Dog Named Leaf (5 page)

A
FTER SCHEDULING MY APPOINTMENT WITH
D
R
. N
USSBAUM FOR
a week after the phone call from Dr. Lucas, my warm feelings about the growing trust of my little ball of black fur mixed with foreboding. I recalled that shortly before Dr. Lucas’s call, without warning or reason, I’d been having the strangest visual episodes. A pounding sensation would start in my forehead between my eyebrows like boulders barreling down from a mountaintop, and disturbing images would push toward the surface of my mind. I felt dumbfounded by this unstoppable visual barrage.

I was driving to the office one day when suddenly snapshots of past events appeared like images on a high-definition screen. I struggled to focus on the traffic around me. Each memory reminded me of a moment when I’d been petty, bitter, or selfish toward my family. Although I hadn’t thought about these incidents in years, they now appeared to be etched on my psyche.

Some of the most disturbing memories were of arresting violent people. Movies and television dramas that depict police in action show them quickly moving from one incident to the next without much reflection. In reality, the aftermath of a horrid crime sticks in a cop’s mind like poison.

I finally made it into the parking garage and slammed my car door with more force than I had intended. The mental snapshots ended as quickly as they had started.

The troubling images continued to invade my mind with varying levels of intensity over the next few weeks. Occasionally I’d have two or three days free of the attacks. But soon the memories would begin again with even more ferocity.

I knew there had to be a reason for this, but what could it be? I had done good things in my life. I’d always worked hard at each job. Why wasn’t I recalling personal accomplishments? After all, I’d been a decent person—a good son, father, friend, employee, brother, and husband. And now a person who was helping a broken dog become whole again.

Having all these unbidden flashes of my previous mistakes caused me to contemplate how I’d arrived at this point in my life. With Leaf soundly snoring on my chest after our nightly walks, I reflected on how single events, even ones that seemed unremarkable at the time, could change the direction of a person’s life.

In Atlanta I’d been assigned to a high-crime section of the city. I answered a domestic-dispute call late one night. By the time I arrived at the apartment’s ground-level entrance, the verbal battle between a man and woman was in full swing. Theirs was a classic domestic fight over money, and the use of drugs and alcohol had made it escalate.

I worked to bring the noise level down a couple of notches and calm the craziness. A young boy of about seven or eight sat on the battling couple’s stained green sofa near a dimly lit lamp. Next to him cuddled a shorthaired mutt. The dog clung to the boy’s side and licked tears off the dazed child’s cheeks. This little dog took it upon himself to protect the boy while chaos swirled around them.

The couple’s emotions eventually cooled off. Like many domestic disputes, my only recourse was to separate these two people for the night. I hoped that they would have a less threatening discussion of their differences the following day.

I took a mental snapshot of the scene of the child and his comforting dog. Observing the love between them in such an extreme circumstance caused me to think about our family’s golden retriever Prana. She often restored my sanity and helped heal me after the intensity of a full watch on inner-city patrol. After one especially rough night-watch in Atlanta, I came home exhausted. Linda and the kids were sleeping, and I didn’t want to wake them. Still in uniform, with my gun belt on, I slowly dropped my weary body onto the carpeted floor. Prana sidled next to me. She pressed herself hard against my side. I looked over to see her gently licking my hand. Without taking her eyes off me, she started caressing my cheek with her soft tongue. I felt all the stress and emotions of that night slowly dissipate. It was as if Prana soaked up all the negativity and took away my burdens. She gave without asking anything in return.

Police work was convincing me that people were rarely good at finding safety and love with one another. But that night with the little boy and dog, something inside switched. I decided that I wanted to write about how animals brought unconditional love, healing, and security to people when they needed it most.

Now, this wish was being fulfilled in my work with Linda. I remembered that afternoon years ago when she and I talked about the next stage of our lives as we walked Taylor around Lake Harriet.

“Animals really are like angels,” Linda commented. I watched a lone, white seagull fly near the water’s edge.

“We’re not alone in how strongly we feel about our pets,” I said. “Think how empty and quiet our home would be without the gang there.”

“We both love to write and we love animals,” Linda said with a grin. “What if we combined the two things?”

“Are enough people interested in that kind of writing?”

Many people I knew thought of their pets as disposable property. I wondered if there were others who observed and believed in the spiritual nature of animals as sentient beings.

Linda suggested that we help ordinary people express their appreciation for animal heroes in everyday life. Taking a deep breath, Linda looked at me and said, “Since we want to bring out the spiritual element in animals, let’s call our writing ‘Angel Animals.’ ”

A few months later, we were calling ourselves the Angel Animals Network. We started publishing true stories from around the world in our homegrown, subscription-based Angel Animals Newsletter. Within a year we were doing fund-raisers for local animal shelters, were featured on local TV and in newspapers, and were having articles about us picked up by national wire services. We had more than a thousand subscribers
to our newsletter, wrote a proposal for our first book, acquired a literary agent, and signed a contract for Angel Animals, the book. One book grew into dozens more.

