The calm before the surgery

Blondie had asked me if I wanted something to sleep this morning since I wouldn’t be operated on till about noon. I had declined. "I guess I’ll be sleeping all afternoon. So it’s better to take advantage of the time now while I still feel okay." I’d rather feel like myself as long as possible before the operation. Besides, I wasn’t scared, more anxious and curious than else. I was actually feeling calm about the whole thing. Was it the pill under my tongue? My worst bout of tension so far had been leaving Homer in the kennel, wondering whether HE might need plastic surgery upon my return.

Dog dry afternoon

Nando was complaining about his mouth being very dry. I had a flash of waiting in a recovery room somewhere (after the dog attack in France? when my wrist was broken and reset in Monaco?) and having the same sensation. Dry block for a tongue. What I had craved was a Coke or lemonade. But there had been no one to respond to my cries. I was not going to ignore my husband's. I brought him a glass of water from the bathroom and guided it to his mouth. He took a few sips, giggling about his pepperone trip in between small gulps.

The nurse kept telling me that Nando had to sleep. He would see better, feel better, be able to eat a meal, if he would just stop talking and take a rest. Eventually he did, but it took almost half an hour.

Fat harvest

The fat harvesting would be from one leg only. So I asked Dr. Delos to remove it from my left side, as my right knee has been giving me problems for some time. He obligingly drew a large black circle on the inside of my left leg just above the knee. "If there are scars," I thought, "let’s keep them all on the same side." The scars from my dog attack were on the back of my left leg below the knee. (As it turned out, there were no permanent scars from the grand cru distillation).

Twists and turns

Dr. Mariani, who owns the kennel where Homer will be staying, is a veterinarian by profession. He was in a white surgeon's jacket when we arrived. A coincidence or an omen? He was "attending to" a dog, he said. An autopsy, Nando guessed. As usual Homer got the pole position box, the one with greatest visibility to humans who might be on the grounds. It's small consolation but it's something. As we drove away, he had realized what was happening and was throwing himself against the wire bars, crying plaintively.

It's a long drive from Busto to Marseille, and it feels longer in fog. A thick winter fog covered most of the autostrada from Milan to Genova, and I did something that never happened to me before in YEARS of driving from Milan to the South of France. I -- unbelievably! -- missed the turnoff after Tortona for Alessandria-Ventimiglia. We wound up obliged to traverse the Milan-Genova route: fewer tunnels but narrower with many twists and turns. Not pleasant for me, with a headache descending and me driving at that point, to endure an extra half hour of road time.

Paws for packing

My dog Homer knows that something is up because he sees the suitcase being prepared. He has been agitated these last few days because of some females in heat in the neighborhood, and the sensation at home that something is amiss is adding to his turmoil. I wish I didn’t have to be away so long. I also hope I won’t have a problem with his jumping on me during my first days back. He is tall enough to reach my face with his paws when he leaps up, and his nails scratch without his being aware of it, although he is a big, gentle gangly guy.

The Big D

This morning Homer wandered into the bedroom restlessly at 5:30 or 6 am. Uh-oh! Diarrhea. Diarrhea. This happens almost every year after Thanksgiving. I tried to pretend that this was not his problem but I knew it was, so by 6:30 I was dressed and we were out in the park. A quick tool around, a squat and two squirts, and then back home. I figured this was only round one so I didn’t get back into bed nor did I take a shower. I lay down fully clothed on the living room sofa and sure enough, less than two hours later, Homer was nosing at me again.

Here we go. We almost bumped into the 30-something, shy young lawyer who lives on the 3rd floor as we made our way downstairs in a big hurry. "Oh excuse me," he said pleasantly, seemingly open to engage in a bit of conversation given the early hour on a Sunday morning. "Sorry my dog has a big emergency we gotta go," I mumbled over my shoulder as Homer tore down the steps, out and across the street and let fly on the first patch of green he hit on Via Foscolo, a few steps from our entrance.

Dog-docs

The nurse admonished me to stay lying down for five minutes until she came back to approve of my departure. Otherwise, she said, I’d faint anyway and undo all the good done by lying down in the first place. She must have seen how white I’d gotten during the procedure.

I then raced out to change places with Nando. He got the documents, I got the dog.

The test results -- having to do with how fast our blood clots, yuck I don’t want to think about it -- will be ready Thursday.

