was a little peeved. Our phone was on the Do Not Call list for telemarketers. “Can I tell him who's calling?”

“Yes. This is Kai Stobbe. My parents live in Sedona and—”

“Kai! This is Wolf . . . Mr. Wolf . . . Just call me Wolf.”

An amused laugh echoed in my ear. “Hi, Mr. Wolf. As I said, my name is Kai. My parents called me a couple of days ago and told me that you have a horrible back condition. They looked up your phone number and wanted me to call you to see if the surgeon I work with might be able to help you.”

14

MARCH–JUNE 2005—ARIZONA

Freddie was due home from work in eight hours, and until then I nervously wobbled from room to room, out to the pool and back inside again. I knew she would try to douse my expectations, which surely could only lead to disappointment. Freddie paid her own mental toll every time I received another negative medical assessment. She would have to watch me absorb the blow, and of course anything that happened with my health impacted her future. Despite all this, I pounced the minute she walked in the door. “Would you call Kai back and find out what information they need to give an opinion?”

After almost thirty years in the medical profession, Freddie had special insight into this type of communication. She could glean important nuggets from any medical propaganda that might casually be mentioned to sway a patient. I didn't trust myself. I was at the point where I would either grab at any proffered straw or fail to recognize a legitimate opportunity.

Freddie's eyes sparkled when she hung up the phone. “I have to say that so far, I'm impressed. The fact that this office took the time to call a total stranger is unheard of. And this group appears to know what they're talking about. They're at the aggressive end of treatment.” Her growing excitement was unusual. “You can tell that a doctor and his staff are passionate about what they do when they agree to take a look at your case without charging anything. All Kai wants are the latest MRIs and radiologist reports. If the images are detailed enough, he'll sit down with the surgeon and go over everything.”

My body started to tingle. A pleasurable chill raced down my arms. “Who are these guys, anyway?”

Freddie opened her laptop and murmured, “Colorado Comprehensive Spine Institute . . . Dr. George A. Frey . . . Let's see . . .”

Starting with the caveat, “Everything looks better on paper,” Freddie later reported her findings. “Frey is an orthopedic spine surgeon who founded the Spine Institute. He went to med school at Georgetown in DC, and his residency and fellowship were at St. Luke's in Chicago.”

“Is that good?” Like most people, I didn't know which medical schools specialized in which areas, but Freddie did.

She nodded. “It's really good. According to Dr. Frey's bio, he ‘completed advanced specialized training in reconstructive and traumatic spinal surgery involving all regions of the spine.' He isn't the typical back doctor who only works on the lower lumbar region.”

Hope was still a small island in a vast ocean, but it felt good to think about sailing in that direction. “Their office is in Englewood, a suburb on the south edge of Denver,” Freddie continued, and I piped up, “One of my clients told me Denver is a big hub for spine-related work.”

A week after my medical records were forwarded, I started marking days like a prisoner. I forced myself to stay awake so that I could pester Freddie at night about her conversation with Kai: “Did he say if he'd call or was he going to mail a report back to us? Should I call him and find out? Should I schedule an appointment?” I think Freddie started staying out later with her friends in the hope that I would be asleep before she got home. Comet, however, was delighted with my impatience. I was so fidgety in the morning that I eagerly awaited her leaping request for a walk. She got an extra mini outing when I asked her to pull the blankets off me so I could make it to the mailbox in time to talk to our rural mail carrier.

When I wasn't obsessing about the mail, I was calculating whether it would be my cell or the home phone that would bring the news from Dr. Frey's office. But when the spine institute number finally flashed on the handset, I couldn't pick up the phone. As much as I had tried to prepare myself, I wasn't sure I was strong enough for bad news. Maybe it would be easier to screen the call and listen to the information without having to respond. I lay in bed, tensely waiting for the recorder to click on. Just as it did, I remembered that medical providers don't leave this type of private message on an answering machine. “Hello, Mr. Wolf. This is Kai Stobbe calling. You can reach me later today or tomorrow morning at—”

I pressed the speaker button. “Hey, Kai. How are you?” Comet plopped her head on my chest, watching me talk.

“Busy but good. How have you been doing?” Kai actually sounded as if he was interested.

“Couldn't be better,” I said lightly.

“We received your information, and Dr. Frey has reviewed the records. He also talked to the other doctors here to get their opinions.” The long preamble was not a good sign. I was familiar with the beginning of a gentle letdown.

