Help, Hope, and a Helluva Comeback

Stephanie was true to her word and Monday morning the first of my helpers, Linda, arrived.  Unfortunately, it was also the worst morning Stella has had.

Linda hadn't ever met Stella, so she was seeing Stella as I had that very first time at the vet's office.  To make it worse, Stella was having an enormously tough time breathing, reaching her neck up as far as it would go, eyes half-closed, struggling for every breath.  Not the best first impression for Linda.

Even though Linda was stopping in on her way to work, she stayed longer than five minutes.  She stayed for an hour and a half as we talked about Stella and she gave me her impression and ideas about it all.  Meanwhile, Stella struggled.  There was no green mucus flowing from her nose, but I was worried for her; at one point there was a longer pause between breaths, Linda looked at me, and the thought that didn't need to be spoken between us was, "This is it."  But then Stella inhaled once more.

I don't like discussing euthanasia in front of a dog.  They understand.  They get it.  They know exactly what we're talking about.  Linda felt that a dog shouldn't suffer.  I agreed, but Stella isn't necessarily terminal.  She doesn't have cancer.  She has a bacterial infection in which she's being treated for.  Linda asked if she had been eating and drinking and I said Yes.  Sunday she didn't drink as much as usual, and of course Monday morning was the first time Stella didn't finish her meal so Linda saw the half-empty dog bowl.  I said I wasn't going to give up hope.  I was willing to fight for Stella as long as she was willing to fight for herself.  But how do you know she wants to keep going?

Linda said if a dog stops eating and drinking, that's a good sign that the fight is over.  I agreed.  Stella was there for this entire conversation.  Despite my uneasiness of talking about it in front of her, I felt that she should know how others felt, and how I felt.  She should realize what was at stake here.

Linda had to get to work and her main purpose was to help me with the injection.  She had to give her little dog injections before and she knew it was tough.  Since I had been giving the injections before, we kept it that way with Linda assisting.  I admit that I had more confidence with someone there.  Linda held Stella as I injected her and continued to hold her as Stella shrieked.  I realized it wasn't the needle going in, but the pushing the fluid in that hurt.  Linda continued to cradle Stella, and eventually Stella fell fast asleep.  Linda, however, was now an hour and a half late for work.

Stella slept most of the morning.  Linda had watched Stella dreaming, her little feet moving, her lip curling in a growl.  She was angry at someone.  So a few hours later when I heard a "thwap, thwap" come from my bedroom, I was pleased to walk in and see Stella having a good dream.  Every few moments her tail wagged against the bed, and her head was tilted in comfortable position.  It even looked like she was smiling.

I can't give up on her.  She's got to make it.  And yet as I sat in my office working, listening to Stella breathing and dreaming in the bedroom, I thought how much worse it would be to die by drowning rather than falling asleep and your heart just stopping.  I had told Linda that if I walked into the living room and found Stella had passed away in her sleep, I wouldn't feel like I had failed.  If the Angel of Death wants her, he can come get her, but I ain't just going to hand her over.

But how much worse of a death is that?

I spent the morning contemplating, not really working, wondering how one makes such a decision.  And then all the thoughts I had on the subject left my brain in an instant.  I went into the kitchen and got out the broiling pan to make Stella her afternoon snack of three sliders (without the buns), and I heard a rustle in my bedroom.  A second later, Stella stood at the doorway to the kitchen, her ears down low in a quiet question, her tail wagging.  "Whatcha doin'?" she asked.

"It's snack time," I told her.

She wagged her tail harder, and then walked through the living room to sit at her designated eating spot.

"Well it's going to take about ten minutes," I told her.

Her tail was still wagging, and it looked like she was smiling.  This was the most engaging she had been since I got her.

She heard.  She understood.  She knew she had to have an appetite to prove to me that she was still fighting.

Ten minutes later, the burger was on her plate, and a minute later, it was in Stella's tummy and she wanted more.

In late afternoon, she didn't stop at her usual peeing spot at the end of the driveway, but hung a right and continued down the sidewalk.  We walked all the way to the end of the block, further than she had ever been.

She ate her dinner with gusto, and she was bright-eyed and cheery.  She even responded to a squeaky toy, but didn't know what to do with it.

A little after 8:00 Diana, my second shift nurse helper, arrived.  She came in and immediately Stella lifted her head off the couch, sat up, and wagged her tail in greeting.  Diana said she had been worried since Linda called her and told her what her experience had been in the morning.  This was an entirely different dog.

Diana's son, Lou, is the one who got her into rescue.  He's a fourteen year old actor trying to make it in Hollywood, and he's getting gigs, but he's getting even more recognition as the boy who wants to save every canine in Los Angeles.  He wanted to come along, but with how Linda had described Stella and the fact that Stella shrieked when I injected her, Lou said he should probably stay home.

Diana came with us outside when Stella had to pee, and even my neighbor commented on how Stella has a spring in her step now (actually she just trots at a really good clip when she's got to go), and that she looked like she put on a little weight.  It's hard for me to tell since I see her every day, and because my feelings obviously color my perception.  I don't even notice her giant bald spot on her back end anymore.  I just see Stella.

For whatever reason, everything came together last night.  Stella knew damn well what I was doing when Diana sat on one side of the couch with her and I on the other.  First she leaned into Diana.  Then when I moved her, she purposefully pushed against Diana with her leg so she could press her back and neck scruff (the place I needed to inject) right against my chest so I didn't have access.

Diana was patient and we waited until Stella finally relaxed half on Diana's lap.  Then with Stella's eyes closed, I gently took her scruff, swiftly got the needle in, injected, and pulled out the needle.  Only a grunt from Stella.  Not even a whimper, and certainly not a shriek.

"You did that like a pro!" Diana said.

Perhaps, but pro's don't shake afterwards.  My hands were trembling; better to tremble after than before I suppose.  It took a few moments for me to calm down, and I hoped I could recreate however I had managed to do it again.

Diana said that she was supposed to call Linda to let her know her thoughts on Stella, and she asked what my thoughts were.  I told her that I would never give up hope.  And seeing her like this tonight and in the afternoon, I knew Stella still had that spark in her--she wasn't going to give up yet.  Diana said when she asked opinions like this, she thinks of what Lou would say.  And what her fourteen year old boy would say is exactly what I said: Give her a chance.  Don't lose hope.

I know we shouldn't let animals suffer.  But I also know that when I'm sick, I feel like I want to die.  That doesn't mean someone is going to come in and make that happen.  It just means I have to work through it, and eventually I'll get better.  I realize she has a compromised immune system.  But she is improving--at least her face isn't a phlegm-fast anymore.  As for her lungs, I can't see them.  She struggles to breathe...but doesn't say something? That she's struggling because she wants it; if she didn't struggle, she'd just give up. 

After Diana left, I told Stella straight up: I wasn't giving up on her.  If she wanted to give up, she'd have to tell me.  Otherwise, I was in this for the long haul.  Maybe that's an attitude of a fourteen year old, but I don't care.  I remember being fourteen: the world was full of hope and possibility.  It still is; we just forget because we've become jaded by disappointment in our adulthood.  The thing is Hope never dies; it's us who abandon it.  So for the time being, I'm going to be fourteen years old.  My door is always open to dogs in need.  There's no vacancy for another canine right now, but the door is always open--and there is always room--for Hope.