I lie straight on my back on the hard, uncomfortable bed, a thick, white blanket draped over my legs and part of my torso. A rubbery mask is placed over my face, which smells like plastic. I stare up at the stars painted on the ceiling.
“Just keep breathing,” a woman’s voice directs me.
A few months ago I didn’t even know there was a Children’s National hospital here in this catacomb of a city, which is called Washington D.C. I am here to have an MRI of my brain while I am sedated, to see what has been causing my headaches and slurred speech and uncontrollable shaking episodes. MRI stands for Magnetic Resonance Imaging. It moves the water molecules in the body to form detailed images. An MRI machine looks like a huge doughnut. It’s easy to see how some people might envision it as one of those time portals that you hear about in science fiction books.
I can feel the oxygen being released into the mask. Some of the air escapes and blows on my forehead, drying out my eyes on its way. I blink my eyes. After a few moments, someone to my right, the same one who spoke to me earlier, pulls a lever or taps a button. As a result of this, something else is released into the mask, along with the oxygen. The two seem to mingle together, but I can’t be sure. Now the air I’m breathing smells horrible, like stale air mixed with an indescribable odor.
“Count the stars,” a presence to my left instructs me. Or is the person at my head? I can hear clearly enough, but I’m not sure now where the sound is coming from.
I count silently to myself, “One, two, three…” Nothing’s happening. I keep counting, a little more hesitantly now. “Four, five, six, seven…” Something is gradually beginning to occur. By the time I reach ten, I realize that the stars on the ceiling are beginning to blur. My legs and arms are tingling. It’s different from the tingling you have when you sit on your leg for too long. It’s really hard to describe.
“Sweet dreams,” someone somewhere says, so I turn my thoughts toward my dog Patrick as everything fades away.
* * * * * * * * *
I never would have even known of his existence if the telephone had not rung one cold, wet spring day. My mother and I said hello to my grandparents, then Mom took the phone and put it to her ear. They chatted for a little while, then a peculiar expression crossed my mother’s face. She listened for quite a while longer, then said into the phone, “I’ll have to have a family meeting about this.”
While they said good-bye, I danced around Mom, hopping on one leg, eager to be clued in on the big thing about which we’d need to have a family meeting. It had to be a really big, life-changing thing they had been conversing about. When Mom finally hung up the phone, she paused a moment, and then informed me, “Your grandfather found a dog in the woods.”
“He did? Where?” I exclaimed excitedly. I could see where this was going!
“Well, Grandpa was coming back from hunting,” my mom explained, “when he saw a dog looking out from under a pile of wood at the side of the road. He got out of his truck and approached the dog cautiously. The poor pooch was in very bad shape, and your grandfather took pity on him and brought him home. Grandma and Grandpa have tried to find the owner of this dog, but no one has claimed him. The dog is very friendly with people, and not a bad dog at all.”
“Why would anyone abandon a dog in the woods?” I cried out incredulously.
“We don’t know,” Mom told me. “They said that it’s common for animals to be abandoned where they live. There’s a lady who rescues animals, and she has 15 cats and 20 dogs!”
“That’s… that’s a lot of cats and dogs,” I commented stupidly.
“You bet, Minnie! Grandma and Grandpa are wondering if we would like to own this dog. They say he has a good, calm temperament. He’s a brown Boykin spaniel. I’ve never heard of a Boykin spaniel, but your grandfather says there are many in his area. Medium-sized dogs. The state dog of South Carolina is a Boykin spaniel.”
“That’s cool!” I exclaimed! “So, can we have the dog?”
“Well, we’ll need to have a family discussion about this,” Mom informed me. “And we don’t have the money to take care of a dog right now, nor to go down to South Carolina to bring him home. I’ll go over the finances again, but I really don’t think we’ll be able to afford to take care of a dog even if we could find the funds for the trip.”
“We can find a way. We could use the money in my piggy bank,” I offered. “And I have a lot of gift cards I haven’t used yet. We could use the money for pet supplies.”
“Thanks,” Mom smiled. “We might need that if we decide to bring home this dog. We also have my birthday money. Just don’t get your hopes up too soon.”
“All right,” I replied, a flicker of hope arising.
Two weeks later we were in South Carolina, and the pooch had already stolen our hearts with his playful eyes, long tongue, curly fur, downy ears, immense tail, and traumatic — as well as heartbreaking — back story. Dad had been reluctant to agree to adopt this dog, but the pictures my grandparents had sent us of the pooch really helped Mom and I convince Dad that this dog was meant for us. We named him Patrick, and welcomed him into our home.
That all happened last April. Now it is January. I was diagnosed with chronic Lyme disease, Rocky Mt. Spotted Fever, and an assortment of other viruses and bacterial infections in the fall. I’ve been receiving treatments for them since then. I’ve been prescribed countless medicines with really long names, and been to more doctors than I can remember. It seems like once one symptom goes away (say, the bone pain), something new will come up (for instance, severe headaches). I’ve had a hard year, and Patrick has really helped me through it. He would lie on my bed when I was too sick to leave my bedroom for months on end. He has been there when I’m crying from the pain. I can hug him and cuddle him, and bury my face in his silky coat. In the last two weeks I have been in the hospital at least 4 times, and he has always been there to welcome me home, no matter how late I arrive. I love Patrick. He has been a real blessing to me.
* * * * * * * * * *
Drowsily I begin to feel again. I zone back into the present. There’s a heavy blanket pulled over me, and my left hand hurts. I shift into a more comfortable position. I feel like I’m about to drift off again. I snuggle further down in the covers. I try to go back to sleep, but I know I can’t in this unfamiliar place. Where am I? Suddenly realization hits me like a freezing cold ocean wave. I’m in the hospital for an MRI.
“Are you awake?” a comforting voice asks me.
I try to sit up, but don’t quite make it. I think I reply to my mom’s inquiry, but I don’t remember. I roll over onto my back, then slowly sit up. I’m dizzy, but after a moment the world returns to normal. My hand hurts more, now that I’ve moved it. I bring it out from under the blanket and am surprised to see an IV line, but only for a moment. I remember being told that I would have an IV while the MRI test was being done.
A nurse appears in the doorway. She has crackers and apple juice with her. Mom sticks a straw into the apple juice, and holds the container while I drink the entire thing down. Then she opens a package of measly, little crackers and offers me one. I haven’t eaten since 7:00 this morning because you’re not supposed to eat before sedation, so I’m hungry. I munch on it. Hospital food is not exactly my favorite kind of food, but I’m thankful for it.
The nurse takes the IV needle out, and says I am good to go as soon as I can walk. Mom and Dad help to steady me as we leave the hospital. It’s dark out, so I must have been asleep for a while. As we drive home, I poke at the bruise that is starting to form on my hand where the IV needle was. I can’t wait to be home. I hope I never have to see another hospital again.
When I arrive home, Patrick is there to greet me, his tail wagging so forcefully that his entire body wags with it. He’s overjoyed to see me. I’m shaking from the long car ride, but I manage to pet Patrick, who’s jumping around and waving his plume-like tail. The way he welcomes me home reminds me of when I welcomed him home all those long months ago. He looks as happy that we’re home as we are to be home. He’s missed us, and I have missed him. He’s a true friend. Sure, he’s not perfect, but it’s worth it to have someone there waiting for me.
I lean down and whisper to Patrick, “It’s good to be home. Right, boy?” He slurps me on the cheek in total agreement.
