Heel Dog! Part III

The orthopedic surgeon I was assigned in the emergency room has referred me to a podiatrist in his group because my heel fracture is so complicated. Additional x-rays have been taken of my foot and I learn that, while my ankle is fine, my right heel bone has shattered into five large pieces and a dozen smaller bone fragments. I have no idea how I managed to break my heel bone when I would have told you – and, in fact, I did tell you — I landed on my stomach. My doctors are suspect. At any rate, surgery is required.

But I can’t have surgery until a pesky recurrent chest pain that I complained about a couple of weeks ago is investigated. I have one of those chemical stress tests and a scan of my chest to see what the problem is and to see if I’m okay for surgery. Even though I feel like I’m having a heart attack during the stress test, if given the choice, I’d still pick the chemical version of this test over the usual treadmill test. Mainly because I know I’d get a better grade on the chemical one. My first three steps on a treadmill would no doubt, cause s stitch in my side. Plus, I have no desire to keep “running” – in my case, flailing – on a never-ceasing treadmill, long after my body has begun screaming in agony.

Finally, almost three weeks after my fall, I am scheduled for surgery. My podiatrist, with my orthopedic surgeon assisting, reconstructs my heel bone and implants some hardware to keep everything in place. I spend five days in a pretty posh hospital. I’m in a private room with French doors that lead to a balcony I won’t be able to use. Pat enjoys it, though. He also enjoys the gourmet dining the hospital provides too. I sure hope he’s treating Roxie all right at home…

—   —   —

I am finally discharged and sent home with instructions to keep my foot elevated to help the healing process and keep the swelling down. A visiting nurse will come to the house every other day to change my bandages and clean my surgical wound. Because she’s not coming every day, I will need assistance changing my dressing on the nurse’s days off.

So, here’s the thing: Pat has a business trip scheduled and he won’t be able – at least initially – to be that person. Enter: Julie, I my generous and big-hearted sister, who has agreed to fly to California from Michigan. She will be the person to assist me in my post-surgical recuperation during my first week out of the hospital. Her job isn’t fun. Not only is Julie responsible for rebandaging my wound, she also serves as my chauffeur.

Lucky for all of us, Julie takes an immediate liking to Roxie. I feel bad for Roxie who is still suffering from Pat’s targeted hostility toward her. Poor dog.

During this time, I am being treated for multiple sclerosis which involves daily injections into my abdomen, administered by either myself or Pat. Since Pat is away, the task is left to either Julie or me. Julie will not even consider giving me an injection. This girl, who has the stomach to undress and clean my gross-looking surgical wound doesn’t have it in her to give me a measly little shot! I don’t like to give myself the injections either, but for what I imagine are different reasons. Mine: I don’t like to hurt myself. And the shots do hurt; I don’t care if all my health care providers poo-poo me when I complain. According to them, I exaggerate. The injections couldn’t possibly hurt an adult when the needles, apparently, are the size they use on babies.

(They don’t get that with my scleroderma, the skin on my abdomen is thick and hard. To give myself an injection, you really have to jab the syringe really hard, a technique that I suspect Nurse Ratched would use…or that of a stabbing murderer.) At any rate, Julie can’t see herself stabbing me – which is good. But kind of funny given that in our youth, I remember several occasions when she would partner with another sibling to hold me down on the floor so she could play “typewriter” on my belly – a torturous “game” we used to play on each other that involved stabbing another’s abdomen with one’s straightened and locked index fingers. Ouch!

During Julie’s stay, I continue to work from home and attend even attend a board meeting of the medical society where I am the executive director. Julie drives me to and from places I need to be and then I move myself around with a walker – having given up on crutches – with, yes, you guessed it, yellow tennis balls affixed to the walker’s front feet. If I didn’t look like an old lady before, I certainly look like one now! If anyone hears: clunk-hop…clunk-hop…clunk-hop…they know I’m coming.

—   —   —

After a week, Julie returns to Michigan. My wound is not healing. My doctor prescribes some sort of suction machine to hasten the healing. A visiting nurse will come every day to clean out the vacuum and re-affix it to my surgical wound, which is under the outside of my right ankle. The noise the vacuum makes is disgusting. Think of the suction straw used by dental hygienists to suck up extra saliva from your mouth. My vacuum is sucking up goo.

After a couple of weeks on the device with no measurable healing, it’s determined that I need a skin graft operation to take skin from my groin and use it to cover my wound. A plastic surgeon will perform the procedure. When asked, the surgeon refuses to include fat suctioning from my thighs as part of the operation. (I don’t think she realizes that if my thighs are less voluminous, it will assist in my recovery and my ability to walk. Not to mention, my ability to fit in my jeans which has become a problem after weeks of sitting around.

I have surgery and am resident of the same hospital for another six days.

—   —   —

You may wonder why Roxie hasn’t been mentioned in a while. Let me assure you that she is still very much around.