“It's that bad, huh?”

The line was quiet for several seconds. “Yeah, it is. Your back's a mess, but you already knew that.”

After all this time, I thought I was over the hurt. Instead, my bowels flipped and I felt like I was going to faint. A harsh buzzing filled my ears. “Yes, I know my back's a mess. Still, it's never pleasant to hear it.”

“I'll bet.” Kai paused. “The good news is that Dr. Frey thinks he can help you.”

I shook my head so hard trying to clear out the bees that Comet lifted her head from my chest and stared, ears pointed at the ceiling.

“What?”

Kai's voice became louder, as if he thought we had a bad connection. “I said that Dr. Frey thinks he can at least significantly reduce your pain. I was calling to set up a time when you could talk with him. From the look of these films, I doubt that you could drive up here for a visit.”

I couldn't react. Instead, I felt oddly detached from the situation, as if I were eavesdropping on a party line. The news was too good; there had to be a loophole. “Sure,” I said, in the clinically cool tone of someone who did this for a living. “But could I call you back? Freddie will want to be in on the conversation, too.”

“Of course. I'm going to mail you a brief report along with the films, which have been marked to show you some of the problems. That way you'll have a better idea of what the doctor will be discussing with you.”

After turning off the speaker, the conversation receded into the deep background. Not another thought about what had just transpired entered my head. I stared at the bedroom television until I heard Freddie come home. When she walked into the bedroom, her slumped shoulders and tired eyes told me how hard her day must have been. She shuffled over to the closet, shedding her jacket and kicking off her shoes.

“Kai called. He wants us to call him,” I said blandly.

Freddie's head spun around so fast I thought we might need an exorcist. “He called? What did he say?”

“He wants to set up a time for us to have a phone conversation with Frey.”

“About what? Wolfie, what did Kai tell you?”

“He said they think they can help me.” My eyes were fixed on the television. I didn't offer any more details.

“Wha—I mean, what did he . . . How? I need to know everything Kai said. Everything from hello to good-bye. Don't just sit there like a dead mummy, tell me!”

“He said that the doctor, and I quote, ‘thinks he can at least significantly reduce your pain. I was calling to set up a time when you could talk with him'—unquote.”

Freddie sat on the bed and grabbed my hand. “Wolfie! That's great news! Aren't you excited?”

My first impulse was to tell the truth—I wasn't sure. I revised that thought as I watched Comet react to Freddie's sudden zing by standing on the mattress and nuzzling her cheek. “Let's just see what this whiz-kid doctor has to say.”

We received Kai's package and set up a conference call with Dr. Frey. I was immediately struck by the doctor's warm, confident tone and good humor. It was rare to encounter a physician who gave the impression that he was in no hurry and had all day to answer your questions. I later found out that this wasn't an act. Dr. Frey believed in defusing fears of the unknown and reducing anxiety that might interfere with a successful outcome.

He also believed in assigning his patients homework. Dr. Frey told me to research every item on the report they had sent, including my current condition and the multifaceted operation they were proposing. Frey ended the conversation with, “You have a host of problems that make the results unpredictable, but I'm confident that I can reduce your pain. I can't cure you, but I can help you. Get back to Kai after you do your homework, and let us know if you want to go forward.”

My homework list was extensive, an indication of the complexity of my medical condition. Rather than feeling overwhelmed, however, I attacked my assignment with all the intensity I had once applied to high-stakes legal cases. First I examined Dr. Frey's assessment of my current condition. My existing fusion would soon be thirty-five years old, and the bone that had been placed along the two moving vertebrae had gone wild, partially attaching to levels higher than originally intended. I now had instability affecting spinal nerves from L3 (the third lumbar disc space) to my sacrum. Every lumbar disc was dehydrated and misshapen, causing instability and narrowing of the spinal canal throughout my entire lower back, a condition known as stenosis. The sway, or curve, that most people have in their lower back was totally absent because of all the other damage. My back was as straight as a fence post, which meant that my spine was mercilessly hammered directly into my pelvis.

