William Cass                                                                         

Love Me, Love My Dog

The morning of my heart surgery for mitral valve repair, I arranged with a neighbor girl to care for my dog, Rex, then used an Uber to get to the hospital for my 9:30am check-in.  I was gowned, prepped, briefed about what to expect by the surgeon, Dr. Zimmer, and being wheeled to the OR thirty minutes later.  Was I frightened?  I guess so.  I did mourn that I no longer had my ex-wife beside me to hold my hand and tell me things would be fine or be there waiting when the surgery was over.  I thought about her with familiar regret as the orderlies pushed my bed clacking over seams in the linoleum hallway.  Her discontent and affair had been a complete shock, especially since I’d just recovered from head/neck cancer at age fifty-five and we’d recently begun talking about retiring early from our high school teaching jobs.

Six hours after entering the operating room, I woke up in the ICU groggy with IV pain meds that seemed to do little to mitigate the deep throbbing across the right side of my midsection and armpit where the major incision had been made.  A chest drainage tube emerged

from near there and led to a collection bag hooked to my bedrail that was partially full of reddish-brown, vile-looking fluid.  It was difficult to take even short breaths, and any internal movements like coughing or swallowing sent a stabbing sensation across that affected area.  In my fog, I vaguely recall Dr. Zimmer stopping by after I’d gained consciousness to tell me everything had gone well, that I’d be moved upstairs soon where his Nurse Practitioner would be overseeing my follow-up care while admitted, but that he’d be monitoring my progress closely. 

My recovery there was slowed by swallowing problems and related inability to obtain adequate nutrition and hydration by mouth.  I slept through the NP’s first visit the day after surgery, but was awake when she came in the following morning, an all-but-full breakfast tray on the lap table I’d pushed aside.

She said, “Good morning.  I’m Eunji, Dr. Zimmer’s assistant.  How are you feeling?”

She rubbed hand sanitizer from a wall canister between her palms and came bedside.  I glanced at the ID badge clipped to her lab coat.  Her first name was prominent there in capital letters, as well as her last name in smaller font: “Anderson”.  She was perhaps in her early-forties, tall and slender with finely drawn features, high cheekbones, no rings, chestnut-colored hair, and almond-shaped eyes that seemed warm and kind. 

“Okay, I guess,” I replied.  I tried to make a casual shrug from my propped upright position, but the movement caused me to wince.

“Hmm,” Eujin said.  “Looks like you’re still in a fair amount of pain.  That’s normal.”  She lifted the lid on my all-but-uneaten meal and shook the nearly-full milk carton next to it.  “This, however, isn’t.  Normal, I mean.”

I attempted a slighter shrug as she regarded me steadily.  She wore little or no makeup, but her beauty was still disarming. 

She asked, “Are you able to lean forward just a little so I can hear your heart and lungs?”

I did, trying to mask another wince.  She took a stethoscope from around her neck and listened to various spots on my chest and back, then straightened, a small smile creasing her lips, and said, “Everything sounds fine in there.”

In response, I cocked my head and exhaled.

“So, I spent some time reviewing your medical record with Dr. Zimmer,” she continued.  “Seems you had some residual damage from radiation treatments a couple of years ago.  As a result, it appears that your swallow is quite weak and your epiglottis only partially covers your windpipe when you do.  Is that accurate?”

“Pretty much,” I said.  “I went through six months of speech therapy after treatments.  From their swallow-study results afterwards, I was told a small portion of what I ate or drank would always enter my lungs.  I didn’t want to continue having that damn G-tube for the rest of my life, so they finally agreed to let me try oral intake again.”  I paused.  “They weren’t thrilled with the choice, but I’ve done that for almost three years, and so far, no real problems.”

Eujin nodded slowly as a slight frown etched itself between her eyebrows.  I found her steady gaze both beguiling and unnerving.

She said, “But with the pain right now, you’re unable to really swallow much or cough to clear your lungs, right?”

“More or less…I mean, it hurts quite a bit when I try.”

Eujin continued her slow nod and gaze until she said, “Here’s the problem.  You’re not getting adequate nutrition or hydration by mouth right now, which is not surprising given the circumstances.  However, continuing like that can exacerbate your recovery and even threaten it.  So, Dr. Zimmer and I have determined that a temporary feeding tube is needed at this time.”

A dark cloud passed inside me at the notion of having another type of feeding tube, even if temporary, and I felt my shoulders slump.

She said, “Ideally, it would only be until your chest drain can be removed after which patients usually feel substantial relief from discomfort and you can resume trying to eat and drink by mouth.”

I heard myself mutter, “What’s involved?”

“Well, one of the nurses trained in the procedure will come in and insert the tube down through your nose into your stomach.  Its anchored to your nostrils by something we call a saddle.  I won’t pretend it’s pleasant, but it only takes about twenty seconds to place, and you can breath normally afterwards.”  She paused.  “I had one myself for almost a week when I dislocated my jaw.  Wasn’t a Disneyland thrill ride, but I managed.”