Drawing blood

We had our blood test this morning. This was a big ordeal for me. We decided to walk to the hospital, about 2.5 km away, perhaps less. Because we were bringing the dog, I woke up at 7 to feed him so we’d be ready to go by 7:30. We were at the hospital by about 8:10. Nando waited outside with Homer so I could go first. The first line had seven persons ahead of me, the second line had 23, but it moved faster. When it was my turn, I looked the nurse boldly in the eye and said, "I faint with shots. I need to lie down when you draw the blood."

"Lie down all the way?"

"All the way."

So there was another five minute wait between the time they led me to the bed & blood room, and the time two nurses appeared to do the job. They were good, I have to admit, and it was fast. And no, it didn’t hurt. But that’s besides the point in terms of my psychological reaction.

That younger, thinner, better me

I look at the pictures of me from Fort Lee, thinner than I think of myself as being, and read my accomplishments: wife (with an absentee husband), mother of two (often the father figure as well), presiding over a large home with a live-in, a working professional at blue-chip companies, an officer of IABC, member of the Consumer Affairs Board of Fort Lee (I never did anything with that job!), in charge of publicity for the Unitarian Church (never did anything with that either), freelance writer, dedicated runner (3 miles most mornings, 10 or 15 miles per day on the weekends) and the list goes on.

What do I do now? I wait for writing assignments to dribble in. I walk my dog. I cook once a day. I walk my dog. I write email to friends. I walk my dog. I am doing NOTHING.

Bake-off

Another incongruously gorgeous day. Going through boxes of my parents' stuff, talking, checking the Net. Let’s do the malls in the area, my son suggested, to take a break. There are lots of them. At Barnes and Noble, I stocked up on Wegmans calendars, in honor of my wonderful Weim Homer.

Max and I went to a Chinese restaurant for dinner. The place, usually full, Max said, was almost empty. "It’s been slow all week," said the Chinese waiter, meaning ever since September 11.

During the day I had had this strong urge to BAKE something. It’s life-affirming, I suppose, the need to bake, produce fragrant odors, make the kitchen and the apartment alive with good smells. So I made brownies. Had to buy the pan and the eggs and more butter, but the result was a sense of homeyness and warmth in my son’s otherwise spartan, sterile box of an apartment.

When duty calls

Timing, timing. Money, money. I don’t mind kissing off the Monaco conference. That was an excuse for a vacation anyway. I do feel uncomfortable about changing the appointment for the plastic surgeon a second time. I don’t think he is going to like that very much. Then there is all the arranging: airfare, rental car, rental Uhaul, strong arms to help me move, where to stay, how to get access to my niece's apartment if she has already left. Some of this depends on when I can get a flight.

Plus the female things: moving up appointments for hair color, hair cut, waxing, electrolysis. Plus leaving Homer again. Well, that I had been planning to do, but for five days, not eight or nine. Never mind; he will survive. Anyway, it’s an opportunity to see my father again, plus a chance to see my older son's current apartment and possibly his future roommate, and Boston and friends there.

Pits and patches

The dog was creamy white with mottled brown patches. It had a large head and a stocky body. I thought it might be a Staffordshire terrier, but I was less focused on the breed than on the reason for the limp. Both the dog’s back legs were swathed in iodine, serving to highlight large bloody gashes at the hocks. The limping leg seemed like it was completely open at the joint and it looked as if a white clamp was holding the bone together. There were other cuts here and there on the dog’s chest, back and face. Some of these were splashed with iodine too, but others were highlighted by blood alone.

Jaw to jaw

Whoever lives by the jaw will die by the jaw. That sounds fair, I guess, but seeing that pit bull tonigte still made me queasy. Homer and I had gone out for an evening walk and were returning from the Viale headed towards Via Milano. From a distance I saw a dog already on the Via. He was limping behind someone. It looked almost as if his right rear leg had been amputated below the hock. I was too far away to perceive how large the dog was but it didn’t look as big as Homer, though it was clearly not a yipyap.

Given Homer’s fast pace when he is walking purposefully, and given the other dog’s limp, we were able to catch up with the latter in less than a minute in front of the Benetton store at the beginning of Via Milano. The dog’s leash was held by a North-African looking man of middle years, bad teeth, cigarette, unsavory complexion. He was walking with another North African, younger but otherwise of the same mold.

Dogged love

My relationship with my dog doesn't directly affect my self image, but indirectly a dog's love has everything to do with how we view the world . . . and ourselves. Sometimes when Homer looks at me I just can’t stand how wonderful it is to have a dog, to KNOW a dog. It is the most incredible kind of magic. Two different species and there is this bond between us, this love, this understanding. People have often written about this relationship, of course, but it surges anew every time I experience it.

