Therapy Dogs

Posted by Andrea R. | July 30, 2009 | 24 Comments

I know that I’ve put up a lot of posts about my son and his disabilities, and I appreciate the indulgence of all our readers as I work through my struggles. This post however, is more of a writing exercise than an analysis of my current situation. Brittney Carman gave an excellent writing workshop at the most recent Segullah retreat, and this is what came out of it. Thanks Brittney!

I doze in the sleeper chair next to my son’s bed in the pediatric critical care unit, my mind monitoring the room: the beeping of the IV pump, my son’s ragged, labored breathing, the bubbling of the humidifier to his oxygen mask, the periodic hum of the blood pressure cuff around his leg taking its regular measurements. Caught in the limbo of his latest brush with death, I wonder if he’ll be coming home this time. I shift in the seat, my legs stiff from lack of movement, my back, head, and heart aching. Suddenly, a clatter of ID tags and claws on the linoleum floor rouse me from my reverie – the therapy dogs have come to the floor. From my corner in the room I crane my neck to see a small fluffy furball followed by a larger, older lab mix, their tails wagging in frenetic anticipation. Immediately I straighten in my chair.

Veterans of the PCU, we have seen the therapy dogs before – wiggling balls of fur and happiness, allowing themselves to be held, stroked, and loved by arms covered with IV lines and bandages. I hear them in the rooms next to E’s – happy panting accompanied by squeals of delight. Patients with cancer, HIV, or other diseases and disabilities are once again children rather than cases and conditions. I see the nurses in the corridor, smiling and talking animatedly to each other, nodding in approval.

At last, I look up to see the therapy dogs’ handlers pausing at our door. “Can E have a visit?” I immediately jump out of my seat, my inert legs welcoming movement. “Yes! E would love to have a visit!” Then turning to my son, I exclaim, “E! The puppies are here to see you! Look at the fluffy puppies! They want to play with you!” in the crooning sing-song voice only used for talking to small, furry mammals or babies. E turns his head and lets out a long Chewbaca-like howl – his sign of happiness and approval. I nod at the worker and the smaller furball jumps up on the bed, stepping over E’s legs, tubes, wires, and equipment, sniffing, waiting for the onslaught of love and affection. “E!” I squeal, “The puppy loooooves you!” E lies in the bed quietly, his body still, but his eyes dance back and forth with new sensory input. “Can he see the dogs?” the worker asks. “No, but he can hear them and feel them,” I respond. I can see her reviewing E’s medical record in her mind. “Hypoxic brain injury…cerebral palsy… epilepsy… developmental delay… no purposeful movement…” The furball looks confused at the lack of effusive affection and jumps down off of the bed. “Maybe we should come back another time,” she says, “when E is feeling better.” My heart sinks as I look over to my son. It is only then that I notice the lab – his nose has nudged its way under E’s immobile hand so that it is now resting on his head. He stands next to the bed patiently waiting. Hand over hand, we stroke the curly brown fur together.

Category: Slice of Life, Writing Workshop
Tags: adversity > children > motherhood > trials > writing

Comments

24 Responses to “Therapy Dogs”

jendoop
July 30th, 2009 @ 6:18 am

Great writing. For such a short post it packs all the info we need to understand your situation and the emotion too.

Best wishes and blessings as you continue to deal with it all.
dalene
July 30th, 2009 @ 8:15 am

I love you Andrea. Thanks for sharing something so tender to your heart.

I’m grateful that sometimes dogs are smarter and more sensitive than some (albeit well-meaning) people.

