CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Ticket

THE DAY BEFORE SURGERY MY MOTHER, SISTER GALE, AND SUSAN, OUR adult daughter, were flying from Atlanta to the Twin Cities for my “surgical procedure.” I assumed Mom had told everyone that this was my preferred phrase for brain surgery.

I felt grateful that Mom, Gale, and Susan had each left Georgia and their jobs to be here on such short notice. They’d incurred travel expenses and would spend their time sitting in a hospital waiting room rather than sightseeing Minneapolis and St. Paul. Our son, Mun, wasn’t able to get off work to come, but he kept in touch with us by phone. My mother, who disliked flying, was determined to be with me during and after surgery. My brother, Richard, helped Mom and my sister with making their travel arrangements.

Although I had a lot on my plate during the weeks leading up to my surgery, I still managed to fill it up with worries over my family’s visit. I felt like I should plan activities for them. Linda found it amusing that my main concern was whether or not they would have a good time. “They’re not coming to be entertained,” she reminded me. “They want to be here for you.” I was deeply touched. Their presence would make me feel loved.

All my concerns immediately disappeared the moment they came off the plane. Susan’s warm smile spread across her face when she saw me. The sight of her immediately lifted my spirits. I was reminded of what she used to tell me when she was a teenager and I expressed anxiety about something: “Chill, Dad.” Mom looked worried but also pleased with herself for making the flight. Gale’s face was etched with sweetness. The three of them chattered away as if they were going to a party.

When we asked them where they wanted to eat, Mom said without hesitation, “Red Lobster.”

At the restaurant Mom barely glanced at her menu. She knew exactly what she wanted. The rest of us needed a little time to choose our meals. Normally at family gatherings, my sister Gale has always been the one to say just the right thing at exactly the right time and to help us see the humor in almost any situation. Today, I could tell she was nervous. She turned to me and said quite seriously, “Are you enjoying your last meal?”

Everyone at the table got quiet. I didn’t know how to respond. What did she mean by my “last meal”? We all looked at each other and burst into laughter, drowning out Gale’s explanation that she meant my last real meal before hospital food. The resulting belly laugh helped release much of the stress I still held on to.

While we finished our meal and waited for the check to arrive, Gale blurted out what the rest of my family members were probably thinking. “How will I know you’re all there after the surgery?” she asked.

Without hesitation I answered, “I’ll say, ‘Red Lobster.’ ”

So many things have the word “last” preceding them when a person is about to have brain surgery or any operation in which any number of things could go wrong. I either had to deal with the emotions that welled up in me as I prepared for the worst or stuff them back down.

Taking care of details in the weeks before had forced me to live moment to moment, even as my mind wandered to places of fear and doubt. Linda and I practiced driving the route from the hotel to the hospital. We’d sleep there the night before the surgery, and she and my family would stay through the week following surgery. But in spite of all my efforts to focus on the present, the nightmare I called the “Building-of-Life dream” and my desperation for a ticket to it haunted my thoughts.

Each morning during that last week, I sat in my recliner chair with Leaf in my lap and his head propped up on a plump pillow. I talked to him softly about what was to come. I told him how many nights I would be gone. “You’ll be happy playing at doggy day care and have plenty of food,” I explained. The doggy day care, where Leaf got his exercise once or twice a week during his first winter with us, also had a boarding facility. It relieved my anxiety to know he’d be in a place where he felt safe and knew the staff. I’d hold the sides of his finely contoured face with its turned-up nose and look deeply into his eyes. “I need you to help me when I come home. I want lots of your healing kisses.” Leaf would gaze up at me with his wise ebony eyes, sigh, and then fall asleep to the sound of my voice.

Once we had dropped Leaf off at the day care and had settled into the hotel, I called to check on him. The staff reported that he was asleep in his kennel on the soft dog bed I’d brought to be boarded with him. I’d included an unwashed T-shirt of mine with his baggage. The staff person told me that Leaf’s nose rested on top of the shirt. I knew he was breathing in my familiar scent.

Linda and I spent the night holding each other tightly and hoping this wouldn’t be the last time. Linda is the love of my life. We’re soul mates and need each other for life to be of any value. I wouldn’t be me without her. Would we ever be the same?

As I lay there, I remembered Dr. Nussbaum’s crisp color chart showing an aneurysm that had a well-defined neck for easy clipping. I wished mine was more like the one displayed on his office wall. Neither of us could sleep. I was anxious, thinking about the surgery, Linda, and how frightened Leaf might be when he woke up alone. Would he wonder if I’d be returning soon to bring him home? Would I be returning?

Early on the day of the surgery, Linda and I drove from the hotel to the hospital. The blazing sunrise mixed with a deep blue sky made it a beautiful morning, yet we both were somber. To lighten our dark mood, I said, “So, another normal day in the life of Allen and Linda Anderson.” Leaf liked it when I said, “Everything is normal.” To him normal meant no big changes. Normal was his cue to relax.

