I was finally
diagnosed with an immune deficiency disorder in 2016,
and my health improved dramatically with proper
treatment. I had also met the man of my dreams
and we moved to North Carolina for a job offer that he
couldn’t refuse. With an immune disorder,
teaching in a classroom was no longer an option for
me, so I took a job as a book keeper at a small auto
repair shop in Raleigh
It took some
time to earn health benefits from my employer. I
could not afford the IV infusions that I require to
maintain a normal immune system. In December of
2017, I came down with encephalitis and had a series
of mini-strokes. I am now disabled.
My fiance’s
job has changed to a work-from-home position, so we
had been planning the move from NC to NV for several
months before Covid barged onto the scene. NV is
closer to family, so it seemed wise to move there for
my health.
My dogs are
old, now. Opie and Despereaux will be 12 years
old on December 21. Chunk, sadly, did not make
the journey from NC. I am responsible for
his death, because since the encephalitis,
stressful situations cause memory and decision-making
issues. I left my babies in the van for a
moment, and the moment slipped away from my damaged
brain. I cannot describe the scene when I
returned to the van. My three beautiful mutts
were in serious distress and it was my fault.
Fortunately, other people who could think were there
and could take control of the situation and get them
cooled down. We thought they would all be ok,
but though Chunk seemed to be doing all right, he was
gone within a few hours.
We left
Chunk’s remains at a vet in Nashville to be cremated
and sent to our new address. These dogs are the only
babies I will ever raise. I am unable to have
children of my own, and at nearly 50, it’s too late
to, even if I could. I wept and cursed myself
all along the road that day and into the next.
And that’s
when the magic began to show itself.
I lay
in bed that night, trying to make the pain stop.
I thought of the pets that had preceded Chunk in death
who might be waiting to greet him at the Rainbow
Bridge. There was Katy, his mama. There
was Magnum, my first dog, and Tootsie, my
roommate and best friend’s chihuahua
who loved to steal the tennis ball from Chunk
when we all lived together. And then my Beloved
Papa popped into my head. Papa had been my
mother’s stepfather and the only man to remain
consistently in my life from my birth to his death,
just a few years ago. I saw him, walking Chunk
across that bridge, and I felt joy. Papa loved
me and I have no doubt he would love my dogs just
because they were important to me.
That thought
made me happy, so the next morning, I
took Opie and Despereaux to a little dog park in the
corner of the parking lot of our hotel room.
While they were sniffing and pooping, I was texting my
mom about my vision.
Papa
and I had exactly that kind of relationship.
Ornery was a good word for him, but in the best
possible way. I have no doubt that he heard me
and laughed in my ear. It was probably my first
smile since Chunk’s departure.
At our
first stop upon leaving Tennessee, we stopped at a gas
station. I went inside to get some water and the
cashier said, “I hope you have a great trip.” I
grumbled something in my heart, and headed out the
door, where I saw a picture of a wolf just above the
door handle. For some reason, that picture took
my breath away. I thought of Chunk, and it
didn’t hurt quite so badly. As we drove through
Wyoming, I watched the scenery go by. I replayed
the events of that morning in my head, and began to
feel the guilt and grief washing over me again.
My fiance tapped me on the knee, and said, “Babe,
look.”
On the left
side of the road on a bluff, sat a huge sculpture of
the silhouette of a wolf. I felt Chunk nudging
me with his gigantic nose the way he often did when he
wanted attention. “Ok, Buddy. I’m
listening,” I thought.
The
next stop was at another truck stop. With a
compromised immune system and in the midst of a
pandemic, I walked briskly straight to the
restroom. There in front of me was a dream
catcher displayed on the wall. Not just any
dream catcher, though.