Say Good-bye (8 page)

Then Dr. Edwards shoos us out of the office, and we have to do some waiting, which is hard on Jane. But soon Dr. Edwards calls us back into her office to talk.

Jane looks as if she has a million questions. But she just clutches her shoulder bag as she waits for the doctor to speak.

“We don’t have all the tests back,” Dr. Edwards begins.

And somehow I already know the news isn’t good.

“But the biopsy shows that the cancer has spread from the original tumor in Yum-Yum’s mouth to the lymph nodes, just as Dr. Mac suspected.” Dr. Edwards’s face is serious, professional, but also very kind. “It’s spreading into the jaw and damaging the teeth.”

“Not good, huh?” Jane says, her voice barely a whisper. Her eyes beg to be contradicted.

“Not good,” Dr. Edwards agrees gently. “From my examination, he seems to be experiencing some pain already. But he’s a tough little dog,” she adds with a smile.

“I should have done something sooner,” Jane says. “I should have realized he was sick.”

Dr. Edwards shakes her head. “You saw Dr.
Mac as soon as you noticed something wrong. That was the most anyone could have done. This is a rapid disease, Jane—and a sneaky one—in both animals and people.”

Something in Dr. Edwards’s eyes tells me that maybe she’s lost a loved one to cancer.

“What about chemotherapy? Is it too late to try that?” Jane asks.

“No, we can still try that,” Dr. Edwards says. “We’re having a lot of success with chemotherapy for dogs. Most dogs handle the treatments well. But I’m sure Dr. Mac has explained to you that what we do here is not a cure. The best we can do is work our hardest to arrest the disease—to keep it from spreading. After a complete series of treatments, a good many of our animals go into remission—which means there are no outward signs of the disease. But even then, remission for most animals only lasts about ten to twelve months—sometimes less, sometimes more. Each type of cancer responds differently to chemotherapy, and unfortunately, we have less success with Yum-Yum’s type of tumor.”

Jane nods her head. “Tell me about the treatments,” she says simply.

Dr. Edwards hands some printed sheets across
the desk, but Jane doesn’t move to pick them up. She just listens to the doctor’s words.

“Many of the drugs we use to treat cancer in animals are the same drugs that are used on people. A normal course of treatment would be four to six rounds of chemotherapy, at three-week intervals. We also like to see the animal every week for four weeks, then a little less often after that.”

Jane stares out the window. When she turns back to the doctor, her eyes are watery, but her expression is calm. “Is it worth it, Dr. Edwards?”

Dr. Edwards sighs wistfully and shakes her head. “That’s a very difficult question to answer, Jane. I have two dogs myself.” She points to a photograph on her desk of a pair of beautiful golden retrievers. “Morgan and MacDougal. They’re very special to me. And working here, of course, I’ve thought about what I’d do myself. But it’s a very individual decision, Jane, one that no one can make for you.”

Dr. Edwards leans forward across her desk. “Every dog—just like every person—is unique, and we have to deal with each case in a different way. Chemotherapy will be a big investment on
your part—an investment of money, an investment of time, and an emotional investment, too. Many dogs do well under chemotherapy, and we’re able to extend their lives by many months. We can even cure some cancers. But if it becomes clear that the treatment is not working, that your animal is in pain or severe discomfort, We will inform you of that. Only you can decide what you want for Yum-Yum.”

She swivels in her chair and nods at me. “We hope, by the time this young woman is grown, to have this stuff under control—if not totally cured. But for now, Jane, this is the best we can offer.”

“What’s best for Yum-Yum,” Jane says. “That’s what I want.”

“It’s your decision. But I would urge you to try to come to a decision as soon as possible. Now—today—if you can. If you do decide to do the chemotherapy, we don’t want to waste any time. We should go ahead and start—this afternoon.”

“Can I have a few minutes?” Jane asks.

Dr. Edwards smiles. “Of course. I’m going to check on another patient. Then I’ll be right
back.” She gets up and leaves the office, closing the door behind her to give Jane privacy.

Jane holds Yum-Yum in her arms and gazes out the window.

I decide to give her some time alone, too. I move toward the door. “I think I’m going to go look for a soda machine,” I say softly. “Can I bring you anything?”

“No thanks, dear,” Jane says, without looking up.

I head out to the front desk and ask the nurse if there are any snack machines around. I follow her directions, digging change out of my pockets. I walk very, very slowly.

