Comet's Tale (16 page)

THE DOCTORS IN
Omaha, with whom I had worked for years, advised me on how to prepare for the upcoming surgery. One concern was that I would be banking my own blood, which, thanks to my diet, was pretty much like liquid bacon. I never had gotten healthier in my eating habits. I would need medication to tame the cholesterol levels, a good diet, and other drugs to get the nerve inflammation down. I also was instructed to “do whatever you can, no matter how little, to help get your body in better condition before the surgery.”

At those words, the triathlete in me perked back to life. Swimming, cycling, running—yes! I could do some version of that. On the return flight to Phoenix, I started to outline my planned regimen to Freddie. “Each morning I'll swim for an hour, then hike with Comet. And I have my old weights and lifting equipment stored in the garage.”

“Steve, please get those ideas out of your head. Just getting healthy enough to tread water for ten minutes would be a huge improvement. You don't need a marine boot camp.”

But I was on a mission. The day after we arrived back in Sedona I plunged into the pool and within two minutes had to be fished out by Freddie as I frantically struggled to keep my head above water. The next day I attempted to walk around the neighborhood without the help of Comet or canes. I lasted a half block and it felt like several thousand kilometers. The following morning I was glued to the mattress like roadkill.

“
Imbécile
,” I thought I heard Freddie mumble, and then, “What good is exercise if it causes so much pain that you can't get out of bed for the next two days?” Her voice was a monotone but her eyes burned with frustration.

Compared to the last two days, a weeklong binge on questionable muscatel would have been a vacation. “Maybe I should take it a little easier?”

“You think?” I felt Sandoz tense at Freddie's tone. Comet had already retreated to the adjacent room. Freddie continued, “I have to leave for work. I was going to have the pool drained, but if you think that more than two of your brain cells are now working, we can tell the pool guy we don't need him—yet.”

As the weeks unfolded, we found ourselves laughing at the very thought of draining the swimming pool. The summer was shaping up to be one of the hottest on record. Despite the increasing heat, Comet never lost her enthusiasm for accompanying me on our walks, which slowly became longer and more frequent. It was during one of our early afternoon strolls that Comet once again demonstrated her extraordinary courage and devotion, not to mention a very strong stomach.

I had finally conquered the short hill leading from our house to an elevated series of lots that offered a spectacular view of the nearby rock monuments. Through a thick corridor of juniper, manzanita shrubs, and prickly pear cactus, a narrow dirt trail wound to the top of the hill. Over its crest, a gravel road led back to the neighborhood. The total walk was less than three-quarters of a mile, but the changes in elevation and the uneven dirt trail were as much of a challenge as I needed. Today, the oppressive heat added to the toll.

“Let's take a rest, Comet,” I wheezed at the top of the hill. I found a seat on a boulder while Comet investigated some nearby javelina droppings that were tinted the same bright purple as the prickly pear fruit. When I finally caught my breath, I urged Comet forward. “Okay, girl, time to go cool off at home.” The pathway tapered to single file. I was tired, my legs shaking from assuming the main duty of balancing on my burning feet. The paved roadway was less than a football field ahead, and I was determined to make it there without another rest. Comet was walking directly in front of me so that I could use her back for balance, when suddenly she stopped in the middle of the path.

“Come on, Comet. Let's go. I'm tired.” She wouldn't budge, instead tilting her head and lifting her nose at something I was unable to detect. “Let's go
,
girl. You can bark at the javelina tomorrow.” Comet ignored me. Irritated and hot, I walked alongside her, wedging my body through the thick shrubbery. She refused to make room for me to get past. Instead, she looked up at me and whined. After being with this dog 24/7 for years by now, I knew her warning when I heard it, but it was too late. Squeezed onto the loose dirt and rocks at the edge of the trail, I lost my balance and fell backward into the bushes.

I wasn't really worried because I knew the thick shrubbery would cushion my fall. Sure enough, when I hit the ground it felt like I had been caught by a sponge—a loose, lumpy, sodden sponge that exploded into a repulsive, stinking cloud. I had landed in a foot-deep pile of rotting corpses, hundreds of rats and deer mice that someone had trapped and dumped along the trail.

