Love Is the Best Medicine (25 page)

Constant reminders of the possibility of loss can leave you vulnerable
to the notion of what lies beyond the logistics of physiological death. And what’s so bad about that? If it gives me comfort to believe in a spiritual afterlife then so be it. I promise to keep it to myself, no one’s going to bill me for wasting my own time, and I seriously doubt that one day I will find myself standing alone in that silent black abyss, ridiculed by a James Earl Jones voice-over for being such a misguided loser. Why not extend the same courtesy to pet owners? Should the animals in our lives be any different? Think about your own pets, the ones who are no longer with you, and the ease with which you can conjure up their presence. They linger in our memories with remarkable clarity. Nearly forty years later I can still see my first dog, a formidable German shepherd named Patch, accidentally released into our backyard, chasing down a bunch of my childhood friends like he was tracking down escaped convicts. I call his name and he’s turning to face me now, right now I can clearly see him, ignoring thrilled kindergarten screams, his enormous pink tongue flopping out the side of his mouth, offering me a look that says, “What? I’m just funning with them.”

Then there’s my first cat, Reginald, a tough ear-torn barn cat adopted as a stray. Reggie never backed down from a fight. It didn’t matter if you were a Pomeranian or a Great Dane, he would shock his hair, arch his spine, and stand his ground. Right now, a decade after his death, I can still feel the weight of him as I pulled him out from his favorite shelf in the linen closet, still feel the barbs of his scratchy licks across the back of my hand, see the contentment in his closed eyes, his body warmed by a carefully selected band of sunlight, empty paws making muffins as he slept. How can these animals from so long ago be so close, so tangible in our minds, so able to vividly conjure all the sensations of what it meant to have them in my life? Perhaps it goes back to the purity of our relationships with our pets. What is shared is plain and simple, uncomplicated by disapproval, resentment, or conflict. Their attributes remain clear and easy to retrieve and can be relied upon just the same after they are
gone. How far away can our pets be if they are with us faster than a pickup on the first ring? Sometimes they are so close they may as well be calling us.

Having come this far, exposed and candid, perhaps I can find sanctuary behind one incontestable truth pervading operating rooms across the country—the reality of everyday miracles. From time to time the inexplicable and the impossible happen. Behind a paper mask and under artificial lights I get to perform surgery on an unconscious body, the physical part of what we think of as a pet. Essentially I’m working construction. I’m the guy splicing wires, welding pipes, shoring up support beams, and generally renovating the house. All the other stuff, the important stuff, I cannot influence. These are the intangibles, the memories, the history, the bonds, the things that make the difference between a house and a home, the things that make the difference between a body covered in scales or feathers or fur and our pet. It is this everything else that eludes me. This everything else is the spirit of the animal. Under anesthesia, it might move out for a while, but when the surgery is done and the gas turned off, it comes back. In our worst-case scenario, regardless of whether it returns or not, it doesn’t cease to exist. Anesthesia is just a training run for the soul.

In relative terms, I could argue that Sandi Rasmussen’s request was actually quite pedestrian in comparison to that of a client I met several years ago, a fellow I shall call Mr. Prestone. Mr. Prestone was forcibly dragged into my examination room by his sturdy Akita, Phoenix, in the manner of a fabled Saint Bernard from the Austrian Alps on a life-or-death rescue mission. Having delivered his master at the appropriate destination, the dog glanced my way, calculated that I was as worthless as an empty food bowl, and found a perfect patch of cool flooring on which to lie down. Subjectively Phoenix appeared to be a picture of health, unlike his master, for Mr. Prestone was a young man prematurely aged by his weight,
tired eyes lost in socket shadows and hound-dog cheeks hiding behind a lackluster attempt at facial fur. He was probably in his early twenties but I felt certain that he had not been carded in a bar for some time.

After introductions I rummaged with my paperwork, trying to glimpse the name of the referring veterinary hospital and the reason for this consultation. But no practice was listed and the dog’s problem described only as “second opinion.” Such a vague justification for our meeting was most unusual.

“So, I see here that Phoenix is nine years old. He looks great. What seems to be the problem?”

Mr. Prestone sucked back an enormous breath and let it out through his nostrils.

“Nothing,” he said, a smile seeping into the corners of his lips, as he obviously savored my confusion. “At least, not until he’s dead.”

I nodded, trying to act casual, forcing a trite “uh-huh.”