Jane has a lot to think about. I want to give her all the time in the world.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •

When I get back with my soda, Jane is sitting in the waiting room. Things have happened fast.

“Where’s Yum-Yum?” I ask.

Jane reaches out for my hand. “I decided to go ahead with the chemo,” she says. “To see if I can give him a few more months of quality time.”
She looks at me, and this time her eyes are strangely dry. “I hope I did the right thing, Zoe. I just feel like I have to at least try.”

I reach over and give her a hug. “Yum-Yum is lucky to have you,” I whisper into her shoulder. She squeezes me hard, then lets me go.

“So now what happens?” I ask.

“Yum-Yum’s in there now, getting his first treatment.”

“Won’t they let you be with him?” I ask. “You should insist!”

Jane shakes her head. “The chemotherapy drugs are given through an IV. You know what that is, don’t you?”

I nod. Since I’ve been at the clinic, I’ve seen Gran do it. It’s a way to inject a liquid drug through a needle directly into a vein.

“They say it’s very important for the dog to stay completely still during the treatment,” Jane continues. “They say it’s actually easier on the animal if the owner isn’t there. They’ll have someone hold Yum-Yum still, but Dr. Edwards assured me that they’re very kind and gentle.”

“How long will it take?” I ask.

“About thirty minutes,” Jane says.

That’s quick. I ask her if she wants to take a walk with me, or if she wants a magazine or some coffee.

But Jane says she just prefers to sit and wait.

So we sit. My opened soda can stands untouched on the chair beside me, losing its fizz.

The minutes drag by.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •

At last Dr. Edwards brings Yum-Yum out to us. At first I’m almost afraid to look at him. How has the chemotherapy affected him? But when I study him, I’m surprised to see that he looks just the same. He acts the same, too. For animals, the treatment can be as silent as the disease.

“Yum-Yum’s a wonderful little patient,” Dr. Edwards says. “He has the best manners I’ve ever seen. It made it much easier to do the treatment.”

•  •  •  •  •  •  •

Jane beams at the compliment. She explains it’s probably because he’s a therapy dog.

“I bet he’s terrific with his patients,” Dr. Edwards adds.

Then they talk about the details of Yum-Yum’s next treatments and set up a schedule.
Dr. Edwards gives Jane more printed information.

Yum-Yum sits patiently through it all, wagging his tail.

Jane is quiet as she drives through the peaceful countryside on the way home. I hold Yum-Yum, wondering about the chemicals coursing through his blood. I try to use ESP to make the drugs work fast.

“It’s kind of strange to think that Yum-Yum is going through the same things as Emma and Michael and the other kids at the hospital,” I say.

Jane nods. “I know Yum-Yum will miss going in to see them.”

“Maybe if he does all right with the chemo, he can still go in sometimes,” I suggest. “If he’s feeling okay.”

“We’ll see,” Jane says, then adds, “I still think you should consider going through the training with Sneakers.”

I laugh. “Are you kidding? You saw what he did at the hospital the other day. Sneakers is a mess! A good dog,” I’m quick to add, “but a real mess.”

“Psh! He’s young,” Jane assures me. “He just needs lots of love and a lot more training, that’s all.”

“I don’t know, Jane,” I say as I stare out the window at the fields rushing past. “I’m just no good at training him.”

“Well, you must have done something right,” she says. “J.J. has told me how you all helped save Sneakers from that puppy mill. He had a really tough beginning—starved and mistreated. All that could have made him a mean or mistrustful dog. But he’s not. He’s very happy and loving. Part of that’s his nature, but part of it’s due to how he’s been treated. How you’ve treated him.”

I look at Jane in surprise. I hadn’t thought of that. I was beginning to think I was just a big, fat failure when it came to Sneakers. Sure, I’m probably not the best dog trainer. But maybe loving Sneakers is a good start.

“Dogs learn a lot from their owners,” Jane said. “And Sneakers is such a sweetheart. He’s learned love and trust from you. He’s learned to like and trust people instead of fearing them. Hey, that’s more than half the battle.” She reaches
over and pats me on the leg. “That’s something to be proud of. Now all you’ve got to do is work on his manners a little.”

I smile at Jane. Her words mean a lot to me. “Do you really think I can do it?” I ask.

“I know you can,” she says. “Keep working with him. And if he shows he can learn, I’ll help you get him enrolled in a formal training program.”

