Love Is the Best Medicine (23 page)

A couple of days later I bumped into Dr. Carroll and braced for the worst.

“How’s Kyoza?” I asked.

She stared at me as if I had ripped up a winning lottery ticket and tossed it in the trash.

“Didn’t you see her this morning? I swear that cat should be dead but she’s eating and drinking and keeping it down. I’m sending her home.”

As usual Dr. Carroll had vanished before I could ask what happened, instantly teleported to some other critical case in the hospital.

I was left hanging, incredulous as to how Kyoza could have possibly pulled through. Here, like Atlas the rabbit, was another example of an animal who had defied the odds. Was Kyoza simply the product of modern medical care or were other, more subtle forces at work? Inadvertently, and maybe even fortuitously, had I been carrying thoughts of Cleo around with me like a lucky talisman? Cleo was still on my mind, but I never consciously conjured her up around Kyoza, never chanted her name, never willed her memory into my mind as I worked on the cat’s diseased gallbladder. Surely the notion that somehow Cleo had helped was ridiculous. She could never have been more than a fleeting thought, a moment of reflection, if that. Perhaps a naive part of me believed that when the right case found me, I would know it for sure. At best, I managed to convince myself that I
might
have been thinking about Sandi and my promise to her. Kyoza deserved and received my best efforts in surgery, and clearly, based on the outcome, the best efforts of Dr. Carroll and the team in critical care. Undoubtedly this was a remarkable cat, but was this the kind of magic Sandi had been hoping for? This was a great story and one I imagined Sandi would greatly appreciate, but had I really fulfilled my promise to her? Had Cleo been along for the ride? I wasn’t convinced even though I wanted to be. Many months later I called up Kyoza’s mom, Ms. Dunne, to discover the secret to this cat’s miraculous recovery and the importance of the Hu card.

“In the days leading up to the surgery,” she said, “Kyoza was incredibly sick. We never knew whether she would live long enough to have the procedure, let alone pull through it. We talked to her all the time about what we should do.”

Virtually all pet owners talk to their pets but how many of them
expect guidance in return? In an attempt to stave off what might have been an uncomfortable weirdness to our conversation, I came clean about my interest in the Hu card in Kyoza’s cage.

Ms. Dunne laughed and was happy to talk about her spiritual beliefs in a refreshing, easygoing, non-proselytizing manner. Nothing she said sounded preachy or rote.

“It was simple, silent communication. Soul to soul. Trying to discover whether she wanted to fight or bow out gracefully. My partner and I would sit vigil at home and focus our minds on giving Kyoza our love.

“Our religion, Eckankar, believes our dreams offer many insights into our lives, that they hold the promise of divine guidance. When we sleep all our mental facilities, our emotional turmoil, can come to rest and if we choose, we can surrender to divine insight.

“That night, before the surgery, my wife had a dream. She described a farmer driving a tractor trailer carrying three discrete, conspicuous objects on the tractor’s flatbed. She was riding a bike, close by, and as the trailer went past her it was swept into the air, slammed down to the ground, and these three objects flew off. She watched in horror only to see the driver step out of the cab, dust himself off, smile at her, and walk away as though he was off to get a coffee, no big deal.”

The skeptic in me started to get restless.

“What were the objects?”

“She wasn’t sure. The only three things that came to mind were the three major clinical problems affecting Kyoza—anorexia, lethargy, and jaundice. I know what you’re thinking, the analogy of the trailer with a cat shaking off her symptoms seems like a stretch but this was her dream.”

I thought about it and had to agree. If I were going to force a dream that would convince me whether or not to proceed with a risky surgery, I think I could have done better than this. At least I could have been specific about the three objects.

“It always comes back to ‘everything happens for a reason.’ So we decided to go ahead with the surgery. Dr. Carroll made sure we understood that Kyoza might die on the table, but this was okay with us because it would be her
choice
to go and we would honor her choice.”

“But that was only the beginning of her troubles,” I said. “Kyoza was in critical care forever.”

“All the doctors and staff were wonderful. They were incredibly respectful of the Hu card.”

Time for a tactful approach.

“So what exactly does the card do?”

In the pause I could almost feel her smile.

“It is a word we say to convey peace, warmth, and comfort. We wanted Kyoza to be surrounded by the spirit in Hu and I am told that many of the technicians would speak the word whenever they worked with her. In fact, people started to refer to Kyoza as the Hu Kitty.”

I waited a beat, taking in what many people might perceive to be a bizarre approach to healing. But why shouldn’t we indulge people’s beliefs if their intent integrates with our medical approach to the problem? What harm can it possibly do? I imagine a few of the technicians might have viewed the Hu card with the kind of skepticism normally reserved for fortune cookies, the photo of Mr. Klemp as possessing all the curative power of a picture of Miley Cyrus. But according to my own informal investigation, the CCU staff shared a universal appreciation that the card was motivated by the same fundamental desire they all shared—the goal of making Kyoza well.

“By the way, what does
Kyoza
mean?” I said, attempting to bring the conversation back to more worldly matters.

“It’s Japanese, from
Gyoza
. It means ‘little dumpling.’ When we got her as a stray she only weighed a pound and a half and could fit in the palm of your hand like a little dumpling.”

Cute, I thought.

“And how is she doing now?”

“Fabulous,” said Ms. Dunne. “She has gained forty percent of her body weight. She’s better than before any of this even started. She loves going for walks in her harness. When I come home and can’t find her all I have to do is jiggle my keys and out she pops ready to go for a walk.”

