CHAPTER 14

Going In

May the stars carry your sadness away,

May the flowers fill your heart with beauty,

May hope forever wipe away your tears,

And, above all, may silence make you strong.

CHIEF DAN GEORGE

I TOOK ONE LAST WALK ON MY OWN TWO FEET. TUESDAY AND I WERE both hungry. There was no telling when we’d get another meal not served on a hospital tray!

We had come to San Antonio after I completed my own due diligence and Dr. Patrick O’Shaughnessy completed his. I really did believe what I had argued so passionately to my father, that I had fully explored all other options and that the potential upside of amputation was worth the undeniable risks.

I had chosen San Antonio because that’s where Dr. O’Shaughnessy was. I had chosen him because of his national reputation as a talented surgeon who had treated many military amputees. Part of his practice was at San Antonio’s Brooke Army Medical Center, one of the top military hospitals in the world. He would, however, be performing my “elective” procedure at a small private hospital nearby. Before he would agree to proceed, he carefully reviewed my medical records, making sure he concurred with the assessments made by other medical professionals and that I was a strong candidate for amputation. At his insistence, I had also undergone a thorough psychological review—including a lengthy, in-person interview, to make sure I knew what I was agreeing to and that I was prepared for the intense recovery. Only after I met all his stringent requirements had he agreed to operate.

Tuesday and I were due at the hospital at 2 P.M. on February 26, a sunny, 70-degree, Friday afternoon. That gave us just enough time to eat and pack a bag for what the doctors had said would likely be a two-night stay—one night pre-op, one night post-op, then back to my favorite San Antonio hotel. That was far less “bedpan” time than I’d guess most people would have expected for cutting off a limb.

Since Tuesday and I would always rather eat than pack, we left the hotel a little before noon and walked around the corner for an early lunch. Tuesday was frisky. I was stiff and slow. I was really feeling the busy week we’d had—three public appearances, the surgery prep, the nerves I was trying to hide, and the nagging pangs of impending loss.

I’d thought this through from a thousand different angles. I’d gotten the best advice I could find. I had a top-flight hospital, a highly respected surgeon, and an experienced medical team. Though I was confident I was making the right decision, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was still haunted by introspection. Not that I had doubts. No part of me wanted to back out, even though I knew the rehab would be grueling. I had high hopes for the long-term improvements I expected to get in return. I was excited—euphoric, almost. I could hardly wait for improved mobility and far less pain.

But still. There was no reason to kid myself. This was a very big deal. I was about to have more than half my right leg chopped off, and just being in this position wasn’t something most would choose. I was going ahead with this because I was convinced it was the best of some not-so-great options. I didn’t wake up one morning thinking, “Gee, it sure would be fun to hop around on one leg!” So yes, there was some sadness too. Just because something seems like the right decision doesn’t mean you necessarily arrive at it lightheartedly. And now I was out for my final, two-legged field trip, with a dog and a cane, of course.

I wanted to eat a clean, well-balanced lunch. I wasn’t sure when I’d be eating again. I ordered a chicken breast, wild rice, green beans, and an unsweetened iced tea. Tuesday had already eaten in the hotel room, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t hungry for more. Customarily, I like to have a couple of healthy treats in my pocket for him. This time, it was little quarter-size, organic, made-in-America, chicken-and-oat biscuits. Our restaurant routine has become almost a ritual between us, one I could predict before we even got a table.

Tuesday will look up from beneath the table.

With his snout resting on my right thigh, his soulful eyes will say, “I love you” and “Can I please have a bite? Pleeeeze!”

This was my last meal for a while. As much as I love him, no, we were not sharing. I gave Tuesday both of the biscuits in my pocket. He seemed happy enough.

The walk back to the hotel was equally creaky. I steadied myself with my cane. My right knee was aching badly. The truth was that every step I took reinforced my certainty that this was the right thing to do. This was my final stroll among the bipeds, and Tuesday could see I was having trouble with it. As he was trained to do, he let me set the pace as we went.