My recovery from my skin graft surgery is much quicker. While recovering I have taken to doing some work on my laptop while lying in bed with a few pillows tucked up under my right foot. One afternoon I was I was sitting on the bed with a pillow on my lap and my laptop on top of the pillow. Roxie comes into the room and I don’t pay her any mind, aside from noticing that she is headed toward Pat’s side of the bed. Then, she’s invisible. A half an hour passes and I’m ready for a break. The power cord to my laptop is extending across the bed and is plugged into a socket in the wall, also on Pat’s side of the bed. I notice that the cord has a lot of give. It is usually pretty taut since there’s a fair amount of space between where I’m sitting and the power outlet. Hmm. I pull on the cord and it comes whipping up to me…without a pronged plug at the end. I scoot myself over to the other side of the bed to look at the socket. And there is the missing plug, sticking out of the wall. Roxie has chewed through the electrical cord! Good God! Wouldn’t that electrocute you? I scoot myself further to the edge of the bed and see Roxie, lying peacefully on the floor. It seems we have some kind of a superdog in the family…

—   —   —

For a time, I solicit the help of co-workers to drive me to and from the office but eventually, I am able to drive myself. A few times a week, I bring Roxie to the office with me.

It’s on one of these days that I take Roxie out for a pee in a grassy area right in front of our office’s parking area. Before I am aware of what’s happening, Roxie starts to bark and pull on her leash. I now see what Roxie has spotted. Across the street, there is an older woman walking her little dog, a leash in one hand and a closed umbrella in the other.  Oh, no.

Roxie desperately wants to introduce herself to the little dog. She is pulling and pulling at her leash. With my bad foot, my balance is off-kilter already and I am super anxious about falling – not so much about hurting myself but about what I think is my inability to get back up. Deja vu. If I have learned one lesson in my experience with Roxie thus far, it’s to let go of the leash. So, I do. I cringe as Roxie races across the street.

“Sorry! Sorry! She’s okay!” I yell across the street to the lady. “She won’t bite!” I’m pretty sure.

Roxie and the little dog are hidden by a hedge. I hurry as fast as my limp will allow, following Roxie across the street, when I see the old woman’s deadly umbrella fly up in the air, ready to crash down on top of my dog.

“Hey!” I holler. “Don’t hit my dog!”

Now, I understand that a big ol’ dog running full-speed toward you and your little dog would frighten any of us, so I am somewhat empathic toward the woman. However, I did tell her that Roxie wouldn’t bite.

I finally arrive at the scene and the older woman with the umbrella and the younger woman with a cane have a face-off. I grab Roxie’s leash. Roxie, of course, is still very busy sniffing at the little dog and she’s not ready to leave. Disregarding what she wants, I pull her away. I have not only just saved Roxie from this woman’s murderous umbrella, but I have saved her dog from being further sniffed by my manner-less dog.

My work here is done. Without another word, I walk the unrepentant Roxie back to my office.

—   —   —

A woman named Rosa who works for the county EMS department with offices next door to the medical society, has taken a liking to Roxie, bringing her treats in the afternoon and sometimes just stopping by the office to pet her. Because it seems I can never complete my work by 5:00 pm, Roxie and I are often in the office long past that hour.

It’s just after 5:00 pm, and already getting dark, when Rosa comes over to our offices and asks if she can take Roxie for a walk while she’s waiting for her ride home. I, of course, tell her that it’s fine, thank her for offering and, as per usual, instruct her to be careful because Roxie is very strong.

About fifteen minutes pass and Rosa appears in the doorway to my office, a grim look on her face.

“Is everything okay?” I ask. I notice that Rosa is gripping her upper left arm with her right hand.

“Yeah,” she answers. “I fell and hurt my arm.

Oh…My…God.

“Oh, no! Did Roxie pull you?”

“It’s not her fault. She saw a squirrel while we were walking down by the creek.”

“Do you need to go to the hospital? I can take you.”

“Oh, no. It’s not that bad,” she half-heartedly assures me.

“Really, Rosa. Let me take you to the emergency room.”

“No, no, no. Really, I’m fine.”

Roxie is finished drinking from the water bowl we have for her in the kitchen area and, without a care in the world, moseys into my office and kerplunks herself down on the floor. Tired and clueless.

The next day I learn that Rosa called in sick and isn’t at work. Uh oh.

Rosa calls me at the office the next day. She tells me that her arm had started to hurt really bad after her fall, but she didn’t tell me because she didn’t want to get Roxie in trouble. (That beast has everyone protecting her!) Rosa’s sister, who had picked her up from work yesterday, had driven her directly to the emergency room where they informed Rosa that she had broken her arm. Again, OMG! Can I get in trouble for this? Is the medical society liable? Roxie! What have you done?!

“But really,” Rosa continues, “I’m grateful that I broke my arm because the doctors discovered I have severe osteoporosis and I wouldn’t have known about it if I hadn’t fallen. Roxie did me a favor,” Rosa says.