I've been around a lot of wild animals and domestic livestock that have been gutted and cleaned for food, but I have never experienced such an appalling stench—putrefied rodents sautéed in the desert sun and left to rot in a giant heap of oozing entrails. And I could not get up. “Ayeeeeeeee! Ayeeeeeee!” I frantically thrashed, trying to push myself off of the decaying pile of rat, flinging guts and blood everywhere.

Comet's instincts had warned her of the danger. Those same senses were now shouting at her to flee, to get as far away from this mess as possible—there was disease here and she knew it. Not even the javelinas had disturbed this pile of crap. But instead of running, Comet slowly picked her way toward me through the gore—carefully, daintily, like a bride-to-be trying to protect an expensive pedicure. Her grimaced snarl, squinted eyes, and upturned nostrils were so humanly revolted that I stopped panicking and started to laugh.

Comet has never liked people laughing at her expense. I knew her feelings were hurt and she wanted to run away just to teach me a lesson. Yet she leaned down so I could grab her collar and then stepped backward, hauling me upright to my knees and letting me lean on her until I could stand. Comet's rear muscles popped as she pulled me from the sewage and onto the path.

I often think about what would have happened if Comet had fled or refused to enter the putrid pit. It was bad enough that I was in that stench as long as I was. Within hours of returning home, I started to have trouble getting enough air into my lungs. Soon after, my temperature began to climb and I got a horrible headache. By nightfall I couldn't stand without black dots from lack of oxygen dancing through my eyes. When my temperature hit 103 degrees, we went to the ER. They ruled out the flu and pneumonia and sent me home, in Freddie's care.

A week later I finally started to recover from what was likely a case of hantavirus, a pulmonary hemorrhagic virus humans contract from inhaling rodent urine and droppings. It can rapidly progress to life-threatening breathing problems. Without Comet I would have been stranded, breathing in that diseased stench for hours.

There is no effective treatment for hantavirus, but if you live through it, neither are there long-term side effects. Since I was banking blood for the upcoming procedure, this was good news. Freddie wasted no time in making the most of a teachable moment.

“This is what happens when you push yourself too hard. Now will you calm down?”

For once I listened. Besides, after all the excitement, Comet and I had decided that the perfect way to pass our time was sitting peacefully by the pool, with an occasional perambulation around the neighborhood by way of sidewalks. If my blood and body weren't strong enough to handle the operation by now, there wasn't much I could do about it. I just prayed that someday I would forget the odor of rotting rat carcasses. So far, I haven't.

In the days that followed, I kept waiting for Comet to regard me with the skepticism I deserved for ignoring her warning on the trail. What I got instead was her usual gaze of adoration and love. Apparently, when she had first chosen to come home with me from Flagstaff, she had fully expected that I would introduce her to a whole new world of weird.

True to form, when I told Comet that we had to go down to Scottsdale, into the Valley of the Sun—the very, very, very hot sun—she jumped into the back of the SUV as if she expected a visit to Santa's Workshop. That summer, our second without the respite of the lake house, was already an unrelenting scorcher. Just the thought of going to a lower, hotter altitude drained whatever reserves of good cheer Freddie and I had left, but Scottsdale was where I banked my blood for the surgery, so we had to drive there once a week.

As the SUV crept through an all-day traffic jam on the interstate that circled Scottsdale, we passed dozens of megamalls and shopping strips splayed alongside the highway. I thought about neutron bombs, how they make human beings pop like overinflated balloons but pass through buildings and cars without causing damage. In Scottsdale I saw buildings without one empty parking space and malls with armies of off-road vehicles, but no people. There was no one on the sidewalks, at the bus stops, or in front of the restaurants. At eleven o'clock in the morning it was 115 degrees.

When I opened the door to pull myself from the SUV, moisture evaporated from every cell in my body. The thick cushions that I wore inside my boots were hot after two steps on the asphalt, which shimmered with water mirages only a few meters from where we stood. Comet exited the truck as cool as a Kentucky Derby mint leaf, landing at my side without a flinch although blisters had to be forming on the bottom of her paws. “Freddie, please take Comet inside right away. You can come back and get me.”