“Do you think he is going to die? Is that why you are here?” I said realizing too late that each word had come out loud and well spaced, as though I might be trying to grab the attention of someone in the waiting room who could rescue me.

He blinked several times and leaned forward as if to confide.

“I need the expertise of a surgeon when the time comes to put Phoenix to sleep.”

I assured him that, flattered as I was by his thinking of me, technically any veterinarian could perform the procedure.

My response garnered another snappy sniff and forced exhalation.

“I’m talking about cryonics,” he said, a tetchy edge creeping into his words. “I imagined, incorrectly it seems, that you would be sensitive to the timing and requisite needs of this delicate procedure.”

Involuntarily muscles around my eyes must have betrayed confusion or trepidation. Mr. Prestone pressed on.

“See, I need a surgeon who can be on call 24/7 as the time
approaches, available to perform the act of euthanasia, flush the vascular system with heparin, and initiate the cooling process prior to exsanguination and the administration of cryoprotectant solution.”

I looked over at Phoenix sleeping at his master’s feet. I looked around the room hunting for the hidden camera. Nothing. Mr. Prestone was still talking, rambling on about details beyond my understanding—neuropreservation versus whole body, nanotechnology, vitrification, and ice crystal formation. It was obvious that he had done his research and was prepared to invest tens of thousands of dollars in the possibility that Phoenix could rise from the frozen tundra at some point in the distant and, in my opinion, extremely remote and scary future.

Now I understood his reason for being here, this second opinion: Dr. First Opinion had probably run from him screaming.

Yes, this was a most unusual end-of-life discussion, but still, diplomacy and respect were in order. I assured him that when Phoenix died our hospital staff would do their utmost to accommodate his wishes within the realms of safe and ethical medical practice.

But I still found one question irresistible.

“Mr. Prestone. Pardon me, but why?”

I was rewarded with a grin. Perhaps he was relieved that someone had finally taken the time to ask the obvious.

“Because I am going to be cryonically preserved myself. I want to come back, and if I have a future after my death, I want it to be with Phoenix. If I’m riding this lifeboat into the future, there had best be room for my dog.”

His grin was contagious. He would get no argument from me.

T
HE
beeping pager on my hip finally shattered the introspection—a liquid crystal summons to surgery for my next case. I returned Helen’s X-rays to their folder and headed over to the prep area, where my patient lay ready and waiting. I put on a pair of sterile
surgical gloves and sidled into position. I couldn’t help but notice that both of my colleagues appeared to have been injured, making me wonder about the savagery of this particular beast.

“What’s his name?” I asked, looking down upon this architect of mayhem.

“Pikachu,” said the technician, adjusting the face mask feeding anesthesia and oxygen into a ferocious snout.

“And how much does he weigh?”

No one answered, the technician all business, shaving a patch of fur, hunting for a heartbeat with a goopy Doppler probe.

“Fifty-nine grams,” said Dr. Hurley, the intern on the case after consulting her record. “But don’t let his size fool you.”

She held up her hand, the tips of her index and fourth fingers crudely wrapped in Band-Aids, blood seeping beyond their sticky margins. The technician joined in with her own pair, worn like the matching rings of people inducted into some kind of clandestine society.

“Perhaps it’s time to put a ‘caution, will bite’ warning in his record,” I said, draping off the back leg of this demon masquerading as a little white mouse. “How many people has he bitten?”

“Five,” said the technician, speaking over the amplified whoop-whoop heart sounds reminiscent of a Chinook helicopter banking over Saigon. “He’s a sneaky little bugger. Sucks you in, all cute and twitchy and before you know it, bang, he’s feasting on your fingertip.”

I was only half listening now, concentrating on my bit of microsurgery. Unbeknownst to his owner, Pikachu had broken both bones in his shin, severing the delicate blood supply to his foot. All the tissue below the break was dead, black, and shrunken. My mission was to remove the dead tissue, clean up the wound, and get out as fast as possible.

As I was placing the last of my impossibly fine stitches, I said, “What’s this I hear about a paralyzed tree frog?”

I glanced up at the technician, caught her smile, and went straight back to my needle. I was referring to a bizarre rumor swirling around the hospital, a rumor I had caught in snippets and one that deserved my attention.

“What have you heard?” she said, and I didn’t need to look up to know she was enjoying her advantage.

