The Tao of Martha (20 page)

Before we hit Costco, we’ve got to take Maisy back to the vet for a couple of tests. She’s slowly been getting back her appetite. Her energy’s still low, but that’s likely because it’s so damn hot out. We’re all listless and draggy. Just stepping out the door leaves us drenched in sweat.

In order to take Maisy without bringing the other dogs along, we have to hide treats Easter-egg style all over the house so that Libby and Loki don’t freak out. The delicious-looking marrow bones I bought on yesterday’s trip to the store should prove an excellent distraction.

Although Maisy needs a boost getting into the car, we don’t think much of it. Her health’s been so up and down for the past three years, yet every time she’s been ill, she bounces back. We chat about the party
all the way to the vet specialty clinic, and I have no inkling there’s anything wrong until we’re called back to an exam room.

Wait a minute; we’re never called back to an exam room.

The vet tech always comes out after testing, gives us an update, and leads us back to a room. Fletch and I exchange worried looks as we’re led back to talk to Maisy’s oncologist, Dr. Feinmehl.

Without benefit of greeting, Dr. Feinmehl gets straight to the point. “The news isn’t good. Maisy’s kidney function is less than four percent.”

Fletch and I glance at each other. I say, “I’m sorry; I don’t follow. I thought her kidneys were okay and the issue was her appetite.”

“Her situation has changed, probably because of the vomiting and dehydration. The kidneys have become critical.” Dr. Feinmehl glances down at Maisy’s file, which is literally three inches thick. “A four percent function is just not compatible with…life.”

We both nod, intent on hearing whatever it is we need to do when bringing her home.

Her words take a second to settle in.

Not compatible with life?

What??

She continues. “We have to admit her right now, get her on fluids, and try to raise her red blood cell count, because she’s severely anemic. I’ll need to consult with Dr. Thornhill, who’s a nephrologist. I won’t know more until he sees her.”

“Are you saying she might not make it?” I gasp.

“In all probability,” she replies.

Fletch clutches my knee while my hands turn white from my clenched fists. We’re in such shock that he can’t even find the words to ask questions.

No. No, no.

This isn’t how today is supposed to go down. We’re supposed to
bring Maisy in, get some more antacids, and then take her home before we buy ice at Costco.

I feel numb all over. “I don’t understand. She was okay a couple of days ago. She’s eating. She’s holding her food down. She’s playing with her sister. How can you tell me my dog is dying when she was chasing cats earlier?”

Three years ago, when this doctor told me Maisy had six months, I replied, “You don’t know Maisy. She’ll prove you wrong.” But now Dr. Feinmehl says, “Maisy is a very, very determined little girl. She’s so stoic that she doesn’t show how she’s feeling. Looking at her now, she’s back there wagging her tail and begging for peanut butter. I’d never know she was dying if I hadn’t seen her test results.”

That’s when Fletch and I both begin to sob. And even tough old Dr. Feinmehl, who’s been a drill sergeant/android ever since we met her three years ago, has tears in her eyes. Maisy was her best-case scenario. Maisy was her miracle dog. Maisy was proof to all her clients that their beloved dogs would be okay.

Dr. Feinmehl hands us a box of Kleenex and gently tells us, “Listen, I’ll bring her back in here before we admit her so you can see her. And I’ll have Dr. Thornhill examine her. I don’t want you to get your hopes up, because her situation is grave, but when you’re dealing with a dog as exceptional as Maisy, anything is possible.”

The two minutes it takes to bring Maisy back to us are the longest of my life. When she comes bounding in, I can’t reconcile the news we’ve just gotten with the happy wiggle-pup standing in front of me.

We both try to hold it together so she isn’t upset as we hug her and cover her with kisses.

Fletch stiffens his spine and there’s steel in his voice. “This is not over. I’m not saying good-bye. She’s coming home with us after all this. This dog is not done living.”

I figured that since I’ve been actively dreading this moment for the past three years, I’d somehow be better equipped to handle it. I’ve been trying to prepare myself ever since her diagnosis. Yet as we sit on this cold tile floor, holding my precious baby, I can’t for one second imagine my life without her.

She’s too important.

When our whole world was falling apart after the dot-com crash, and when we lost our car and were about to be kicked out of our apartment, I’d spoon Maisy and know that as long as we had her and each other, everything would be okay. We’d make it.

No matter what, Maisy was always there, ready to snuggle up when it was cold and we’d lost gas service, and happy to lie in a baby pool when it was broiling and we didn’t have air-conditioning. When we’d blow a job interview or get threatened by a bill collector, she was right beside us, readily communicating how
she
knew that we were awesome.

This dog has been my touchstone for ten years and a constant source of love, affection, and acceptance. All the important decisions I’ve made in the past decade have revolved around her, from pursuing a career in writing to where we bought our house, in order to live closer to the vet specialty clinic. And she’s my first priority now in terms of the book tour. I still make travel plans based on her health.

The great irony here is that now we’re finally living the secure, successful lives we’ve always imagined, yet I’d give up every single material thing to be huddled on the bed with my healthy, whole little girl.

W
e eventually have to leave the clinic, and I don’t begin to cry again until after Maisy happily trots off with the vet tech. We won’t
know anything new until after they treat her, and we’re instructed to call at seven p.m.