“How’d you dislocate your jaw?”

“Volleyball injury back in high school.”  She clasped her hands together at her waist.  “I laid out for a dig and cracked my chin on the floor.”

“Ouch.”  I flinched, then said, “I used to play and I’ve been a high school volleyball coach for years.  Never saw a player do that.”

Her smile grew.  “That’s just what my coach said at the time.”  She patted my leg and said, “Are we okay then to proceed with the feeding tube?”   

“I suppose so.”  I tried to keep my next shrug from being sheepish.  “If you’re sure that’s what’s needed.”

The corners of her lips rose, and she gave me a second pat.  “Only until after we can take out that chest tube.  I promise.”

I managed a couple short nods.

“All right, then.”  She clapped her hands together once.  “Good.”

As she turned to leave, I said, “Eujin…that’s an unusual name, lovely.”

She stopped, regarded me some more, then said, “It’s Korean…from my mother’s side.  My father was Swedish.”

“No kidding.  That’s kind of unique.”

She gave a small shrug of her own.  “If so, it’s about the only unique thing about me.”

“I doubt that.”

She’d already turned and was walking briskly out of the room, so I didn’t see her reaction.

~

Eujin had been correct: the feeding tube placement was briefly unpleasant, but a continuous feed was started right away afterwards and meds I’d normally struggle to take by mouth could now be administered through it.  I remained fatigued, and the chest tube made any position lying in the bed very uncomfortable, so between short stretches when I struggled to read a little or flip through TV channels, I mostly slept in starts and stops.  A couple of times a day, I did manage to sit in a chair for a while, as well as shuffle up and down the hallway with the physical therapist’s assistance in grudgingly increasing segments.

During those periods of wakefulness, I found myself missing Rex.  When I texted the neighbor girl about him, she replied that he was fine.  I smiled, scrolling through photos of him on my phone, but when I saw myself in one with him, I cringed; that younger, healthier image wasn’t the worn version I saw staring back at me in the mirror on my trips to the bathroom.  Seeing Rex in the photos was enough to allay those concerns; he was such a good dog: loyal, companionable, sweet-natured, and low maintenance.  Like me, he was getting older, too, but I chased that thought away when it invaded my mind.  Lying prone in that hospital room, I could almost feel him slumbering against my thigh, a singular comfort, especially given my otherwise solitary existence.

I slept again through Eujin’s subsequent visit the day after the feeding tube placement, but was awake and in the chair when she came in the following morning and said, “Hello, there.”

“Hey,” I replied and watched her repeat the same movements with hand sanitizer and stethoscope inspections.  Bending over me, she gave off the slight scent of lilacs.

“Good,” she said as she pivoted quickly to the computer stand beside my chair.  “Good, good, good.”

Her fingertips clattered over the keyboard as her eyes darted across the screen, then she turned my way again.  “Well, your numbers are looking better, and you’ve gained a bit of weight, but I’m afraid that chest tube is still producing a volume inconsistent with removal.”  Her face took on another small smile.  “How’s your pain level today?” 

I flattened one hand and tilted it back and forth.

“That’s the way I described mine to the trainer when I laid out for that dig.”

“Then it was tolerable.”

She snorted a soft chuckle before saying, “Hardly.”

“You still play?”

“I do, actually.”  She tugged on the ends of her stethoscope again.  “Just rec league these days.  But back then, it did pay for my undergraduate degree.”

My eyebrows made another rise.  “You must have been a heck of a player.”

She shrugged.  “I was all right.”  She glanced down at the cell phone screensaver on my lap that displayed a photo of me kneeling next to Rex and asked, “That your dog?”

I followed her eyes, nodded while smiling fondly at it, and said, “Rex.”

“Chocolate lab,” she said.  “I have a golden one…Sandy.  Aren’t their temperaments the best?”

“They are.”  I nodded some more, and this time she joined me, our eyes holding.

“Well, Mr. Norris,” she finally said.  “Too bad you weren’t younger and we’d come upon one another out of this hospital.  We have some things in common and might have become friends.”

Her smile had turned playful, but I still felt a flush crawl up into my neck.  I hoped the patch over the central line there covered most of it.

Eujin lifted the chest tube collection bag from the bedrail, studied its contents for a moment, and replaced it.  She looked back to me and said, “Not quite there yet, but the volume and color are improving.  No promises, but maybe we can see about removing that thing tomorrow.”

“Great.”

“Then you could try eating and drinking a bit by mouth again, and if that goes okay, removing the feeding tube would be next.”

“Bless you.”

She huffed a second chuckle and gave my knee another pat.  “You take care, Coach Norris.  Keep doing your therapy and rest up so we can get you out of this joint.”

I watched her stride out of the room, then looked out my fourth floor window over a staff-only parking lot adjoining one for visitors and the treetops beyond.  But I hardly registered any of those things.

To myself or no one, I whispered, “Friends.”