“Can I have some skin glue, please?”

Dr. Hurley disappeared in search of sterile glue. Leaving stitches in the skin of rodents is asking for trouble. Talented incisors will have them out and your work ruined as soon as they wake up.

“Someone told me one of your clients wears a tree frog in her cleavage?”

“It’s true,” she said. “Right here.” She slapped a palm against the V of her scrub top. “A young girl, acts like and dresses like Paris Hilton, but instead of a Chihuahua or a Yorkshire terrier she prefers to accessorize with an aqua-blue tree frog.”

I dug deep for a look that said, “Doesn’t everybody!”

“The poor thing was acting all floppy on its back legs. She wanted to know if it had been poisoned.”

I know nothing about pet frogs but I was curious why the owner would leap to this conclusion.

“Amphibians easily absorb chemicals through their skin,” said the tech, “and when we found out how she likes to show him off in public, poisoning seemed like the most likely cause.”

“Poisoning,” I said. “From what?”

The technician nodded, fighting to keep a straight face.

“Victoria’s Secret Breast Firming Cream.”

Her delivery was perfect, her pause just long enough for me to see the connection.

Dr. Hurley reappeared with my bottle of skin glue.

“The owner confessed to recently using this particular product in an attempt to enhance the contours of her cleavage. Naturally we wanted to find out exactly what chemicals give this magical cream its
firming powers and that’s when we hit a wall, the hospital’s Internet firewall. For some reason the IT department didn’t believe us when we told them we needed to surf the Web pages of a popular lingerie company in search of potential toxins.”

I placed a few blue drops on the skin edges and pinched them together, extricating myself from Pikachu and this medical-grade Super Glue before I became his first postoperative snack.

I was about to selflessly volunteer my services for the greater good of cleavage-riding tree frogs everywhere by thoroughly researching the hazardous Victoria’s Secret Web site, when Dr. Able appeared at my side.

“Have a chance to look at your schedule?” he asked. “Squeeze in my spaniel with the lung mass?”

I tried to remember what was lined up over the next few days but now that I had made up my mind it no longer seemed to matter. Any inconvenience would be mine because I needed to make this happen.

“Were you planning a CAT scan first?”

“I wish,” he said, “but the owner just wants us to go get it if we can.”

I paused, wondering if this would come back to bite me on the bottom, and said, “Tell Helen’s owner I’ll do the surgery.”

“Great. But when?”

“Tomorrow,” I said. “Let’s do this first thing tomorrow morning.”

M
Y
meeting with Helen the following morning only affirmed my decision to expose her to Cleo’s magic. She was in a holding cage outside the anesthetic induction area and after checking the labeled band around her neck to confirm her identity, I made my introduction. The first thing that struck me was her independent spirit. Sure, I got a friendly little tail wag but there was no submissive roll over and pee. She was clearly not the kind of dog willing to flirt indiscriminately.
In fact she seemed distracted, like someone you meet at a party who abruptly ends a conversation as soon as someone more important comes along. I imagined that someone more important was the person who dropped her off—Eileen.

Though it may seem like a strange confession, I was also pleased by her physical imperfections. Like a cheeky street urchin, she had something of the Artful Dodger about her—the literal “warts and all” texture to her skin, the chartreuse barnacles of dental plaque, the heady bouquet of old sneakers wafting from her ears—which only served to enhance her appeal, her vital authenticity. It further fueled my affection for Helen’s owner, making me respect her motivation even more. This had to be true love.

But as I listened to her heart and lungs with my stethoscope, I began to imagine what some people might think about my mission. Not surprisingly, there will be those who claim I was simply air-brushing my guilt for what had happened to Cleo, that I was finding a solution in order to realize a conviction. And maybe they were right. We all want to feel better about our mistakes. However, now that I was about to take Helen into the bright, sterile world of surgery, it wasn’t my commitment or determination that gave me pause, it was the spiritual basis of the promise that made me uneasy. I mean, aren’t miraculous clinical outcomes the kind of phenomena usually unmasked in retrospect, with hindsight and a vivid imagination, by joining dots, seeing patterns, and discovering a bigger picture? I didn’t want this endeavor to feel too forced, too contrived. I hardly knew Cleo. It wasn’t as though I had much to draw upon. Could I involve Cleo in a prayer I might chant over Helen’s sleeping body? Would that do the trick?