Dog Named Leaf (8 page)

T
HE NIGHT BEFORE THE ARTERIOGRAM
D
R
. N
USSBAUM HAD ORDERED
, I had another vivid dream. In the dream I experienced massive lightning strikes and flashes of pain across my mind’s eye. I felt synapses become disconnected; some were rerouted. In the nightmare my brain became less functional than it was before. I felt the pain of what was about to happen.

The dream could have been more directly related to the arteriogram ahead, but it also reflected the arc of my experience. I rested for a few minutes, then got up. I heard the phone ring and wondered who was calling so early in the morning.

“Hello,” I said as I picked it up.

“Hi, Allen. This is Bob.”

Bob Lawton has been a close friend of mine for many years, even though we live in different states and don’t call each other often. He’s always been a generous, kind person. His spiritually oriented view of life gave him the emotional toughness he needed to be successful as a fire-fighter. Bob spent his career saving lives and dealing with perilous situations. He served on the front lines, often putting himself in danger to help others.

“Bob, what a surprise,” I said, now totally awake.

“I had to call you. I know what you are going through now.” Bob got quiet for a moment and then continued. “I had a dream with you last night. I saw it.”

Leaf sat nearby and didn’t take his eyes off me. I assumed he wanted breakfast. “Your call couldn’t come at a better time.”

“The light flashes and pain; we were together. I feel bad for you.”

“That you know what’s happening to me means a lot. You made my day.”

With that, we said our goodbyes. I prepared to visit the hospital.

Later that day I experienced in the operating room exactly what I had felt in the dream just a few hours earlier. All the pain, flashes of light, disorientation, and exhaustion came as if on cue. The dream had prepared me for the real situation. And because of Bob’s call, I felt that a friend had understood.

But all was not well. A few days after the arteriogram, a painful swollen spot appeared where the arteriogram needle had entered the artery in my groin area. I called Dr. Nussbaum’s nurse Jody and told her about the problem. She set up an appointment right away for me to have a sonogram of the area that had swelled to a large, hard bump.

The sonogram went well until the technician’s expression changed from relaxed to tense. She needed to send the test results to the doctor for review. About an hour later, when Linda and I asked the receptionist if we could leave, she said that someone would come out to talk with me.

We were oblivious to the commotion my sonogram had caused. While I telephoned my office to pick up messages and check on projects, the radiology doctors summoned Nurse Jody for a consult. After we’d been in the waiting room for an hour, Nurse Jody and another nurse arrived to talk with us. They both looked serious.

The sonogram nurse said, “It was good you found the knot in your leg and got it tested this morning.” She added, “We’re in a precarious situation right now.” A few seconds passed while I thought grumpily,
What else? I have meetings scheduled.

Nurse Jody was hesitant as she spoke. “You have a blood clot near the knot you found,” she said, “and it’s in a bad location.” The blood clot had nothing to do with the large bump, she explained, but it had helped them discover it. “We can’t give you blood-thinning medication because of the scheduled surgery. Even a small bleed could be deadly.” The two nurses explained that I must have an emergency procedure before my major brain surgery.

Within the short span of about six weeks, I had gone from being a healthy man in the prime of his life to one who faced two life-threatening conditions. Later I learned that the deep vein thrombosis caused by the clot, like the brain aneurysm, typically displayed no symptoms. This is why both conditions were so deadly.

In the case of the aneurysm, unrelated dizziness (and my wife’s insistence) had driven me to the doctor. Now, a painful swelling, not caused by the blood clot, had prompted me to call Dr. Nussbaum and schedule the sonogram. Both the dizziness and the swelling disappeared after accomplishing their task of moving me in the right direction. Here again, with my life pitched over a cliff, I was being held above the precipice by what I could only ascribe to divine intervention.

I quietly listened to Nurse Jody and the sonogram nurse while I struggled to take in what they were telling me. The sonogram nurse took Linda’s hand in hers. “You and Allen should not leave the hospital,” she said. “The doctor is recommending an emergency procedure. We’ll insert an IVC filter device in your primary vein to protect your main organs. The clot could travel through the major blood vessel that returns blood from the lower body to your heart. This is surgery, and you may have to stay in the hospital overnight after the procedure.”

I called our dear friends of many years, Arlene and Aubrey Forbes, to ask them to take care of Leaf while I had the emergency procedure. Arlene, a nurse by profession, is slender and tall and an accomplished singer and dancer. Aubrey is one of my closest male friends. He was a member of a small writers’ group Linda and I started that met Thursday evenings. Although his management job kept him moving in a fast-paced world, he brought kindness and gentle nobility to all of his actions and words.