When I hung up, I summoned the images of her skinny yellow cat in CCU and an almost deceased rabbit named Atlas chowing down on a carrot, like Bugs Bunny about to ask “What’s up, Doc?” and all I could think was that for such a scientific, objective, fact-based endeavor, some pretty miraculous things can happen in veterinary medicine. For the most part, when the impossible happens we have no credible explanation. Though we might hunt for the answers, for an explanation, in the end does it really matter? Kyoza and Atlas had said it all—be grateful, bear witness, and enjoy.

S
EATED
at their kitchen table, Eileen told Ben about her meeting with Dr. Able, pushing through the cold stats, holding it together until her husband knew as much about Helen’s cancer as she did. In the loud, contemplative silence that remained they stared into each other’s eyes, wondering who should go first, and in the end it was the little dog leaning into Eileen who, indirectly, instigated the dialogue. It was something about the way Helen pressed the left side of her rib cage into Eileen’s ankle, Eileen staring down and then sensing the tumor right there, creeping into the space between them like an unsolicited guest, lurid and obnoxious, laughing at their obvious discomfort.

“You know what sucks,” said Eileen, letting the floodgates open on the day’s sad news. “What really sucks is that every single morning this incredible little dog wakes up next to our bed and looks around and barks her head off because she cannot believe that compared to what she has been used to, she is still living in paradise.”

Ben leaned across the table, taking his wife’s hands in his.

“You remember what she was like when we found her.” Some of Eileen’s words were getting lost, stabbed into choppy gasps. “She’s never had a chance. She’s never had a family who loved her and took
care of her. And when she finally gets her first opportunity to live a decent life, a real dog’s life, this goddamn awful disease comes along, determined to sweep it out from under her feet.”

Helen remained deaf to the anguish playing out over her head but Didi was on it, barreling into Eileen with a massive head butt and a bucket of warm drool. The slapstick comedy of flying gobs of saliva spinning end over end as the big girl shook her floppy jowls in Eileen’s lap turned out to be a timely and a much-needed antidote.

Ben studied his wife, reading her compassion, her unwavering desire to do something positive for a smelly, foul-mouthed, chubby little dog, who despite these outward characteristics won their hearts with her cheerful appreciation of companionship.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, seeing her frown.

“I’m trying to imagine what Helen would want us to do. Who in their right mind wants their chest ripped open and all that that entails for an extra four months of living? And what kind of living are we looking at? We have no idea how well or had badly she might do. It’s even possible she might live that long if we do nothing at all.”

Ben cupped a hand around his chin signaling his turn to think.

“How would you feel if four months was all she got?”

This time Eileen leaned forward.

“You know what, and I hope this doesn’t sound selfish, but when the oncologist said four months, all I kept thinking about was the possibility of giving her one summer with us, one vacation where she and Didi could run around on the beach at Prince Edward Island. I know she’s never seen the ocean, I just know it. She’s never chased a ball across the sand or tried to catch a crab in a tide pool. She’d love it. Wouldn’t she? And Didi would love having her there too. I want to see Helen that happy. Just once. No matter what comes after that, at least she can have it once.”

Right then, more than anything else, Ben was struck by the purity of her intent. It was such a simple plan. Eileen wasn’t doing this for
herself or because she couldn’t bear to let go. She simply wanted Helen to enjoy a little canine nirvana in her lifetime. No need for some anthropomorphic, Hallmark Hall of Fame moment with Helen standing in the breaking surf, tail wagging, sun dropping off the end of the earth as she turns to Eileen and the cutesy voice-over says, “Thanks, Mom, for bringing me here.” This was all about the dog. Eileen wanted Helen to live for Helen.

Hearing this, few men could have sucked down a deep breath, winced, and shaken their heads as a prelude to “I don’t think so.” Then again, it wasn’t as though Ben could afford the surgery and the chemo and all the aftercare. The price tag on Helen’s dental workup alone had been bad enough and thus far the dog breath continued to thrive unchecked, overshadowed and entirely forgotten. By any standards Ben was an accomplished and successful painter but this kind of disposable income lay far beyond what he could make with his canvas and oils. Could he really justify the cost without the promise of reward? After all, Helen was a geriatric dog with a diagnosis of terminal cancer. If she had been younger, if the disease had even a fair prognosis, it would have made the decision so much easier.

Yet Ben never wavered. He had no idea how he would do it but he would do it, because at that moment, what was passing between them was precisely what his marriage to Eileen was all about. You could forget about the romantic getaways for two, the candlelit dinner at a fine-dining restaurant, or the contents of a small, velvety jewelry box. This intimate, unadorned moment, this connection, this was what mattered. This was the substance of their relationship, the inexpressible spark that lasts and reminds you how lucky you are to be sharing it.

Ben smiled. How could he not?

“You don’t have a selfish bone in your body,” he said. “I have no idea how much all of this is going to cost and it’s probably best that I don’t know. What I do know is that throughout our marriage you’ve never asked for anything from me. And here you are, asking for the
first time, and it’s not even about you. Any husband would have to be a complete idiot to say no. If you believe this needs to be done, then let’s do it.”

W
ITH
the decision to go ahead with Helen’s surgery came a sudden craving to have it done yesterday.

“I don’t want to do the CAT scan,” said Eileen into the phone. “I just want her to get the surgery as soon as possible.”

Too bad Eileen couldn’t appreciate the smile playing out on the other end of the line.

“Yeah,” said Dr. Able, “I get that a lot. Let me see if I can line up a surgeon. Sometimes, when they get busy it might take a while to schedule. I’ll do my best and give you a call back.”

Eileen hung up, stewed, lasted about a minute, and picked up the phone again, this time placing a call to Dr. Judy.

“I think it’s great what you’re doing,” said Dr. J. “Not many people would make that kind of an investment in an animal they hardly know.”