To help ease the pain from these interconnected problems, Dr. Frey would begin with an anterior lumbar interbody fusion. It was basically a modified gutting procedure. The patient is filleted from the front with a long slice starting below one side of the rib cage and continuing to the belly crease at the waist. Vital organs are moved out of the way and the spine is exposed. Tissue that is blocking access to the spine is dissected. Then the patient's body is bent so far backward that the spine pops forward into the abdominal cavity for better visualization, and a flood of blood and dissected tissue is vacuumed. The goal of all this is to clear the way for implanting threaded fusion cages.

Threaded fusion cages are porous miniature thimbles filled with tiny shredded pieces of bone and sponges that contain bone morphogenetic protein, or BMG. Two of these cages are placed in the disc space of each level that is to be fused. BMG helps keep the bone alive and promotes bone growth so that the new bone tissue will attach to the adjacent vertebrae, which have been scraped to bleed so the tissue more readily adheres. Eventually that part of the spine grows into one stable piece. In my case this would have to be done at five separate disc spaces, but only after what was left of each bad disc was sucked up like useless fish guts.

That was one part of the procedure. I would also be having a posterior spinal fusion, which involved “segmental pedicle screw instrumentation.” The doctor would perform this approaching the spine from the back rather than the front. Dr. Frey would also scrape, sand, and dissect in and around the bones and nerves, then create a “bed” at each affected level, where more bone and BMG would be placed. After cleaning up the old fusion, decompressing the facet nerves on each vertebra, and freeing nerves in other passageways, wedges would be cut into the vertebrae. These wedges were similar to the ones foresters chop into trees to get them to fall in the right direction. Titanium screws would be implanted in the vertebrae so that two curved titanium rods could be attached, restoring proper spine curvature. While my spine would then have the proper lordotic curve, it would be permanently fused into that shape, one solid mass that would not bend or “articulate” back and forth like a normal back. There was something ironic about the medical profession giving a plaintiff's lawyer a stronger backbone, but who was I to put up a fuss about semantics?

While I was completing my homework, Freddie was doing research of her own. I knew we were reading from different material when she started scrutinizing the risks involved. “I can't imagine that all this could be done in one procedure. And repeated surgeries increase your risks without increasing the odds of a good result. Your current doctors are already worried about your physical condition. I don't know what they'd say about subjecting you to several surgeries.”

“Freddie, you're talking three or four hours at most. I don't think he'd have any problem doing it all in one surgery.”

Freddie laughed. “Wolfie. It takes that long just to fix a hernia.”

During our follow-up conversation with Dr. Frey, he assured us that all the work could be done in a single surgery, possibly with more than one surgical team. But it would take much longer than four hours—how long, they couldn't tell. It depended on the extent of the damage they found after I was filleted. Rehabilitation could take some time because of the years of nerve damage and pain, coupled with atrophied muscles that had compensated along different nerve pathways for most of my life.

After this conversation I wasn't exactly ecstatic, but I was resolute. “Freddie, I say we do this. What choice do I have? If we don't take this chance I may be dead before the next one comes along.”

To my surprise, Freddie was more enthusiastic. “It sounds like he can fix a lot of what's wrong. Wouldn't that be great? We might even go back to being a normal boring couple.”

We scheduled the surgery for August 5. That would give us time to trek back to Omaha in late May for Kylie's graduation from law school. While there, I would be able to visit my regular doctors and learn what I would need to do to get healthy enough for the operation. I would also have an opportunity to see Lindsey, who was now happily enrolled in a bachelor's degree nursing program in Omaha, far away from any ocean.

Not wanting to detract from Kylie's big day, we had not yet told the girls about my surgical plans. The graduation ceremony passed in a haze. I was there, but I wasn't, at once fantasizing about the future and falling back into the past. Now twenty-five, Kylie had been sixteen when I collapsed on the basketball court. She and I were similar in so many ways, from looks to logic to passion. Her decision to become an attorney made me feel as if I had passed something of value on to her. Sitting in the audience that day, however, I wondered how many of my not-so-wonderful traits Kylie and the other girls had absorbed. By refusing to acknowledge the extent of my problems and insisting on handling them by myself, I had alienated the people I loved the most. The whole time the girls were growing up, I had never allowed them to see me in a moment of weakness—until it all came crashing down. My behavior since then had often been baffling even to myself. I vowed that someday I would sit down with my daughters and ask them how they had felt about this whole long saga. But today I just hugged Kylie, told her, “I am beyond proud of you,” and stood up as straight as I could for the family photos after the ceremony.