Minnesota turned out to be the best spot on earth for launching a project that focused on books about animals and the nice people who love them. It was the land of ducks, geese, and innocence. Being polite, known as “Minnesota Nice,” seemed to be number one on the list of requirements for living here. A four-way stop at an intersection took forever to get through. Nobody wanted to be overly presumptuous or appear rude by going first. Instead, without any honking, drivers waved for others to proceed until someone finally moved. For the first time in my life, I saw traffic on a busy four-lane highway stop both ways while drivers patiently waited for a family of mallard ducks to waddle across the highway.

Before we had even made the decision to move from Atlanta, on our first visit to Minneapolis and St. Paul, Linda pointed to graffiti scrawled on the underpass of a concrete bridge wall. “All the words are correctly spelled and punctuated,” she said. When my face didn’t register the humor in her statement, she continued, “They take education seriously in Minnesota.”

At fast-food restaurants, clean-cut servers spoke intelligently and appeared to have been transported from jobs at Disneyland. Minnesota had one of the highest literacy rates and number of people finishing high school. When a teenage server at a coffee shop asked, “Would you like cutlery with your muffin?” I knew we were home.

Now, on the nights prior to my appointment with the brain surgeon, I sat with Leaf’s relaxed body spread across my knees. I did not yet know how Leaf would transform from an emotionally needy pup into a fiercely courageous healer in my future. I wondered if the upsetting flashbacks to
my past mistakes and regrets were serving as preludes to the treacherous course my life was about to take.

Although my strong faith would strengthen my connection with family, friends, and coworkers, ultimately, no matter how much they loved me, there would be a time when no one could give me the assurance I needed. I would have to rely on the help of a slender, floppy-eared dog. He would be the heavenly messenger to save my life as surely as if he had swum out into the ocean and pulled my drowning body to shore.

T
HE DAY OF MY APPOINTMENT WITH
D
R
. N
USSBAUM ARRIVED TOO
quickly. I’d soon have to make decisions that would affect everything. I have a high regard for the brain, particularly
my
brain. My primary fear was that if the aneurysm burst before or during surgery, I would become disabled. I worried I would become like my father—a burden on others. How could I keep my job if my memory and problem-solving functions were reduced or destroyed altogether?

Dr. Nussbaum’s Minneapolis office was located in a green-tinted, glass-encased, seven-story building near Lake Harriet. How ironic, I thought, that Linda, Leaf, Taylor, and I had blithely walked around the Minneapolis lakes countless times over the years, passing the building where my brain surgeon had his office. Was this some kind of cosmic joke? The building had what appeared to be a metal sailboat perched on its roof, as if steering the building into a lake headwind. Even though sailboats dotted the lake each summer season, the artsy version of a sailboat looked out of place to me.

With so much out of my hands, I worked to keep some aspects of life under my control, including knowing where I would be going for an important appointment. I decided to scout out the doctor’s office the day before our visit was scheduled. Upon arrival I found that the building’s signage only contained the name of the neurosurgery center, not the doctor’s name.

The following day I dropped off Leaf at his doggie day-care center. At least I had the assurance that he’d be looked after while we were at an appointment to determine my future.

Linda and I slowly walked toward the building’s side door. I took a quick look at the familiar city lake. How I wished to be walking around its choppy blue water on this gray day with my pup light on his feet and not a care in the world.

The moment we entered the ground floor of the building, I smelled fresh coffee and muffins wafting from the coffee shop.

“Muffins?” I asked, trying to tempt Linda.

“Maybe on our way out,” she replied unenthusiastically.

Normally I would have a tough time passing up such a treat. But today, we reluctantly continued our trek, with me leading the way.

Linda became quieter. I needed to give her some space.

As I pushed the elevator button to the floor for Dr. Nussbaum’s office, anger rose like bile in my throat. I wanted to blurt out, “What am I doing
here? This is all a mistake!” My next thought was
where is all the emotion coming from? What happened to my reasonable, Spock-like approach to the situation?
The elevator door opened, and we entered—one quiet and one very angry person.

The hallway outside the doctor’s fourth-floor office was under construction. Large plastic sheets lined the halls, and floors exposed bare concrete. No one was working, although unsettled sawdust swirled in the sunlit air. I had noticed construction materials and the stripped-down floor on my scouting mission the day before but was still taken aback at having to make my way through it now. Was this a sign of what I’d find inside? Sloppiness, unfinished business, poor attention to detail?

I opened the door to Dr. Nussbaum’s office and let Linda enter first. I almost closed the door behind her. Couldn’t I just stay in the safety of the hallway? Couldn’t I wait out in the car while she talked to the doctor?