But despite Freddie's tugs on her leash, Comet didn't move. I took the leash from Freddie and slowly made my way toward the building's front door. Comet's paws had to be searing, yet step by step, she stayed by my side. There was a job to do, and Comet didn't have time for whining. I tried to follow her example, all the way to Denver.

15

AUGUST 2005—DENVER

On the third of August, Freddie, Comet, and I drove west for the surgery. My mom, her husband of two years, Manny, and my sister, Debbie, were going to meet us in Denver and stay for a few days after the surgery. The girls had wanted to come as well, but I talked them out of it. Instead, they were planning on a visit a month later, a point in my recovery when I thought I'd be bored to death and need the company.

“I hope you packed enough,” Freddie said as we pulled out of the driveway. “It's hard not knowing how long you'll be there. And I don't know what I'm going to do; my boss wants me back in Sedona in a week, and if things don't go well, a week isn't . . .” Her voice caught, but before I could interrupt she held up her right hand, silencing me. When she spoke again, it was so softly that I thought she was talking to herself. “Kai said you would be staying no less than a month to six weeks, with the possibility of longer. Some of that time will probably be in a rehab facility, but still, that's pretty indefinite.”

One of Freddie's sources of amusement over the summer had been my initial assumption that the operation would be only slightly more complex than a wisdom tooth extraction. The doctor's office had quickly set me straight on that. Still, I had my own ideas about rehab. The advantage I had over most patients was that I had been learning the tricks of managing a bad back my entire life. It was already second nature to get in and out of chairs properly, roll in and out of bed, bend at the knees, and sit and stand correctly. My muscles were weak, but they had worked so much overtime in years past that I was confident in their ability to pick up right where they had left off. Plus I had a secret weapon to help me—Comet. As for the pain, it couldn't get any worse.

“Let's plan on ten days for the hospital stay,” I told Freddie. “After that, it's just a matter of where I'll be.” I knew ten days sounded too brief, so I changed the subject. “I'll need to concentrate on recovery, so Comet should go home with you. Besides, Sandoz will miss her after a week with the neighbors.” Freddie glanced over at me with slightly narrowed eyes.

In the hotel room Freddie confirmed our presurgery appointments for the next day. I was lying on my back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, when I noticed that the only sound in the room after she hung up was the air-conditioner fan. I turned my head and saw her looking at me. “What?” I asked.

“I'm just trying to decide what you're up to. You're being way too quiet.”

“Freddie, I'm just mentally gearing up for a good result. After all we've been through, it's taking a bit of an effort to ratchet up my inner optimist.”

“Uh-huh.” Freddie regarded me skeptically. She was familiar with my belief that mentally preparing for a good result was as important as the physical preparation, a principle echoed by Dr. Frey. But prior to the fall at the YMCA, I had been blessed with speedy recoveries all my life.
If she gets even the slightest whiff that I want to be home within two weeks . . .

The night before the surgery I didn't sleep. The closed eyes of a greyhound no longer fooled me; Comet was awake every moment as well. When I decided to shower at four in the morning, closing the bathroom door so that Freddie could slumber a little longer, Comet had irritatingly shoved the door open so she could keep an eye on Freddie from her position on the bath towel by the tub. Later Freddie filled her bowl with food, but Comet ignored it. When Freddie took her outside, Comet urinated on a bush next to the lobby door and immediately pulled Freddie back to our room.

Over the past year, Comet had displayed an uncanny ability to decipher speech and gestures that weren't even directed her way. She always knew when something unusual was going on with my health, and in those instances she refused to leave my side except for the briefest of breaks. Freddie had resorted to spelling words like
have to leave
or
go
or even
doctor,
to no avail. On this morning Comet had no patience for dallying on a walk. She wanted to know where I was and where we were going,
we
being the operative word.

At 5:30 a.m. we arrived at the hospital, and Comet conducted a nook-and-cranny inspection of all exits before allowing us to proceed to the admissions desk. She repeated the drill when we moved to the surgery waiting room, where my mom, Manny, and Debbie were already gathered.

“Hey!”

“Here we are!”