I glanced over at Linda. She turned her head and studied my face. Usually she’d smile when I said Leaf’s favorite word. But today she had no smile for me. Instead, she gave a deep sigh and focused on the road ahead. After all our years of marriage, I could tell that she didn’t have the energy or inclination to lighten what was about to happen.

After I parked the car in the hospital lot, neither of us made a move to get out. Instead, we sat silently. Linda squeezed my hand. “I love you,” she said.

“I love you too.”

At that moment, I felt so much appreciation for how supportive she had been throughout this ordeal. She had taken care of so many details—double-checking test results, saying whatever encouraging words I needed to hear, and making sure the pets were cared for when we had appointments to keep. Even with all the extra strain, she had kept up with our work and deadlines.

She looked out the car window as if something vital drew her attention. I sensed that she was trying not to let me see the fear in her eyes. She knew my nature too, and that I’d keep trying to find a way to fix things. But surgery day had arrived, and I had no more fixes. We got out of the car, held hands, and walked toward the hospital doors.

A smiling woman in her midthirties with short blond hair like Linda’s met us and noticed that we looked lost. She introduced herself as the chaplain. She escorted us to the elevator and gave us directions.

“Odd that the first person we see today is the chaplain,” I said to Linda. She nodded in agreement. My disturbing thoughts made me spiral down the rabbit hole: Chaplains are needed to be with the grieving family after a terrible loss.

We found our way to the admitting room. With a business-like composure, I filled out the necessary forms. The clerk was a middle-age woman with short, curly gray hair and sympathetic eyes. She looked over my answers. I just wanted the paperwork to be over before I gave in to my urge to grab Linda’s arm and head for the door.

After check-in we walked to the surgery-prep area. Linda listened with an intense and serious look on her face while the nurses told us details of what would take place before and after surgery. By this time an emotional paralysis had replaced my anxiety. I had slipped into “this can’t really be happening” mode. Surely a doctor wouldn’t soon be cracking open my skull and performing surgery on my delicate brain. What was I doing here? Why were these women I don’t even know talking to me so much?

Dr. Nussbaum and Nurse Jody, and then the anesthesiologist, visited us in the surgery-prep area to tell me what was to happen that morning and ask questions like, Are you allergic to any medications? Have you ever had a negative reaction to anesthesia?

Did I answer their questions? I must have. They left and didn’t come back.

As if just a witness to the scene, I watched myself sitting in the small examination room. I felt uncomfortable in the new itchy, short-sleeved shirt I’d purchased to wear to the hospital. I reassured myself that I could still call the whole thing off, maybe even return the new shirt. My skittering mind settled on thoughts of Leaf. A slight smile lifted the corners of my lips. I remembered how he always made the most out of whatever life handed him.

“Linda,” I asked, “If we get through this, we can’t keep doing things the same way.”

“We won’t,” she assured me.

In the prior weeks, Linda and I had talked a lot about changes and improvements we would make to our lives. As we walked with Leaf trotting between us around the lake one day, she’d rattled off lists of things I needed to live for, to fight for—a long and happy life together, seeing our children have grandchildren, writing a blockbuster book. We promised each other that after this nightmare was over, we’d stop working so much. We’d take time off and just be. Laugh more. Love more.

Even after charting an exciting, new, after-surgery course, I wondered if we would revert to Leaf’s favorite state of normal. For us, that meant multitasking like crazy and rushing to meet impossible deadlines. Right now, even that harried lifestyle sounded good to me. After all, it beat the alternative.

While we waited together, I returned to the reality of the situation and my surroundings. I looked around the tiny cubicle and saw the bustling hospital staff going about their duties beyond the partially drawn curtain. My hands gripped the vinyl arms of the beige-colored chair where I sat with my feet propped up. I listened to the murmur of other presurgery patients talking softly to their loved ones in adjacent cubbyholes.

A young nurse with an African accent came into my cubicle, glanced down at my hand, and said, “No metal is allowed in surgery.” I looked at my wife’s stoic face and caught a glimpse of her pain. An ache rose up inside me when I slipped the gold band off my finger and handed it to her. She carefully placed it in the front compartment of her purse. We held hands once more. She kissed my cheek.

At the request of the nurse, Linda left to go to the waiting room across the hallway where my family and friends had gathered. I had never known it was possible to feel this alone in spite of all the people milling about a busy hospital pre-op floor.

I changed into a white hospital shirt and robe. Another nurse came in and assisted me with putting white thrombosis stockings on my legs and green slippers on my feet. She left for a few minutes to care for other patients. When she returned she said, “You have a few minutes before surgery. Do you want to spend time with your family?”

The nurse explained that I had too many visitors for her to bring them all to the pre-op area. I said yes to her suggestion of going to the waiting room, forgetting how silly I looked in my new hospital ensemble. I wanted to see familiar faces, to talk with anyone who knew me and could confirm that I still existed.

