The doctor looks at her watch. “Yes.”
Decisions. Lately they’re not my strong suit. I think of the ways recently in which I’ve felt paralyzed myself. Should I quit my job to freelance full-time as a writer? Should I talk to Jeffrey about the doubts I have in our relationship? About the suspicious text message he received? Could Lily and I start over again on our own?
“And how much does spinal surgery cost for a dog that is mostly spine?” The doctor crouches in front of me and offers a half-smile. She doesn’t need to tell me things I already know: that this is always a risk with the breed. That purebred dogs come with these health issues, as they’ve been genetically mutated for purpose or show.
“All together, everything—anesthesia, myelogram, surgery, recovery—we’re talking about six thousand dollars.”
Now it’s me who is left immobile. Six thousand dollars. I look at Jeffrey. I think of dwindling savings. Of having just paid off all my credit card debt. Of vacations that might not be taken, retirement accounts that won’t get contributed to, of having to push my dreams of writing full-time back another year.
“It’s your call,” Jeffrey says. “I can’t make this decision. She’s your dog.” Your dog.
I want to punch him. I want to punch everyone, except maybe the doctor who can save her.
“Why don’t I leave you to talk it over for a moment?” The doctor stands, and before I know it I’ve grabbed the sleeve of her lab coat.
“She has a ball. It’s red. Red ball. She loves it. She’ll play with it for hours—tossing it, chasing it, hiding it, finding it. She’ll play until she’s out of breath, and even then she’ll take it to her bed and fall asleep on top of it. She is alive when she’s playing with that ball. If she . . .”
I can’t even finish the words. Jeffrey places his hand on my shoulder as I’m reduced to tears again.
“If she can’t . . . play with that ball anymore, then I don’t know what kind of life there is left for her.”
The doctor turns to me. She’s not unmoved, but she’s seen people wrestle with this decision before and there’s nothing so special about me.
I continue through gasps and swallows of oxygen. “I don’t want you to think I’m a horrible person. That I would let money even become a part of this decision. It’s just I don’t know what her life would be if she can’t play with that ball.”
I plead with my eyes. Fix her! Save her! One nod is all that I need, and she studies me before giving it. She has heard me, and she’s trying to communicate something. “I’ll be outside in the hall.”
It’s not even necessary for her to go. “Will you be the one performing the surgery?”
“Yes.” Another nod. She’s telling me Lily will walk again. She’s telling me she knows this, but legally can’t say it because of ridiculous reasons like malpractice insurance. So she’s telling me without words, in the way that hostages blink secret messages in videotapes that evade detection by their captors.
I look at Jeffrey, who once again says, “I can’t make this decision.” At least this time he adds, “But I will stand by yours.”
I look back at the doctor. My heartbeat is in my ears. The room is hot and smells like medicine. The fluorescents blink angrily, asking to be replaced. My head is spinning, but with adrenaline, not with dizzying thoughts. Now is when I have to start making decisions. Now is my time.
I stand tall with my hands by my sides and now I’m the one who speaks with authoritative command.
“Do it.”
We’ll Take a Cup of Kindness Yet for Auld Lang Syne