Stress was sparking like electricity among the anxious clan. Freddie sat down stiffly in a chair next to the doors to the surgical wing, clutching her luggage-size purse as if it were a life raft. My mom's face was etched with fatigue, her eyes red and swollen. I watched her nervously strike up a conversation with a nurse who was writing down the names of waiting family members. I had tried to leave Debbie out of the loop when it came to the details of my decline, but Mom kept updating her and she insisted on being here for the surgery. Watching my sister jiggle her leg while chattering to Manny, I realized how much she reminded me of Mom when she was younger.

I sat on the edge of a wing chair on the other side of the room. Because of the presurgery instructions not to eat or drink anything after midnight, it was better that I not linger next to the snack table with its warm donuts and freshly brewed coffee. But as always over the past five years, I wasn't alone. Comet sat quietly at my feet. As I had done hundreds of times before, I lost myself for a moment admiring her sculptural form, the rabbit-soft fur, the closed eyes and perked ears. It was impossible for me to think of any scenario that would have brought me to this hospital on this day if it were not for Comet and my wife. I wiped my eyes and scratched Comet's ears. “Enough of this. I'll have plenty of time to ruminate while I'm glued to a hospital bed.” Comet helped me from the chair. The pastries were gone and I wanted to sit by Freddie.

“A penny for your thoughts. That's about all that'll be left by the time this spectacle is over.”

Freddie ignored the joke. “The nurse will be here for you pretty soon. I've got Lindsey's phone number on speed dial so that you can call her right before you leave. It's her birthday and you said you wanted to call her today. Kylie gave me a phone number to call, too. And Jackie. Your mom looks tired and—” I put my arms around her, trying to stem the nervous prattle, and tears exploded down her face. I was already crying. We hung on to each other for several minutes before Freddie took a deep breath and said, “This kind of mood isn't going to help that old magical Wolfie mental state.” She tried to smile, but her mouth just wouldn't turn upward.

At six thirty the door from the surgical wing to the waiting area opened. Freddie grabbed my arm, spinning me into a hug in front of the door.
“Je t'aime.”
She was sobbing.

I was just an Iowa farm boy who had always hankered for somebody to whisper gooey French words into my ear. “Me, too.”

I waved good-bye to everybody and left. Then, just for the hell of it, I reopened the door, knowing that Comet was still standing on the other side. “Comet, take care of the women until I get back.” Freddie told me later that she could hear me laughing even after the door closed.

I LEFT COMET
to protect the family, but the greyhound had other ideas. She had planted herself on the floor directly in front of the double doors through which I had vanished, and now she was stretched to her full length, eyes shut, still as a stone. As soon as I was gone Freddie pulled Comet's leash from her purse. She badly needed to get out of there, decompress, and compose herself for what was going to be a very long day.

“Come on, Comet. Let's go for a walk.”

Normally the word
walk
was jet fuel for a supersonic dash to the leash. This time Comet didn't even open her eyes. Freddie relented and waited a few more minutes. Several nurses and doctors pushed through the doors, only to shuffle sideways in order to avoid the cinnamon-striped dog stretched at their feet. Freddie repeatedly apologized to the surprised staff, who always responded, “That's okay, it's no problem.” Then, “What kind of dog is that? She's beautiful.” Comet refused to budge; flattery meant nothing to her today. She wouldn't even raise her head.

After a few of these interchanges, Freddie kneeled on the floor beside Comet and coaxed, “Come on, girl. We'll go outside for a walk and see if the bunnies are up yet.” No response. “Comet, I know you have to finish with your potty business. Let's go.” Still no movement or the slightest acknowledgment that Freddie was in the room. “We can get you a treat.” Nothing. “Comet. I don't have time for this. Come on!”

Comet's head shot up and she pinned Freddie with a glare that warned,
Back off.
“She scared me,” Freddie later confessed. “I decided to just leave her alone for a while.”

In spite of the harried comings and goings of our family, other folks waiting in the lounge, and the hospital staff, Comet refused to leave the spot she had staked out. She had to be hungry, but she rejected the food and treats Freddie offered. She had to be uncomfortable because of her too-brief walk at 5:00 a.m., but she never uttered the short whine that signaled she needed a break. She had to be frustrated with the continual flow of traffic through the nearby door and the people who were forced to step directly over her, but she never moved a muscle. Comet didn't even flinch when someone would stumble into her as they pushed through the door.