It had taken us a little longer to walk back to the hotel than I’d allowed. I glanced at the clock. With the appointment at 2 P.M., we had just enough time to pack and order an Uber car and get over there. As I began putting various items in the overnight bag, I couldn’t help but notice it was filling up almost entirely with “Tuesday stuff.” His bowl. His squeaky toy. A six-by-six-foot blanket to make a comfy bed for him. A rubber ball. An antler bone. I’ll admit it. He might be a bit overindulged when it comes to his collection of toys. We also needed to bring food for him and some more of his organic treats. Couldn’t go without those. His brush, of course. And his toothbrush and toothpaste. Pretty soon, there was hardly any room for my stuff in that bag. And hardly a moment to spare. I packed my toothbrush, some meds, and a couple of button-down shirts. Then zipped it shut. It was 1:30. Time to summon the Uber.

I grabbed my cane and the overnight bag and put the leash on Tuesday. Together, we headed down the hall to the elevator and down to the lobby. We weren’t moving any more quickly than before. No one said anything, but I’m sure we were a sight. Tuesday and me plus a bag and cane tromping through the lobby and out the front door. By the time we got to the curb, the car was already there. I put the bag in the trunk. Tuesday and I climbed in the back seat, he with far more bounce than I felt—physically or mentally.

We arrived at the hospital, and Tuesday immediately turned on his happy-go-lucky charm. He smiled at the security guard inside the front entrance. He stood politely at my feet as we waited for my name to be called by the admissions-department clerk. I was starting to feel a small case of nerves. As a nurse handed me a clipboard with a large stack of admissions forms, Tuesday cuddled up at my feet. He always knows how to make me feel better.

Tuesday seemed to understand we were here for more than a routine check-up or to refill my meds. We had a bulging overnight bag and now this huge stack of forms. I had an extra knot in my stomach. Being so in tune with my moods, Tuesday could sense my feelings—I wouldn’t call it fear exactly, but definitely anxiety or tension. I took a moment to focus on the stress and concluded that it really wasn’t the surgery I was worried about. Doctors have been amputating limbs and sewing up the wounds for centuries. But I was undeniably entering a new phase of my life and, therefore, Tuesday was sensing that he too was entering a new phase of his. He stayed, I noticed, extra close to me as I returned the clipboard to the admitting nurse. For a minute or two, she reviewed my information and then nodded that it was time. Together, we all rode the elevator up to my room.

Is it possible the nurse had been charmed by Tuesday? Maybe. She put us in a room that was far nicer than I deserved. It was bright and spacious and, best of all, we wouldn’t have a roommate. There was also a small futon that instantly became Tuesday’s bed, at least until he found his way into mine. I hung my shirts in the closet, filled Tuesday’s water bowl, and laid out his other stuff so it would all be accessible. I took my pants and shoes off, left them in the closet, and put on a hospital gown.

In a short time, a flurry of nurses and administrators started coming by. We were in a private hospital, but I guess it still takes a village to check a new patient in. One gave me a wristband. Another had a waiver for me to sign. Someone else stuck an IV in my forearm. “Anticoagulant,” she said when I asked what she was about to start dripping into me. That nurse also checked my vitals and took some blood for pre-op lab tests, making sure everything was in the normal range. If you have too many crazy readings, I assume, they won’t go ahead.

Tuesday curled up on the futon and I gave him one of his favorite snack toys, his antler bone. I was fully checked in, but it seemed to me like a small army of nurses and other hospital employees kept finding reasons to come into my room. A lot of them, I noticed, didn’t have any obvious business to transact with me. Soon enough, it was becoming clear that I was not the most popular creature in this hospital room.

“What’s his name?” a maintenance man with nothing to fix asked me.

“Aw, how cute,” said a couple of different nurses who didn’t even bother to pretend they were checking my chart or my drip.

No doubt about it. This constant traffic was on account of Tuesday.

“How old is he?” asked a young man in blue scrubs who might have been an intern or a resident. “I also have a golden retriever,” he said.

I laughed a little, remembering my father complaining to my mother during one of his hospital stays. “Where the heck are all the medical workers? Did they forget I’m in here?” With Tuesday being here with me and making all those people smile, I was pretty sure there’d always be a nurse or doctor nearby.