When we arrive home, everything looks exactly the same, even though my entire universe feels altered. I cling to Loki and Libby long enough for them to get a little creeped out, and then I e-mail my friends to let them know what’s happening. Their support is immediate and profound.

We spend the next couple of hours pacing around, and at four p.m., the clinic calls us to say that Maisy is stable and responding to fluids. Her levels haven’t come up, but they’ve not dropped.

“What does that mean? Do we come back? What do we do next?” I ask the nurse. Fletch and I are both on speakerphone, as neither of us has the presence of mind to interpret for the other.

“Please try not to worry. We’re doing all we can for her, and we’ll know more tomorrow.”

Fletch is more direct. “She’ll have a tomorrow?”

I hold my breath while I wait for an answer.

“I can tell you this: She’s resting comfortably right now and she ate a little dinner. We’re having trouble getting pills in her, though. She’s fighting us.”

And at that exact moment, even with all the evidence to the contrary, I have the unshakable faith that Maisy will pull through. No one decides anything for Maisy but Maisy.

After we hang up, we both decide that we can’t sit around doing nothing. We debate whether or not to cancel the Fourth of July party, but decide that ultimately we need something to occupy our time, so we head to Costco.

Somehow we end up with two carts full of supplies, but I can’t remember a single second of having shopped for any of it.

July 3

Go for a Swim

Visit Local Antiques Stores

Y
ou know what, Martha? I’ve been on your side this whole project, standing behind you, waving your perfectly quilted banner. Whenever I’ve told someone about this project and they’ve been all, “Really? Her?” I’ve defended you.

But today’s calendar tasks?

They’re smug.

Okay?

They’re fucking smug.

Maybe in Stewartsylvania, you have no problem taking a leisurely swim and checking out the Fiestaware for sale in Hamptons antiques shops before fifty madras-clad guests descend on your house tomorrow to not dribble ghee on themselves, but in the real world, there’s no goddamned time to sun ourselves or haggle with local merchants. We’re fucking busy, okay? We have to feed and entertain fifty people tomorrow. And some of us are pretty goddamned freaked-out over loved ones, so while you whoop it up poolside, I’m going to run around here sticking sparklers in shit, all right?

You know what?

I’m done with your stupid calendar.

Why don’t you go ahead and groom your damn miniature donkeys and practice your yoga while I’ll be here doing hot-dog math, trying to figure out why buns come in eight-packs while wieners are sold in sixes. How many goddamned packages do I need to buy for the numbers to even up?

Six?

Sixty?

I DON’T KNOW.

I spend my day anger-chopping fruit and shredding lettuce and assembling
little sandwiches. On some level, I realize my wrath shouldn’t be directed at Martha; she did nothing wrong, particularly since she has no inkling that I even exist.

I just can’t stop obsessing over Maisy. She’s still holding stable, but her levels aren’t doing whatever it is her levels are supposed to do. We check in every couple of hours, and although everyone at the clinic is superhelpful, I don’t want to make them crazy with my constant vigilance. There’s nothing I want more than to be there to hug her, but Fletch and I agreed it’s best if we’re not in and out, as we don’t want to upset her by leaving without her.

I’ve never been so happy to have something to do, because at least I can channel all this pent-up energy into something productive. I’m equally glad that we’re having this party, because I do want to see all my friends in person. They’re been such a source of strength, commiserating, supporting, and whenever possible trying to make me laugh or letting me cry. As soon as I filled Karyn in on what was happening, she took a picture of her Yorkies, Bev and Mary Margaret, with a rosary, telling me they were all praying for Maisy. I’ve looked at that shot a hundred times since yesterday. Each time it makes me cry.

I’m in the middle of shucking forty ears of corn when the phone rings. Fletch answers and calls me into the room so I can be on speakerphone with him and Dr. Thornhill.

He begins to tell us specifics about Maisy’s kidney functions and percentages and medications before he says something about plans for release and home treatment.

“Wait, what?” I ask. “She might actually
come home
? I thought…I thought Dr. Feinmehl said that a four percent kidney function wasn’t consistent with life.”

“That can be true,” he replies, “but fortunately no one’s told Maisy. I’ve had dogs who can manage with between three and five percent function, with proper care. It can be done. Maisy’s a delightful little girl, isn’t she? So happy!
This would be a very different scenario if she weren’t so ebullient and full of life. The nurses and techs love her.”

“They know her pretty well,” Fletch says. “She’s a frequent flier.” We were there for a checkup earlier this summer, and we could actually hear everyone in the back call, “Maisy!” when she walked in, as though she were Norm from
Cheers
.

“Of course, she’s not out of the woods by any stretch of the imagination, and she’s going to need subcutaneous fluids for a while, but she hasn’t given up and neither will I.”

We talk further and try to determine a discharge date. As of now, we’re hoping she can come home on the fifth, but that will depend on her red blood cell count. If her count isn’t satisfactory by then, they’ll take the next step, which is a full transfusion.

None of what’s about to happen will be inexpensive, and I’m suddenly very, very thankful for all the times I’ve opted for frugality in the past six months.

New anything simply can’t compare to old dog.