Every hour a member of the surgical team would come out and tell the family how my operation was progressing. They eventually paid Comet no heed, stepping over her as if she were a familiar street curb. The updates were sometimes technical, but usually they were general assurances that the surgery was proceeding successfully and I was still breathing. Then, at approximately thirty minutes after noon, a nurse negotiated her way past Comet to Freddie with good news. “Dr. Frey has finished with the work from the front. Once that incision is sutured, he'll make his incision from the back and begin the work with the rods and cages. Mr. Wolf has tolerated the surgery very well and his vital signs are good.” I had been in the operating room for six hours.

“How much longer?” asked my mom.

“We just don't know. We'll keep you updated.” She turned to go but stopped before stepping over Comet. “Has this dog even moved?”

The afternoon stretched into a routine of medical updates and small skirmishes pitting Comet's will against Freddie's fire. “Comet, you have to get up. I mean it! You can't go this long without relieving yourself!”

Comet remained totally still, eyes closed in annoyance, letting Freddie know that her threats were futile. When Freddie forced the collar past her snout and over her head, Comet shrugged out of it and shot Freddie another glare:
Leave me alone!

“Fine, then! Just lie there and suffer!” Tense as Freddie was, she couldn't help but laugh as Comet turned her head and slowly, deliberately, lowered it to the floor.

Sometime around seven o'clock that night, twelve hours after I first entered surgery, Dr. Frey stepped over Comet and into the waiting room. Freddie hurried to meet him. As she skidded to a stop in front of the doctor, his face split into a wide smile. Before anyone could speak, Comet popped up from the floor and pushed herself between Freddie and the doctor, ears perked and laser eyes focused on Frey. Dr. Frey chuckled at the interference, then turned his attention to Freddie. “It was a challenge, but everything appears to have gone well. We had some unexpected obstacles, but nothing serious, just time-consuming. The nurses are cleaning your husband up and he should be in the recovery room soon. He'll be there awhile. It was a long surgery.”

Freddie wiped her cheeks. “Well, what do you think?”

“He appears to have tolerated the surgery very well. Several of his major nerves, including both sciatic nerves, were seriously entrapped, but they've been freed up now. If nothing else, his pain should be reduced.” Dr. Frey returned Freddie's hug before heading back into the surgical area. Over his shoulder he called, “The staff told me that Comet parked herself in front of this door and refused to move the whole time. Wow!”

The room had been stretched to its bursting point all day by the adrenaline and stress. Once the door closed, the tribe that had gathered around Freddie during the doctor's report looked at one another for a happy, stunned moment and let out a collective sigh. The walls and furnishings regained their original shapes, more real and less threatening. Everybody was exhausted, so the subdued celebration that followed lasted only ten minutes. It was unanimously agreed that a nice meal was in order since I wouldn't be conscious for a few more hours.

As the family collected their belongings in the now-deserted waiting room, Freddie rummaged through her purse for Comet's leash. She turned to the spot in front of the doors to the surgery wing. “Com . . . where's Comet?” Between the tears, hugs, and congratulations that had just transpired, no one had noticed that Comet was gone.

“She didn't leave with the doctor did she?” asked my mom. The rest of the family stood glued to the floor, looking around as if they expected Comet to pop out from behind one of the small chairs.

Freddie hustled to the door leading to the main hospital corridor, calling, “Comet! Here, girl. Come here, Comet.” Seeing no sign of her, Freddie sprinted down the hall and around the corner leading to the elevators. Just like the first time in Sedona, when I had questioned Comet's ability to find her way home, the greyhound was standing in sharp profile in front of the elevator doors, her head tilted mockingly, as if to ask Freddie, “What took you so long?”

Freddie later told me that Dr. Frey's appearance had been like a hypnotist snapping his fingers. When the doctor had smiled with his good news, Comet instantly switched out of her intense, trancelike vigil and transformed back into the unflappable, independent spirit we recognized. She didn't even object when Freddie left her in the hotel room while the family went to dinner. Apparently Comet had concluded that all was well.