my everything.
I nod and my eyes overflow with moisture, but Lily does not attempt to kiss my tears and the part of my brain that knows I can’t waste even another second unfreezes me and I’m out
the door.
Jeffrey tears into the parking lot of the surgical center, cutting off several cars at my urging. Inside they are expecting us, the last doctor having called ahead on our behalf. A surgical
technician pries Lily out of my arms and they rush her behind a swinging door. Before I can protest, she is gone. No one offers us paperwork. No one tells us to sit. No one tells me not to kill my
dog. Lacking anything else to do, we stand in the middle of a large, sterile room, surrounded by anxiety and tragedy, with nothing to look at but our feet. There’s free coffee, but it’s
probably awful, and I know that I can’t drink black swill when the rest of the world is sipping golden New Year’s champagne.
After a short but interminable wait we’re ushered into a private examining room. Lily is not there. There are two seats, so we sit. We fidget until a veterinarian enters. She has blond
hair and a kindly face and looks too laid-back to be a surgeon, but has such an authoritative air of command that I wonder if she served in the military. Based on Lily’s neurological signs,
she is most suspicious of a ruptured intervertebral disc and wants to perform a myelogram to determine the site of the herniation.
I don’t know what a myelogram is, and I know I don’t have time to educate myself beyond the context that it is some test to detect pathology of the spinal column.
“And then what?”
“And then, pending the results of the myelogram, Lily’s best chance of walking again is surgery.”
“Surgery.” I’m taking this in as fast as I can.
“The sooner the better.”
Apparently there is no time to think. “So, we’ll know if surgery is the way to go after the myelogram?”
“In all honesty, I would make that decision now. She’ll already be under anesthesia for the myelogram, and if it does indeed reveal a ruptured disc, it’s best to perform the
surgery right then and there.”
“So you need a decision now.”
The doctor looks at her watch. “Yes.”
Decisions. Lately they’re not my strong suit. I think of the ways recently in which I’ve felt paralyzed myself. Should I quit my job to freelance full-time as a writer? Should I talk
to Jeffrey about the doubts I have in our relationship? About the suspicious text message he received? Could Lily and I start over again on our own?
“And how much does spinal surgery cost for a dog that is mostly spine?” The doctor crouches in front of me and offers a half-smile. She doesn’t need to tell me things I already
know: that this is always a risk with the breed. That purebred dogs come with these health issues, as they’ve been genetically mutated for purpose or show.
“All together, everything—anesthesia, myelogram, surgery, recovery—we’re talking about six thousand dollars.”
Now it’s me who is left immobile. Six thousand dollars. I look at Jeffrey. I think of dwindling savings. Of having just paid off all my credit card debt. Of vacations that might not be
taken, retirement accounts that won’t get contributed to, of having to push my dreams of writing full-time back another year.
“It’s your call,” Jeffrey says. “I can’t make this decision. She’s your dog.”
Your dog.
I want to punch him. I want to punch everyone, except maybe the doctor who can save her.
“Why don’t I leave you to talk it over for a moment?” The doctor stands, and before I know it I’ve grabbed the sleeve of her lab coat.
“She has a ball. It’s red. Red ball. She loves it. She’ll play with it for hours—tossing it, chasing it, hiding it, finding it. She’ll play until she’s out of
breath, and even then she’ll take it to her bed and fall asleep on top of it. She is alive when she’s playing with that ball. If she . . .”
I
I nod and my eyes overflow with moisture, but Lily does not attempt to kiss my tears and the part of my brain that knows I can’t waste even another second unfreezes me and I’m out
the door.
Jeffrey tears into the parking lot of the surgical center, cutting off several cars at my urging. Inside they are expecting us, the last doctor having called ahead on our behalf. A surgical
technician pries Lily out of my arms and they rush her behind a swinging door. Before I can protest, she is gone. No one offers us paperwork. No one tells us to sit. No one tells me not to kill my
dog. Lacking anything else to do, we stand in the middle of a large, sterile room, surrounded by anxiety and tragedy, with nothing to look at but our feet. There’s free coffee, but it’s
probably awful, and I know that I can’t drink black swill when the rest of the world is sipping golden New Year’s champagne.
After a short but interminable wait we’re ushered into a private examining room. Lily is not there. There are two seats, so we sit. We fidget until a veterinarian enters. She has blond
hair and a kindly face and looks too laid-back to be a surgeon, but has such an authoritative air of command that I wonder if she served in the military. Based on Lily’s neurological signs,
she is most suspicious of a ruptured intervertebral disc and wants to perform a myelogram to determine the site of the herniation.
I don’t know what a myelogram is, and I know I don’t have time to educate myself beyond the context that it is some test to detect pathology of the spinal column.
“And then what?”
“And then, pending the results of the myelogram, Lily’s best chance of walking again is surgery.”
“Surgery.” I’m taking this in as fast as I can.
“The sooner the better.”
Apparently there is no time to think. “So, we’ll know if surgery is the way to go after the myelogram?”
“In all honesty, I would make that decision now. She’ll already be under anesthesia for the myelogram, and if it does indeed reveal a ruptured disc, it’s best to perform the
surgery right then and there.”
“So you need a decision now.”
The doctor looks at her watch. “Yes.”
Decisions. Lately they’re not my strong suit. I think of the ways recently in which I’ve felt paralyzed myself. Should I quit my job to freelance full-time as a writer? Should I talk
to Jeffrey about the doubts I have in our relationship? About the suspicious text message he received? Could Lily and I start over again on our own?
“And how much does spinal surgery cost for a dog that is mostly spine?” The doctor crouches in front of me and offers a half-smile. She doesn’t need to tell me things I already
know: that this is always a risk with the breed. That purebred dogs come with these health issues, as they’ve been genetically mutated for purpose or show.
“All together, everything—anesthesia, myelogram, surgery, recovery—we’re talking about six thousand dollars.”
Now it’s me who is left immobile. Six thousand dollars. I look at Jeffrey. I think of dwindling savings. Of having just paid off all my credit card debt. Of vacations that might not be
taken, retirement accounts that won’t get contributed to, of having to push my dreams of writing full-time back another year.
“It’s your call,” Jeffrey says. “I can’t make this decision. She’s your dog.”
Your dog.
I want to punch him. I want to punch everyone, except maybe the doctor who can save her.
“Why don’t I leave you to talk it over for a moment?” The doctor stands, and before I know it I’ve grabbed the sleeve of her lab coat.
“She has a ball. It’s red. Red ball. She loves it. She’ll play with it for hours—tossing it, chasing it, hiding it, finding it. She’ll play until she’s out of
breath, and even then she’ll take it to her bed and fall asleep on top of it. She is alive when she’s playing with that ball. If she . . .”
I
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