While Tuesday was entertaining the staff, I suddenly realized I’d made a huge mistake. Back in the hotel room I’d packed for myself just two shirts. I had completely forgotten to pack even one pair of shorts. Tuesday had enough toys and snacks for an eight-week session of summer camp, but I wasn’t prepared for even an overnight stay in the hospital. When it came time to leave the hospital, what was I going to wear? I sure didn’t want to exit the hospital in my underwear. By then, I knew, my right leg would be gone, replaced with a wrapped-up, swollen, and tender stump. I was sure there was no way I’d be able to pull on the jeans I’d worn to the hospital.

Maybe the stress and anxiety I’d been denying had played a role. “That was dumb,” I scolded myself.

As nice as everyone was being with Tuesday, I hoped there was a little left for me. Maybe when the time came, someone would lend me a pair of gym shorts. Otherwise, I knew, I’d be wearing that hospital gown much longer than I’d planned to and in places no hospital gown should go.

There was nothing much I could do at this point about my post-op wardrobe. So I laid back and tried to relax. I could already tell that Tuesday was eyeing a way to climb up into the bed. It was a twin, not a lot of extra room for visitors. In fact, I remembered, it was about as narrow as the first bed he had ever plopped down on with me.

It was one of the first nights after we’d met at ECAD, before we’d even decided for sure that, yes, we were going to partner up. The fourth night I was there, Tuesday was able to leave his kennel and stay with me. ECAD had narrow, medical beds for visitors. I remembered thinking, “I’m not sure this is going to work.” I was 6 foot 2 inches and 220 pounds at the time. He was 75 or 80 pounds, and, I soon realized, he was not used to sleeping in people beds. It turned out that Tuesday never did sleep that night. Neither did I. He kept shifting all 80 pounds of golden furriness throughout the night. No doubt about it, he was excited to share the bed, but he was determined to try any and all positions looking for a comfortable one.

All these years later, he’d gained plenty of bed-sharing experience. Without any fuss, he leaped up on the hospital bed and happily curled up at the foot of the mattress. He might not have been having the same memory, but the narrow bed and the new surroundings took me back to that other, skinny bed on that long-ago, special day when the two of us were just getting to know each other. So much had changed since then, since Tuesday. And here we were about to experience another major change together. I really had to smile.

My surgery was set for 11 A.M. the next day. I wasn’t permitted to eat anything past 11 P.M. No food. No water. Nothing in my belly in that twelve-hour window. All I was allowed to do was hang around the room with Tuesday, read, talk on my phone, and—if I wanted to, which I didn’t—watch TV. Frankly, TV seemed like too much mental stimulation. I already had plenty bouncing around in my head.

Just as it was getting dark, Dr. O’Shaughnessy swung by. It was a quick, almost perfunctory visit. I think he was making sure I wasn’t freaking out. “How you doing?” he asked as he approached my bedside.

“Ready to go.”

“Happy to hear it,” he answered. “Me, too.”

I smiled. That was a good thing.

“How’s he doing?” the surgeon asked, nodding down at Tuesday. “Is he ready too?”

“Tuesday’s always ready,” I said.

Even the doctor’s mood seemed to be brightened by the presence of Tuesday, and God knows I wanted a happy surgeon. I didn’t relish the thought of some tense doctor working out his aggression on the thigh bone above my knee. That sounded unnecessarily painful. Surgeons aren’t always known for their cheerful bedside manner. Then again, most surgeons don’t get to see a happy, tail-wagging dog lying with the patient in a hospital bed. Also, Tuesday is undeniably more charming than I am. Better looking too.

“Your blood work looks strong,” he said to me. “We are scheduled for tomorrow at eleven.”

I figured he knew how to handle the necessary cutting, but I did want to talk a little more about post-op rehab. I told the doctor for what must have been the forty-seventh time how committed I was to doing whatever I could to speed up the recovery process. He said, also for the forty-seventh time, that he understood my sense of commitment. “Some of this,” he said, “is in your hands.” And Tuesday’s paws, I thought to myself.

He asked if I had any more questions. I didn’t.

Then, he said, “All right. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I made a careful note of the date in my mind. Saturday, February 27, the day I would have my leg cut off. For the rest of my life, whatever else might happen, I would never, ever forget that date. Who could possibly forget something like that like? With a reassuring pat on my right arm, Dr. O’Shaughnessy turned to leave. “Try to get some sleep,” he said on his way out the door. “You, too,” he added, looking toward Tuesday.

