A bridge had been safely crossed. But a bridge to what? We would not know, for sure, until the analysis of the tumor samples came back from the lab the following week.
At eight thirty Friday evening, Adam Gassel came to the waiting room. “She’s doing well. Ultrasound suggested her liver and kidneys were clean, but I found nodules on the surface. They aren’t uncommon in older dogs, and they don’t necessarily indicate cancer.”
The waiting had begun. Sometimes waiting is worse than knowing, and this was one of those times.
At home, we ate what we found in the refrigerator, but nothing had any taste, and we had little appetite. In bed, in the dark, we held hands for a long time and said nothing.
I never went to sleep that night, but spoke to God for hours. At first I asked Him to give Trixie just two more good years. But then I realized that I was praying for something that I wanted, which is not the purpose of prayer. My faith tells me that we should pray for strength to face our challenges, and for wisdom, but otherwise only for other people. And so I acknowledged my selfishness in wanting the joy of Trixie for two more years, and I asked instead that, if she must leave us, we be given the strength to cope with our grief, because her perfect innocence and loyalty and gift for affection constituted an immeasurable loss.
Adam Gassel called at nine in the morning with news. Trixie had gotten to her feet at four o’clock Saturday morning, only eight hours after surgery. She had a strong appetite. Her red-cell count wasn’t what it needed to be. But if that issue could be resolved, she would still be going home Monday or Tuesday. We could visit her for half an hour around four o’clock that day, and again on Sunday.
We existed for four o’clock. At the specialty hospital, they brought Trixie to a consulting room, where we could lie on the floor with her. She was not herself, on painkillers that mellowed her to the condition of a bored sloth, but she was not as detached from reality as were most of the film producers and directors with whom I had worked over the years, and she recognized us. We cuddled her and were rewarded with a few thumps of her tail. They allowed us to stay not half an hour, but an hour and a half.
Her beautiful silky white ventral coat had been shaved off, her pink belly exposed. The sutured incision measured twelve inches, but I was in no mood this time to make a Frankenpuppy joke.
Gerda and I visited her again on Sunday afternoon, when she proved to be more like herself. We yearned to take her home, but while her red-cell count was better, her doctor still needed to monitor her closely.
In eight years and nine months, Trixie had been away from us only during the few nights that she previously spent in hospitals and one night that she visited with her aunt Lynn and uncle Vito. We had never boarded her. Now the house seemed empty and cold without our girl.
Monday morning, Dr. Gassel called to say the red-cell issue was resolved. We could bring Trixie home as soon as we wished. I arrived at the hospital half an hour later.
As I paid the bill, a couple of staff members reported that during her three-night stay, Trix made not one sound, neither a bark nor a whimper. Our stoic little dog. Because she was so calm, they decided not to keep her caged after the first night because they doubted she would strain her incision. She was allowed to socialize with the staff, as far as her leash would permit. Each time another dog whimpered, in fear or on the down slope of a med cycle and not yet scheduled for its next dose, Trixie went to its cage, lying near it, making eye contact, and inevitably the complaining dog quieted.
I recalled the grandfather with his walker: “You have been given stewardship of what you in your faith might call a holy soul.”
When the paperwork was done and I had reviewed the instructions regarding her care and medications, they brought Short Stuff to me, and, oh, she was fully herself now: eyes sparkling, ears raised in expectation, pep in her step, tail waving hello to those whom she approached and thank you to those who were behind her.
I went to my knees and rubbed her face with my fingers, with my knuckles, as she liked. She made a rare sound: a catlike purr.
They put a cone on her head to prevent her from bothering her incision. She had made no attempt to lick or worry the sutures; but perhaps the ride in the SUV would make her nervous.
All the way home, she sat in the back, drinking in the passing sights. I glimpsed her in the rearview mirror, grinning at me as if even the hated cone could not spoil this moment of reclaimed freedom.
At home, I freed her from the cone, for at all times, either Gerda or I, or both of us, would be with her. She greeted her mom with kisses and wiggled with delight on seeing Linda again. Elaine was retired, but the strange aura of Elaine still hung around her office chair, and the Trickster sniffed at that. She greeted Elisa, too, Krista, Jose, Fabian, and everyone else who worked with us and who smiled to see her prancing through the halls every day.
That evening I lifted her onto our bed. She knew this was the best place for her now, and she made no attempt to get down. The three of us were so happy to be together that we all slept soundly that night, past the hour at which for years we had routinely arisen.
We never put the cone on her again. She didn’t chew at her sutures, didn’t once lick the incision.
Although we had hope that the biopsies would come back negative, there seemed every reason to forget about keeping her weight at the ideal sixty-five pounds. In those days, Dannon made a non-yogurt, low-carb smoothie that I loved, especially the peach. I had sometimes shared a few spoonfuls with Trix. Now I poured an entire seven-ounce bottle in a bowl and set it before her. She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, sharing so much of this ambrosia, but she set to work on it before I changed my mind.
Tuesday and Wednesday were good days, but on Thursday, June 28, Dr. Gassel called with bad news. The tumor of the spleen, which he removed, was malignant, also the liver lesions, but the kidneys were not involved.
With the surgeon’s guidance, we determined that chemotherapy would begin on July 10, the day Trix’s sutures were to be removed. Ninety percent of dogs handle chemotherapy well, without the side effects that humans suffer.
That Thursday evening, we invited some neighbors to dinner, knowing that the best thing for Trixie would be people. Nothing excited her like the sound of the doorbell, because whoever came calling was her old friend or her new one-except for X. That was a fine evening for her, and she happily received the affection of all.
The next morning, Friday, a week after Trix’s surgery, Gerda and I returned with her to the specialty hospital to meet the woman who would be her oncologist and to wait during an echocardiogram that would ascertain any problem, congenital or otherwise, that might limit the type and potency of the chemo she would receive.
They found another tumor in her heart. The cancer was called hemangiosarcoma, and her prognosis was grim. She would not be a candidate for chemo of any potency.
Worse, they discovered a blood clot on the wall of her heart. Were it to break loose, she would suffer a pulmonary embolism and die. Dr. Gassel could not say with certainty how long she would live, but he suggested two weeks.
In a state of despair, we brought her home, determined to make perfect days of whatever time our golden girl had left. She was in no pain, following the splenectomy. The staples in her tummy would not allow her to run and jump, but she could have all other kinds of fun, including anything she wanted to eat, even ice cream by the dish.
Gerda and I could hardly bear eye contact with each other, as tears threatened each of us at the thought of the other’s approaching loss. But we reached out more often to touch, to hold hands.