I am shocked. Roxie, despite the injuries she’s responsible for, arises from the ashes smelling like a rose. An angel in disguise?

—   —   —

Pat, Roxie and I are making a day trip up the coast of California, north of Santa Cruz. We stop in Davenport and park in the parking lot of a small restaurant on the Pacific Coast Highway. On the other side of the highway is a field of grass end that ends on cliffs at the bottom of which lies the Pacific Ocean. I’ve brought my camera and hope to get some good shots of our dear dog with some beautiful scenery. I’ll take some pictures of Pat too, I’m sure. Pat, armed with dog treats, is along to placate and cajole our puppy into assuming some fabulous dog-model positions.

The photo shoot is somewhat successful and now it’s time to get a to-go snack from the restaurant and head back home. Pat and I alternate watching the dog outside while the other goes inside to order what they want. (We each need time to look at the menu to see what they have to offer.) Snacks in hand, we head toward our car.

A burst of rapid-fire barking startles us. It is coming from a pick-up truck that has a metal cap over its bed, the kind that has windows on either side and in the back. One of the side windows is open. It’s pretty small and has a screen. We see the ferocious looking – and sounding – dog behind the screen and are thankful that the window is too small for the dog to escape. Or so we think.

Less than ten feet from our car, the mad dog pushes himself through the screen of the impossibly small window, drops five feet to the ground and makes a beeline right toward our minding-her-own-business Roxie. I’m not going to lie; in that instant I think all three of us – Pat, Roxie and I – all peed a little bit.

Pat is yelling at the attack dog and doing everything he can to position himself in front of Roxie to protect her from this guy. Out of the corner of his eye, Pat sees a pair of motorcycles parked beside him and in one of his maneuvers, he attempts to avoid knocking over the bikes, and loses his balance, falling to the ground. Though he’s up in an instant, I can tell he’s hurt himself. He continues yelling at the attack dog and yanking Roxie’s leash this way and that to keep Roxie safe. A few seconds pass and someone from the restaurant – not the owners of the attack dog — comes to the rescue by scaring the offensive dog away. We hurriedly climbed into our car and breathe a sigh of relief.

The monster dog is roaming the little town of Davenport and its owners aren’t even aware that he’s no longer in the truck. Not our problem. We tear out of town.

Pat, while he hasn’t broken his thumb or wrist, has hurt them enough to consult a hand specialist. He ended up getting some sort of injection in his thumb. (Neither of us can remember the particulars.)

—   —   —

I have assured Pat on a number of occasions that Roxie does fine at dog parks. If she’s in spats, it’s always because the other dog is the aggressor. I tell Pat that if his experience is different, then it’s because he is extending to Roxie his own nervous vibes, putting her on edge. I tell him he’s needs to relax, not to enter the park expecting dog fights.

It’s been a good while since Pat has been to a dog park with Roxie but today, a Saturday, we decide to give it a go. We are at the dog park at Pinto Lake in Watsonville. Roxie and I have been here on numerous occasions, but this is one of Pat’s first times. When we arrive, we see there is a dog and his person already in the big dog section. Roxie is going crazy in the car, anxious to meet the other dog. Pat is immediately on edge.

Our daughter Meghan is only eighteen months old and because we’re only here for a second – to give Roxie a chance to pee – Meghan and I will stay in the car… and serve as witnesses to what transpires next.

After Roxie’s leash is affixed to her collar, Pat and she get out of the car. Roxie is one strong girl. She drags Pat to the gate where the other dog, as excited as Roxie, is jumping for (I think) joy. Pat opens the gate to the park and Roxie, according to Pat, pounces on the unsuspecting canine. Pat grabs at Roxie’s collar and hauls her out of the fenced-in dog park.

“Don’t worry; we’re leaving!” He yells to the other man.

“You don’t have to leave,” the man says.

“We have to leave,” Pat replies as he holds up his hand displaying a disfigured finger.

Back in the car Pat says he has to go to the hospital. He shows me his finger. Gross. It’s pointing sideways.

I drive to the Watsonville hospital and drop Pat off at the emergency entrance. We’re not sure how long Pat will be there before he’s even seen so we’ve decided that I’ll drive home with Meghan and Roxie and wait for Pat to call when he’s ready to be picked up. About four hours later, I get the call. My poor, innocent Roxie is now responsible for a third broken bone…

—   —   —

Roxie was twelve years old when we finally had to put her down. She was in our family for eleven of her twelve years. And for as much grief as it may seem she caused my family during her lifetime, the greatest grief has been in losing her. I’ve described a few outlandish instances when Roxie may have behaved poorly, but these don’t compare to the overwhelming amount of love and devotion she showed us. We love and miss you, Roxie-girl. We trust that you are enjoying yourself wreaking havoc in heaven.