I cuddle Yum-Yum in my arms. “What do you think?” I murmur in his ear. “Think Sneakers and I can do it?”

Yum-Yum is dozing, exhausted from his day.

But he almost looks like he’s smiling.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •

T
wo nights later, I’m dreaming that I’m in the circus. The audience applauds as Sneakers—dressed in a ruffly collar and a sparkling hat—leaps through a ring of fire. Proudly, I bow before a standing ovation. Sneakers sits up on his hind legs and barks.

Over and over. He keeps barking, even after the audience stops clapping. Even after the audience fades away.

Suddenly I sit up. I’m not at the circus. I’m in my bed. It’s dark in my room, and Sneakers is barking wildly in his crate.

“Shhh!” I tell him. I pick up my watch from
the nightstand. “Sneakers!” I whisper. “For goodness’ sake, it’s three A.M.!”

I crawl out of bed and open the crate. Sneakers darts out and runs through the open bedroom door.

“Whoa,” I say through a yawn. “He must really gotta go.”

I follow him downstairs, but he’s not standing by the back door. He’s pawing at the door leading into the clinic.

The lights are on. Gran must be in there.
Emergency!

I open the door, and Sneakers scampers into the clinic. I’m right behind him. Maybe Gran will need my help.

My heart skips a beat when I see who’s there with her.

Jane and Yum-Yum!

“Gran! Jane! What’s wrong?” I ask.

Jane looks stricken. “Yum-Yum hasn’t eaten in almost two days. At first I thought the treatment might have made him lose his appetite. Then tonight, I noticed his jaw was a little funny-looking. I woke up at two A.M. to his whimpering. J.J., can you help him?”

They rush him into a treatment room. I stand
near the door, but I think I’m too upset to help.

Gran gently strokes the dog, examining him everywhere. He yelps when her hands barely touch his muzzle.

Gran’s brow knots. “His teeth are loose, and he may have even fractured his jaw. The tumor is doing extensive damage now,” she says.

“Fractured!” Jane exclaims. “But how? I’ve been taking such good care of him! He’s with me night and day, J.J. He hasn’t fallen or tripped—”

“Jane…” Gran lays a hand on her friend’s arm. “That’s not it. I can’t be sure without more tests, but I’m pretty certain that the cancer has spread to his bones.”

I turn away. How awful! How will he be able to eat now? Yum-Yum’s body is breaking down. And all our love can’t stop it. “I’ll be out in the waiting room if you need me, Gran.”

Gran is kind enough not to ask me to stay.

I sit at the receptionist’s desk and sort through piles of paperwork and files, trying to be useful, trying to keep my mind busy. But the words written on them blur as my eyes fill with tears. I push them to the side, afraid I’ll just mess them up.

I marvel at how quiet the world seems at three A.M.
People sleeping, dreaming their dreams—even as an emergency takes place down the hall.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •

At some point I feel someone shaking me. I realize I’ve fallen asleep on my folded arms, drooling into the corner of my elbow, I get up and shake the sleep from my eyes.

“How is he?” I blurt out.

“Yum-Yum is resting comfortably,” Gran tells me. “I gave him something for the pain.”

Jane is sitting across from me on one of the waiting-room couches. She looks as if she’s in a daze.

I don’t know what to say or do. And I’m afraid to ask questions. “I’ll go make some tea,” I say, and hurry into the kitchen.

The water seems as if it will never boil, but at last it does, and I hurry back to the clinic with three mugs of tea.

I find Sneakers sitting on the couch next to Jane. She laughs softly through her tears. “That’s perfect therapy-dog behavior,” she says, rubbing the little dog’s head. “Sneakers can sense who needs some comfort.”

I’m surprised. “You mean, he can really tell what you’re thinking?”

“Sure,” Jane says. “Sometimes I could swear Yum-Yum is reading my mind.”

I think of my mom’s latest craze. “You mean, like ESP and all that?”

Gran smiles. “Well, I don’t know about that. But dogs are very tuned in to people. They can pick up on all kinds of little signals—expressions, body language, mood. That’s why it’s so easy to send the wrong signals to dogs when we train them. They just want to please humans. They need consistent, steady training. And lots of love.”

Jane sits there a moment, stroking Sneakers’ back. Of course, Sneakers loves it. But I realize that the action seems to help Jane even more than it does Sneakers. A calmness comes over her.