Hugs–
Angela
July 30th, 2009 @ 8:16 am

Beautiful, Andrea!
Faith.Not.Fear
July 30th, 2009 @ 9:07 am

Thanks for reminding me that, even though someone may not respond to my efforts as I think they should, their hearts might still be touched, and I should never give up “loooooving!”
mmiles
July 30th, 2009 @ 9:26 am

Beautiful writing!
Strollerblader
July 30th, 2009 @ 9:49 am

A beautiful post and a wonderful way to start my day. Thanks. My prayers are with you.
Leslie
July 30th, 2009 @ 9:49 am

Nicely written, Andrea. As a child life specialist I can really appreciate this exchange. It was often my job to bring around the celebrities, animals, etc. I know how important those connections are…witnessing those simple moving moments, they just seem to hang in your consciousness.
Andrea R.
July 30th, 2009 @ 10:02 am

Thanks so much everyone.

Leslie, it’s true — in the midst of an incredibly taxing situation, you find these moments of grace.
traci
July 30th, 2009 @ 10:08 am

We have a St Bernard we are training to be my Assist Dog and a Chow to take to Nursing Homes etc – lots of training.
As a handicapped person may I make a suggestion, please? Speak up and say something! I know it’s hard because you save your voice for the life and death stuff, I really do.

“No, please, he IS enjoying it so much and it makes him feel better!” Then they see, that you see, there is a “response”. “Look his eyes are dancing, can you stay a few more minutes, please?”
Unfortunately, people need signs.
Merry Michelle
July 30th, 2009 @ 10:11 am

Wow. I want to be like that dog- full of love and patiently waiting.
Beautiful. You are a wonder and so is your beautiful boy.
Kay
July 30th, 2009 @ 10:34 am

Beautiful, love and patience. It is true that we don’t always see the effect things are having. You are a wonderful example of a knowing mother.
Melissa M.
July 30th, 2009 @ 1:21 pm

Andrea, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: this is a tender, beautiful piece of writing. And don’t ever apologize for sharing your experiences with us. I, for one, am grateful that you have.
Jennie
July 30th, 2009 @ 1:24 pm

That was beautiful, Andrea. You’ve got to love the Labradors of this world.
Brittney Carman
July 30th, 2009 @ 2:54 pm

This part kills me, “when E is feeling better.” It gets at the heart of it, doesn’t it?

Thank you for not giving in to the bone tired, to the IVs and bandages, to the cases and conditions. Thank you for your heart, Andrea, for your hope, for giving us this beautiful glimpse of your beautiful, beautiful son.
Amy
July 30th, 2009 @ 10:40 pm

Beautiful writing and beautifully captured. It’s moments like these that really help give a window into what you go through. I also really liked this line:

Patients with cancer, HIV, or other diseases and disabilities are once again children rather than cases and conditions

I thoroughly enjoyed the whole thing. Thank you!!
Selwyn
July 31st, 2009 @ 3:33 am

Short, succint, succulent. Loved it, thank you!
Heather B
July 31st, 2009 @ 8:03 am

Oh, Honey. That is beautiful. What an amazingly stronge Mama you are. Thank you for sharing with us. That was both heartening and sorrowful at the same time… a sign of an amazing piece.
Carol
July 31st, 2009 @ 9:35 am

What an amazing post! I celebrate your courage, compassion, and wisdom as I read your words. Thanks for teaching us how to live with greater enlightenment and peace.
mormonhermitmom
July 31st, 2009 @ 9:50 am

Way to go Mom
annegb
July 31st, 2009 @ 12:09 pm

God bless you.
Courtney
July 31st, 2009 @ 12:29 pm

I can’t find the words to express what I am feeling. Touching seems a little trite but it’s amazing that such a short piece could pierce through my emotions so strongly.
Andrea R.
July 31st, 2009 @ 12:41 pm

Thank you all so much for your kind words. It was such a touching experience. Writing has proven very therapeutic for me. Thanks for giving me a chance to share.
Wendy
July 31st, 2009 @ 2:38 pm

Beautiful, indeed! Wow.
Jenny
July 31st, 2009 @ 6:57 pm

Such a lovely piece. I have a nephew who spends a great deal of his life in the PICU, and I could picture his little body as you described the scene with your son. He too, is blind, deaf and unable to respond in the way the dog’s trainer was trying to see; it seems to me that sometimes the trainers need some training…