The young receptionist was businesslike and expressionless. She handed me a clipboard and asked me to fill out a form for gathering basic background information. Linda and I found two empty chairs together and sat down. I quickly filled out the form and returned it to the receptionist. I looked over at Linda. Her eyes telegraphed that she felt frightened. We usually chatted about almost everything. But now we sat in silence, taking in the sights and sounds of the office lobby.

When I’m feeling nervous in a new situation, I sometimes take my mind off what I’m about to do by mentally redecorating the environment. The first thing I noticed in the reception area was its nearly naked walls and sparse furniture. I imagined adding a few paintings of dogs, cats, and nature scenes. While indulging in this game didn’t make me feel better about being there, it allowed me not to immediately focus on the unnerving details of other patients in the room.

When I did let myself observe the people around me, I noticed that some wore baseball caps or head coverings. Others showed long scars across their skulls. The sight of shaved or bald heads, visible
wounds, and the sounds of whispered speech forced me to remember why I was there.

I looked at Linda and touched her hand. She shared a nervous smile and handed me a brochure about Dr. Nussbaum that she picked up from the reception desk. I had done some initial research, but this brochure made it clearer that the man who would hold my life in his hands was more famous in the world of brain surgery than we knew.

He was recognized worldwide for being an expert in a highly effective procedure for closing off blood flow in the brain. It involved the traditional clipping of the artery that feeds the aneurysm, thereby eliminating the risk of a rupture. He had done so many of these procedures that he was considered the best. His book on the subject was in bookstores. An entire wing of a hospital was dedicated to his neurosurgery patients.

I felt better after reading the brochure, but it gave birth to new worry. My research had indicated that there were two ways to go with brain-aneurysm surgery. One would be to have invasive surgery with clipping. The other alternative was a less invasive procedure of intravascular entry and then filling the aneurysm from the inside with material that would block blood from entering the area.

I wanted to make sure that after the doctor had answered my questions about the two options, I stayed neutral about which type of surgery to choose. My decision needed to be based on facts and not an emotional preference. I did not want to build a case in my mind for one procedure over the other. I just wanted the facts.

I clutched the large brown envelope containing images of the X-ray CAT scan that Dr. Nussbaum’s superefficient nurse Jody Lowary had told me to bring to the office for my first visit. “It is all in here,” I said to Linda as I held up the envelope. It was a bit surreal that the package contained brain images that could determine my destiny.

A cheerful woman in her late fifties, wearing a colorful-print medical smock, walked out to the waiting room and loudly called, “Allen Anderson.”

I would have preferred that she call me “Mr. Anderson” so the world, which at the time was everyone in the waiting room, would not know such personal information as my first name. I still clung to the idea that the diagnosis was a mistake, a misunderstanding, and I didn’t belong here anyway.

In the consultation room I carefully examined the large chart on the wall. It displayed well-rendered drawings. They depicted perfectly formed red and gray unruptured aneurysms ballooning from arteries. Each aneurysm had a well-defined neck. I wondered if mine looked that way. If I could have one request in this experience, I wanted my aneurysm to have a well-defined neck. It would be easier for the doctor to clip and make the less invasive surgery an option.

When the esteemed doctor entered the office, I kept my facial expression neutral so it wouldn’t register surprise. He introduced himself, turned away from me, and took a seat behind his desk. While he had his back to us, I looked at Linda. She mouthed words, but I couldn’t make out what she said. Later she told me that on first seeing Dr. Nussbaum, all she could think of was the fictional television character Dr. Doogie Howser—a sixteen-year-old brilliant physician who works as a hospital resident.

I stared at Dr. Nussbaum’s hands, thinking about the requirements for his profession. I reassured myself that younger people tend to have steadier hands. In this respect, surely his youth would be a plus while doing delicate brain surgery.

Nurse Jody joined us in the office. Dr. Nussbaum pulled out the CAT scan images to view. I briefly wondered if Nurse Jody played Dr. Watson to his Sherlock Holmes. Holmes was the mastermind of any mystery. In an effort to cheer myself up, I decided that Holmes would be my nickname for Dr. Nussbaum.

The doctor patiently answered each of the questions from a list I’d prepared. When I asked, “Which side of the brain will you enter?” he
looked surprised at the question. He evaluated the CAT scan again and told me he would open my skull on the right side. “Check. Drill right side of brain,” I wrote on my list.

I glanced over at Linda. Her eyes had glazed over. She sat with lips frozen in a grim line. Her hands clasped together tightly in her lap.

Dr. Nussbaum posted the CAT scan on the wall so we could all look at it. An unfocused blob lay where only an artery should be. It looked nothing like the nice, easy-to-see, colorful drawings on his office wall chart. “I don’t see a well-defined neck to the aneurysm,” he said.

Disappointment slapped me in the face. The surgeon was not giving me the answer I wanted to my one request.

“I need for you to have an arteriogram.” He explained that the test would provide a more detailed picture of my brain.

“If an aneurysm does not have a well-defined neck, is it harder to clip?” I asked.

“I can clip anything,” he answered with confidence.

I was beginning to like this guy.