I also kept thinking of Leaf and catching fleeting glimpses of him in my mind’s eye. He looked at me with his characteristic crooked smile. Someone had once called it Leaf’s “Elvis lip.”

The nurse guided me through the hallway to the waiting room. I spotted Linda right away and felt immensely relieved. She looked calm now, almost warrior-like in her determination that I would survive this. Seeing her made me feel whole again.

Seeing the rest of my family all together felt like I was attending a party in my honor. The scene was the closest thing to a wake that anyone could have while still being alive. Gale, Susan, and my mother were there. Our friends Arlene and Aubrey rounded out my “A-Team.”

Everyone looked tense, worried, and unsure of what to say to a man who might not even remember them by the afternoon. Should they acknowledge that this might be the last time they would ever see me? They remained silent, waiting for me to speak.

I hugged each of them and sat next to Linda. Glancing over to a large fish tank in the middle of the room, I was startled when an image of Leaf’s face reflected off the glass.

I hadn’t been given any medication yet that might have caused me to have visions. Still, I saw my sweet pup gazing at me lovingly. I blinked my eyes and looked again. He was gone. But in this brief vision, I saw him frantically grabbing slips of paper off the living room table and holding them in his mouth. The action was identical to what he’d done at home after I’d had the Building of Life dream.

The night before, while Linda and I lay together in bed, she’d said, “Tomorrow, they will let you talk to all of us before you go into surgery. You don’t need to be the life of the party, crack jokes, and try to make us feel better. Just be real.” Linda knew me well, and her advice was good. I sincerely thanked each person for all he or she had done to help.

Gale, looking fragile and scared, sat next to my mother. I told her how grateful I felt that she’d made so many sacrifices to be with me right now. Susan gently attempted to pump me up with her positive attitude. I’d asked her earlier to keep her younger brother informed about my progress throughout the day. My mother forced a smile, but her eyes couldn’t conceal her worry. I assured her of my love and gratitude.

With his easygoing outlook on life and hearty laugh, my good friend Aubrey was as solid as granite. And I knew Arlene, the compassionate nurse, would look after Linda. But in spite of my attempt to focus on these loving people, I continued to worry about being separated from all of them forever as my dream had foretold. When the nurse signaled that it was time for me to return to the pre-op area. I kissed Linda once more and drew upon whatever courage I could muster.

Once in pre-op the nurses placed warm blankets over me, and the anesthetists, wearing blue scrubs, injected a tube in the vein in my arm. A man with a gray beard and glasses started an IV in my other arm and casually asked what I did for a living. I said that my wife and I wrote books about the human-animal bond.

Like so many others, the man launched into telling his own Angel Animals story. He said that when his son was a teenager, the boy had brought a dog home from an animal shelter but was not able to take care of the pup. Before long the rescued dog became the father’s. He admitted to being glad it had turned out that way. The canine companion had shown him nothing but devotion over the years and had actually brought his son and him closer because they both loved the dog.

The two men preparing me for surgery stepped back suddenly. A blond woman in her midthirties appeared where their faces had been. Calm emitted from her. I remembered her as the hospital’s chaplain. She reintroduced herself to me.

“Is it OK if I say a prayer?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

Her prayer was filled with phrases like “trust in God,” “cycles of life,” “all is in the divine plan,” and “relax in God’s love.” Flashes of blue light sparkled around her head. Seeing the blue light reminded me that there is an essence of life that crosses the thin line separating the physical world from the heavens. For me, this essence can be seen as light at moments of heightened awareness.

The chaplain gently held my hand for a moment and quietly left the area. After she was gone the thought flickered through my mind that her visit and seeing the blue light around her would be a great send-off to the heavenly worlds. I relaxed with comfort in my belief that regardless of how things worked out, soul, the part of me that does not die, would live on.

An attendant wheeled my gurney into the surgical suite. Strong arms lifted me from it onto the surgical table. I’d soon be unconscious. In the corner of the room I saw bright flashes of blue and white light. A divine and loving presence was with me. I had nothing to fear. I surrendered to whatever was meant for me.

The breathing mask hovered ten inches above my face. It slowly lowered. I heard the bearded man on the surgical team say, “You are safe. We will be with you through it all.”

Before the mask reached my mouth and nose, I again had a vision of Leaf’s face. He still carried a sliver of paper in his mouth, as I had seen him do at home and in the reflection in the waiting room fish-tank glass. In that split second my sweet cocker spaniel dropped the piece of paper he had gripped so tightly in his mouth.

In my inner vision I reached for the paper Leaf had dropped. When I touched it I suddenly knew without a doubt what it was, and a calm understanding flooded my consciousness. Leaf had brought me my ticket. He’d been trying to deliver it to me all this time. Along with family and friends, I would awaken and enter the Building of Life.