We had previously entrusted Arlene and Aubrey Forbes with our house key, and they were familiar with our pets. In addition to being the logical choice to ask for help, Linda needed to confide in Arlene (they called each other “Sis”) about my new medical situation.

At this point my insecure dog still wasn’t friendly with anyone who came to our house, invited guest or not. He’d hurl his body against the front door with such vehemence that grown men stumbled backward down the porch steps to get away from him. Somehow, he made himself appear large in spite of his small size.

For his safety and our peace of mind, we kept him inside the large dog crate (his cave) whenever we were away for short periods of time. We were still not confident he could, or would, hold his potty break needs until we returned home. The crate kept him from using our carpet like grass. Staying in the crate also decreased his need to howl with fear at people who walked by our house or tree branches that rubbed against the roof on windy days. The crate and its comfortable dog bed helped Leaf feel more secure.

I didn’t know how Leaf would respond to Arlene and Aubrey entering our home when we weren’t there. They would have to release him from his crate, put a leash on him, take him outside, and feed him. We’d never rehearsed that routine. I tried to communicate with Leaf by visualizing his face and thinking,
Be nice.

The last thing I needed right now was for my emotionally distraught dog to have a setback. I did not want Arlene and Aubrey to become wary
of him.
Please, no growling while I’m in the hospital,
I mentally telegraphed Leaf.
Be nice.

Arlene and Aubrey drove over to our home after work. They walked in with their unique ability to put anyone, animal or person, at ease. When they let Leaf out of his crate, he wagged his tail and licked their hands. While they shut the crate door behind him, he eagerly gobbled down the dog food they placed inside. They called us at the hospital with the reassurance that Leaf had been “a perfect gentleman.” I was grateful to our friends for helping and to Leaf for cooperating. I guess he had gotten my message to be nice.

As I went through the accelerated admittance process for emergency surgery, I quickly filled out the paperwork for a health directive and the “Five Wishes” forms. It stipulated that the hospital wouldn’t unnecessarily prolong my life if I was only being kept alive mechanically. It seemed reasonable to not keep a body alive without real life within it.

The doctor, who would insert the umbrella-shaped IVC metal filter that was designed to stop blood clots from entering major organs, stopped by the cubicle where Linda and I waited. Nurses prepped me for surgery. The surgeon looked young to me but did not have Dr. Nussbaum’s exceptionally youthful appearance. He implied that anything involving blood clots is risky. I would be sedated and feel discomfort but not severe pain.

After the surgeon left, an attendant wheeled me to the surgery room. I remained fully conscious. As my gurney passed through hospital hallways and under the fluorescent lights, scenes from my past came pounding back to regain my attention. One in particular was from my days as a cop in Atlanta.

One late afternoon when I was still a rookie cop, I patrolled a residential neighborhood. The bright sun shone in a cloudless sky, making it hard for me to see beyond the glare. A woman ran into the street and yelled for me
to stop the police car. She pointed toward the end of the block. “A man has been stabbed!” she screamed.

I immediately informed dispatch and asked for backup and an EMS unit. I ran over to the man, who lay face-up on the sidewalk. The knife that had pierced his heart lay in the road a few feet away. His girlfriend, reeling with grief and shock, stood over his body. She cried and begged for someone to help him. Other people from the neighborhood gathered at the scene.

I spoke into my hand radio and asked dispatch for the EMS unit’s estimated time of arrival. I knelt down beside the conscious man, who looked to be in his early thirties. As a new cop, I immediately knew that I wasn’t prepared to handle such a situation. Still, I was the one on the scene, and I had to do my best.

I tried to stop the bleeding by placing pressure on the wound with my hand. The man looked up at me. While I stared back into his eyes, I realized he was aware that death was near. I continued to apply pressure. He reached for my right hand as if to tell me to stop.

People around watched, horrified. I centered myself and tried to remain calm. I placed my hand on his shoulder. The light and awareness inside his eyes slowly darkened and went out. His sobbing girlfriend collapsed into the arms of an older woman nearby.

The EMS unit arrived and took over attending the victim. I spoke into my radio and gave a lookout description for the suspect. Other officers found the perpetrator several blocks away. He turned out to be a recently released mental patient who had been visiting his mother. He’d found a knife in his mother’s kitchen, grabbed it, ran out the front door, and attacked the first person he saw.

The victim, nibbling on a bag of french fries, had gotten off the bus with his girlfriend. One moment a french fry was in his hand, the next he was looking into a cop’s eyes, knowing his life was over. Death came just that quickly and with just that much apparent randomness.