I didn’t think sleeping would be difficult. I was already totally exhausted. It had been a busy day and a busy week. I was dog-tired, and Tuesday was too. We both drifted off to sleep by 8:30 P.M. and we both awoke at 10:30 P.M., just before my eating and drinking cut-off time. I gulped down a glass of orange juice and a bottle of water. I checked the email on my phone and answered a handful of notes, mostly people wishing me well.

I didn’t need the sleeping pill the night nurse offered. A little after midnight, I was asleep again.

At around 6:30 A.M., just before the morning nurses entered our room, I awoke well rested. Unlike most people’s nightmarish hospital stays, I had slept so soundly, I had only the dimmest recollection of someone coming in during the night to check my IV. The fact that I was out like a light, without any medical help, I took as a sign that I was ready to go.

It occurred to me that most patients check in to a hospital and everything gets taken care of while they rest. But I had a distinct set of tasks to perform. I filled Tuesday’s water bowl and fixed him some breakfast. Following protocol, no one offered me anything, and I ate nothing at all. Then we waited. And waited. And waited some more. I’d forgotten how a patient’s main job in a hospital is to wait. The etymology of both “patient” and “patience” is from the Latin root pati- meaning to suffer or endure. Tuesday doesn’t like waiting. He seemed a bit restless. He went back to his futon. Over and over, though, he’d leave the futon to check on me in bed. Then at 10:30 A.M., an orderly appeared to wheel me into pre-op.

Finally, showtime!

From my hospital bed, I shimmied my body onto a gurney, the last time I’d be crawling anywhere on two arms and legs. Yes, these “last times” kept popping up on me. I promise. I wasn’t looking for them. But they were hard to avoid. The orderly pulled up the side arms, clicked them into place, and we went for a ride, with Tuesday trotting beside us, his leash in my right hand, heading off to the surgery suite.

When we reached pre-op, though, it was time for us to part ways. I knew he wasn’t going to be allowed to go any further with me—not to pre-op, not to post-op, and definitely not into the operating room. Even though I’d informed the surgical team that Tuesday would look awfully cute in scrubs, even the newest members of the Tuesday Fan Club made it clear that wasn’t possible.

Reaching down from the gurney, I gave the back of Tuesday’s neck one last vigorous rub. “I’ll be back in a little while,” I told him. “You can watch me through the window.”

A candy striper had won the best job of the day. “There’s a nice young lady who is going to hang out with you,” I told Tuesday.

He stared up plaintively, but he seemed to understand.

We’d made all the necessary arrangements so that Tuesday wouldn’t be totally isolated. Still, I felt a little twinge of sadness watching as he was escorted to the room next to pre-op. A large Plexiglas window separated the two rooms. Tuesday, along with the candy striper, could see me and I could see him.

I was rolled into place, and a different nurse put an oxygen mask around my nose and mouth. They took my vitals again and asked me my name and date of birth. Was that to check if my mind was clear? Were they really curious about who I was? I hoped it was the former. Next, they started a fresh IV line, which I assumed was for the anesthesia.

Mostly, what I did in the pre-op room was to lie there and wait for everyone to ready themselves for the procedure. This is the place, a lot of hospital patients will agree, where the patient suddenly seems invisible. It was strange and, I admit, a little irritating, actually. While I waited there, nurses and doctors and other staff members had a long conversation about what they were going to eat for lunch. “Let’s get Subway,” one of them said. “We just had Subway yesterday,” someone else countered.

It was as if I wasn’t lying there or wasn’t awake. Even worse, no one seemed to care that I hadn’t eaten for more than twelve hours. I was famished. No one was taking my lunch order, and I knew no one would. Just as I was feeling a little grumpy and considering making a point by announcing what I’d like to eat, the moment of truth arrived. I looked at a big white clock on the opposite wall. It was nearly 1 P.M. when I waved to Tuesday for the last time. Yes, I realized I was thinking it again. It was the last time Tuesday would see me as a biped. My eyes watered a little bit thinking about that. Then, the orderly rolled me into the operating room.