Well, well

A new month, another season, 'er long. New start. New diet. Regular exercise (but how, she screams. How? I am a prisoner to my dog). Nando has been following his diet seriously. He asked me to help him shave his head again today. I hate doing that. I didn’t like the fact that he went bald and I don’t like him shaven. And I certainly don’t like DOING the shaving. Oh well. Hmm, my mom’s response to that would have been immediate: "A well is a hole in the ground," she would have reminded me with a tight little smile and a sarcastic sigh. Oh WELL, Mom. Yes, yes, a well is a hole in the ground. Yes, yes, how WELL we know.

Blood test

I walked Homer early in the morning of August 1, then drove to the hospital, arriving there around 8:40 for an appointment scheduled between 8-10 am. I was startled to see a large number of persons in the waiting room, milling around. Italian lines are not a model of efficiency so I was nervous about having to mill around with them, getting more nervous still as patients streamed out of the laboratory, holding gauze to their arms. The smell, the heat, the confusion, my high anxiety. No, this was not a healthy situation for me. But there was a nurse near the door who checked everyone’s paperwork. Mine meant that I could avoid one line (the longest) entirely. Another was just for blood work, and the number the nurse gave me was 84. Number 72 was already inside and things seemed to go quickly so my optimism returned.

Unusual canine

Homer has that breathy quality when he is pulling hard on the leash to make his way to the park, either to catch lizards or to look for a local bitch in heat. So it wasn’t disconcerting to hear him "speak" in that way. I was accepting his conversation as something normal in the dream, so apparently I already knew he could talk. But the vet was flabbergasted. She kept looking at Homer, then at me, then at Homer, and gasping, "But this is highly unusual, signora. Don’t you realize that this is highly unusual?" I shrugged. She said, "But you could perhaps make a lot of money with your dog’s talent." I shrugged again. Maybe I wasn’t convinced, or maybe I didn’t want to turn Homer into a sideshow spectacle. Or maybe earning money just isn’t that high on my scale of priorities (that’s what my husband says anyway).

Talking dog

Two days after I’d dreamed about Mom, I had another typically realistic dream. This time I was taking my dog Homer to the vet’s for an annual check-up. The vet looked exactly like Dr. Lorenzo, the woman doctor who is our "medico di base" (like a GP) here in Busto. She was examining Homer in a perfectly ordinary way when he started to talk to her. He didn’t talk like Mr. Ed, unrealistically, perfectly human. He talked in a difficult way, as one might imagine for an animal who isn’t supposed to talk like a human but finds a way to communicate. His voice sounded like someone who has had a tracheotomy.

Conundrum

ARGHHH. No facelift is going to help this situation. Only sweat and tears. AND the time, the daily no-excuses commitment to regular exercise. How do I fit in an hour of jogging? And WHERE can I do it in this grey, industrial Italian town? And is my body able to handle it, after three years without running? I used to jog regularly when we lived on the Côte d’Azur. But I cut down my running schedule significantly after the dog attack, and then my right knee began giving me problems and I stopped running entirely. Yes, I walk almost three hours daily with my dog, but dog walks simply don’t firm and tone and burn off my tenacious fat layers.

It’s a chicken or egg conundrum. Do I talk care of my face first --- IF I decide that a facelift is what I want to do -- and then try to whip my aging body back into shape? Or shall I concentrate on my body and then, if necessary, if a well-toned body is not enough, set up an appointment to see about my face?

Dog scars

I showed the jeweler’s wife my dog scars. Several years ago in Southern France, I was attacked by a neighborhood dog right in front of my home and the doctor had to put 14 stitches into my leg to staple it back together. Unlike the U.S., in France the amount you can receive as compensation for any resulting “pain and suffering” is mandated by law. If you are female, young, unmarried, and use your legs as part of your work (as a model, say, or an actress), you can ask for the maximum amount. If you are a women over 40, married, and your income potential is unrelated to the beauty of your extremities,  then you get the minimum. Over 40 means over the hill in the eyes of the law, in the teeth of a dog.

I explained to the jewelers that the experience hadn’t made me afraid of dogs, but that for a year or so, the sight of a large, black, furry dog had made me nervous.  “Still, you have to keep going,” I said. “You have no choice.”