~

I was amazed at how quickly my nurse removed the chest tube the next morning.  As Eujin had predicted, the relief was immediate, and I could breathe, swallow, and cough again reasonably well.  The feeding tube remained for precautionary measures, but I was able to eat some applesauce and drink half a carton of milk at lunch.  I also completed several laps walking around the unit without assistance.

I was sitting in my chair about three that afternoon when Eujin made her same punctuated entry and regarded me with a pleased expression.  “You’re doing better, Mr. Norris.”

“Feeling better.” 

She went through her same examination with the stethoscope, checked my incision site as well as the one where my chest tube had been, and said, “Sounds and looks improved.  And I understand you ate some lunch.”

I nodded, then watched her pivot to the computer stand again and go through another ritual of clattering keys.  She wore her same small smile as she did and said, “So, I googled you, Coach Norris, and it turns out you were quite the college volleyball player yourself.  All-Conference three years.”

“Small time,” I told her, trying to hide my surprise.  “Division III.”

“And you’ve also been elected to the High School Coaching Hall of Fame.”

“Regional,” I clarified.  “And the honor was more about longevity than accomplishment.”

“Still,” she said.  Her fingertips paused and she looked at me with twinkling eyes.  “Pretty impressive.”

I shrugged, but Eujin’s smile remained.  The sound of muffled voices and a passing cart became audible from the hallway until she clasped her hands at her waist again and said, “Well, if you eat a little more at dinner, I’ll put in orders to have your night nurse remove that feeding tube.”

I touched its saddle and felt my eyes widen.

“And then,” Eujin continued.  “If you can eat and drink a reasonable amount by mouth for breakfast and lunch, I think I can also safely order your discharge for late tomorrow afternoon.”

I closed my hands together in a prayer-like gesture and said, “That would be wonderful.” 

“All right, then the next question becomes whether to discharge you home or to a cardiac rehab facility.  You can’t manage on your own at home for at least another week, so do you have someone there who can assist you until then.”

“My sister, I think.”  I hesitated.  “I’ll call her.” 

“Well, confirm that with your nurse, then she’ll message me, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

I gave a short nod.  I didn’t think she could appear more beautiful, but her genuine compassion for me at that moment somehow added a glow to it.  She gave my knee one of her pats, and we exchanged what seemed like lingering smiles before she walked to the door.  She turned there and said, “You ever bring Rex to the dog park by the municipal pool?”

“Never have.”  I shook my head.

“You should.  I take Sandy whenever I can.  It’s her favorite place.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Maybe we’ll see one another there.”

I lifted my shoulders into a small shrug and managed to say, “You never know.”

Eujin’s mouth closed into a faintly-coy, mirthful line before she said, “Take care, Coach Norris.  Be well.”

~

I waited until I was sure I could consume a larger portion of dinner before phoning my sister, Gwen, who lived halfway across the country, to explain things to her.  She called me an idiot for not reaching out sooner, said she’d take the first flight out in the morning, rent a car, and pick me up. 

By then, darkness had fallen.  I sat gazing out the window at the domes of parking lot lights and a stygian sky with a rising gibbous moon.  I was again only vaguely aware of any of that because my thoughts had begun tumbling over themselves.  About the years gone by, opportunities gained and lost.  About how quickly those years had passed.  About whatever time I had left and things that would all-too-soon become irretrievable.

~

I was dressed, packed, and waiting in my chair at the window with discharge paperwork at five the next afternoon.  I looked down over the parking lot diffused in the pale hue of early gloaming.  Almost directly below my window, a doctor, still in scrubs and surgical cap with a daypack slung over one shoulder, leaned against the trunk of his car swiping on his cell phone.  I sucked in a breath when I saw Eujin come up beside him and startle him with a kiss on his cheek. 

He recovered, wrapped his arms around her, and they embraced for several long moments. She’d changed into jeans, a fleece, and sneakers, and wore an identical daypack.  Her eyes closed, and her face filled with tender ardor.  Some loose part fell in me watching them, replaced with a different kind of flush than the one after she said we might have become friends.  This one held several octaves.  First, unsettling alarm, then abject foolishness.  A sort of humbling acknowledgement came next, followed finally by something like silent felicitations.

After they disengaged, he opened the trunk and dropped his surgical cap inside, then they tossed in their daypacks on either side of a tennis ball launcher for dogs; I had a similar one for Rex that he loved.  The man shut the trunk, they got into the front, backed out, and headed towards the exit.  Gwen emerged then from between parked vehicles into their empty space clasping her rental car’s keys, the sky above her ink-washed.  Her eyes scaled the hospital building, found mine, and her face lit as she waved.  I’m not sure my face did the same, but I raised my hand in greeting, enveloped suddenly by a warm wave of gratefulness and hope that nearly brought me to tears.

END

Did you enjoy this? Share your comments here.

William Cass has had over 400 short stories accepted for publication in a variety of literary magazines such as december, Briar Cliff Review, and Zone 3. Winner of writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal, he’s also been nominated once for Best of the Net, twice for Best Small Fictions, and six times for the Pushcart Prize. His three short story collections were all published by Wising Up Press. He lives in San Diego, California.