A Better Goodbye
For the many years I worked at the M.D. Anderson
Cancer Center where pet visitation was prohibited.
I begged, pleaded, and cajoled to have the rules
changed, but always got back the same answer
-- NO!
So, I resorted to sneaking in the tiny furry ones
for our patients who were never coming out.
At least they, and their beloved pets, could see
each other one last time.
One morning, the Head Nurse on one of the
units paged me to let me know that the parents
of a 28 year old man were insistent that they
HAD to bring his 14 year old Yorkshire Terrier
to visit him, as he was dying.
She wanted to warn me that they might
complain about her to me, because the parents
did not seem to accept the nurse's explanation
of the rules.
The parents did indeed come to my office.
They were not angry.
Their grief had taken them past that.
They were at the point of accepting what
they could see so clearly was happening,
although they were deeply sad.
They explained that their son and his dog
had been inseparable since he was 14 years old
and they brought her home as a puppy.
The dog was back at the motel, where they
had been living for the past 2 months while
their only child was receiving experimental
treatment for stage 4 Lymphoma.
The dog was grieving as deeply as they were,
and was not in good health herself.
They didn't raise voices, or threaten.
They stated their case with their hearts,
which were breaking.
Before they finished, I asked them how big
she was, and if she was noisy.
I found out she weighed 4 pounds and never
barked. We plotted a strategy, and before long,
Dad had returned to the motel and brought
the dog to me outside the hospital.
I explained to the little dog that she would need
to hide under my jacket and be very quiet.
She looked up at me with big brown eyes that
blinked with great wisdom and understanding.
Tucked away from sight, we hurried through the
halls and up the elevators to the young man's room.
I instructed the parents to stand with their backs
to the door of the room, blocking the natural view
of those entering.
The patient was very, very weak.
His bed elevated his upper body at 45 degrees.
IV tubes and an infusion pump dominated his left arm.
When we entered the room I placed the Yorkie
on the bed on his left side. Her whole body
trembled with happiness and she made tiny cries
of joy as she quickly moved up to his neck and
buried her nose under his chin.
Her little tail was wagging so hard.
Then, this young man, who had been
semi-comatose for days, very, very slowly
and laboriously, lifted his right arm and moved it
painfully across his chest to rest on his dog,
as he just as slowly turned his head to her.
A tear trickled down his cheek.
My composure was gone.
It is a scene I will never forget.
The sight of absolute love, reunited.
There was nothing else in the world that mattered
to them, or frankly, to me, at that moment.
The _expression on his face,
along with his parents, and that amazing little dog,
are forever burned into my heart.
Before I left I told them to call me immediately
if anyone challenged them.
Moreover, I'd take the dog back out to the car
myself when they left.
I dropped by to visit the nurse and reminded her
of a few things she "owed me" and told her I was cashing in.
Then I paged the physician in charge,
who also owed me some "favors," and made
certain he was aware and free of blame.
The patient rallied the next day, after having spent
several hours with his best friend the day before.
He and his parents were able to talk for the first time
in days.
The dog rallied, too.
They said it was the first she'd eaten in 3 days.
When I visited again, the young man was alert,
and the dog was sleeping peacefully, curled
between his shoulder and chin.
There was a peace in that room that had not been
there before.
The next day, in the wee hours of the morning
before the sun rose, the young man breathed
his last breath.
When his parents left, they hugged me
until I was certain my ribs would break,
and we all cried together.
They told me that for as long as they lived I
would be in their prayers.
Those couple of days were the best hours
they had with him in weeks. They had said their goodbyes.
Later, I learned that little Yorkie, too,
died on that very same day.
Like her beloved master, she slipped away.
I know they went together.
Several days later my boss called and asked me
about something he needed and before he hung
up he said,
"Leslie, I know about the dog."
"What dog?" I replied.
"Leslie, I know about the dogs.
Could you just let me know ahead of time
when you do these things, so that I'll be
expecting the calls, OK?"
With a huge smile on my face, I said,
"I can do that!"
It was as much a sanction as I'd ever get,
and I was grateful for it.
by Leslie Bean