Gizelle's Bucket List Page 11

  Maybe it was the rain. Or the traffic. Or the grocery stop I suggested we make near New Haven. (I filled a shopping basket with Nutella and strawberries, chips, bologna for Gizelle, turkey for Gizelle, ham for Gizelle, while Rebecca bought the “great chip alternative,” carrots.) Or maybe the bologna was to blame. It wasn’t doing great things for Gizelle. Every five minutes, a foul scent would seep through the car. Gizelle! Again, girl? Roll down the windows. Should we stop? Maybe we should stop.

  We’d pull over somewhere in between New Haven and Stow and help Gizelle out of the car like we were lifting a heavy sofa so she didn’t put any weight on her paws. Then we’d stand on a patch of grass, and wait . . .

  And wait . . .

  And wait.

  “She must have to go.”

  “Seriously.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  But she’d only stand and stare at us, panting and smiling, almost as though she was waiting for us to do something. Ten minutes passed.

  “Fine, Gizelle. But we’re not stopping again. You missed your chance, girl,” claimed Rebecca. We’d lift her back in the car. (Three, two, one, heave! Ow. Ow. Ow. This way. No, this way. God. Shit. Ow.) We’d drive for twenty more minutes, then our nostrils would flare again. GIZELLE! Should we stop? Let’s stop.

  By the time we arrived in Stow it was 11 p.m. We were exhausted but quick to perk up when Rebecca’s mom and dad mentioned there was homemade pizza waiting on the counter. Her dad was on the quiet side, like mine, but that didn’t stop him from speaking to Gizelle.

  Rebecca’s mom, Kathy, was the opposite of quiet. She was a chef, gardener, and outdoor enthusiast, so while we sat eating her gourmet pizza, she rummaged through the closet pulling out everything we needed for our road trip that Rebecca and I had forgotten (or just didn’t own): rain jackets, head lamps, flashlights, ponchos, water purifier, compass, maps. She gave us lots and lots of maps, and then spread those maps across the counter telling us about all of the great places in New England we could bring Gizelle. It felt nice to sit in a house at a kitchen counter with a mom and a dad and Rebecca, Gizelle underneath my chair, eating homemade pizza in the warm kitchen light. I threw Gizelle my crust. She missed the catch but was quick to snatch it off the ground. And though I knew I was breaking contract with the guy at the holistic pet shop, I accepted that it wouldn’t be the first time, or the last.

  After dinner, we followed Rebecca back to her old room. I helped Gizelle onto the bed and we crawled in after her. Sleepover! Gizelle rested her head on the pillow next to our heads and lined her body with ours. Rebecca and I climbed on either side and wrapped our arms around her, the three of us tucked safely in a row.

  “I’m happy we didn’t go to the Hamptons,” I whispered.

  Rebecca gave my arm a pat good night and I knew she was, too.

  * * *

  The next morning we were off to the White Mountains. It was a three-hour drive and we were navigating with maps. Not Google maps. The ancient paper maps Kathy had given us. That meant making a lot of U-turns—not a big concern because we were certainly having a lot of fun in the car.

  “I’m such a sucker for the Dixie Chicks,” Rebecca said, turning up the radio and singing along to the twangy music as we wound through deep valleys and forests. When I looked back at Gizelle, she had on a big, dopey grin and her tongue dangled out of her mouth like a tube sock. Maybe this road trip wasn’t such a bad idea after all. This was the happiest I’d seen her in a while.

  We stopped to do handstands in the grass. We took a nap next to a brook. When we finally arrived in the White Mountains, we took Gizelle to happy hour at the Woodstock Inn and got her a huge bowl of ice water. Rebecca and I ordered two Pig’s Ears Brown Ales and clinked them with Gizelle’s water bowl. Cheers! It was the perfect day. Just blue skies, a cute mountain man of a bartender in a flannel shirt, and my best friends.

  Most of what we did was just drive Gizelle around. She needed to stay off her feet, and the car was an enjoyable way to do that. We drove down the Kancamagus Highway, and Gizelle stuck her head out the window without hesitation, her ears flapping in the wind. Rebecca and I took turns sticking our heads out the window as well, just to see what all the fuss was about. The wind ripped out my ponytail holder and my hair blew wildly around my face. I closed my eyes but could still see the brightness of the sun flickering through the trees. I stretched my arms out the window and felt like I was flying. Fatty was right all along—this felt amazing.

  When we passed a sign for Loon Mountain, we realized we didn’t know where we were going and pulled the car over. Rebecca was in the driver’s seat and Gizelle’s head rested on the center console as we uncrumpled the map and held it between us.

  “Which way, Gizelle?” I asked, as though she had a preference.

  Franconia Notch? But Gizelle couldn’t hike. Flume Gorge? Same problem. Santa’s Village? Cheesy. Sugar Hill? Rebecca and I looked at each other and smiled.

  Then we were off, driving Gizelle to Sugar Hill, for no reason other than we liked the name. We drove an hour, until we reached a hill (hence the name). We wound around a bright-green hill, not knowing where we were going or why we were going there—we only wanted to look out at the world. We drove until the road flattened and we reached a little red barn that was home to HARMAN’S CHEESE & COUNTRY STORE: HOME OF “THE WORLD’S GREATEST” CHEDDAR CHEESE. Rebecca and I looked around and saw nothing but fields of lupine and bright-green grass. Was Sugar Hill only a cheese shop?

  Well, Gizelle ( . . . and Lauren and Rebecca) liked cheese. So I found my girl a comfortable spot on the patio, and Rebecca and I ventured inside. We sampled “The World’s Greatest Cheddar,” bought some for Gizelle (another contract breach), and then sat outside on the wooden front porch.

  The local Sugar Hill police officer stopped by.

  “Greetings, ladies. What a pretty little dog.” Little? Had we been transported to Gizelle’s fantasy land? As he said this, a vintage pink Thunderbird convertible cruised slowly by and tooted its horn. The driver tipped his hat out the window.

  “Afternoon, Officer Joe!”

  “Afternoon, Sam!”

  We chatted with the police officer about the weather, which was clear and blue and sunny—“another perfect day in Sugar Hill.” Had we gone into a time machine and ended up in Mayberry?

  As we were driving away, Rebecca and I came across a lookout, a wooden balcony built into the side of a hill with a tree stump in the middle. We contemplated whether we should get out of the car again or let Gizelle keep resting. “Just one more view.” Rebecca insisted. “We’ll be really careful.” We sat on the tree stump with “The World’s Greatest Cheddar Cheese,” a box of graham crackers, and a bottle of champagne Rebecca insisted we pop then and there as Gizelle slurped water from her bowl. Pop! Went the champagne. The view from Sugar Hill was so wide I wasn’t quite sure where to rest my gaze. The White Mountains stood in the distance beyond a vast stretch of rolling land. The clouds above made shadows on the earth, turning the green treetops to shades of dark blue. “Hey, you should add eat the world’s greatest cheese with the world’s greatest view to that list for Gizelle.” Rebecca suggested, pointing to my journal with her mouth full of cheese and the champagne bottle in the other hand. Then she took a swig.

  I sat on the tree stump, rubbing Gizelle’s back with my feet, thinking about the things I was escaping, the things I had left behind in Nashville and New York City that I didn’t want to face right now, that I didn’t have to face right now. Not right this second. For a moment, I felt like I had escaped everything. I had escaped the heat in the city. The heat that radiated from the buildings and walls and sidewalks. The heat in Gizelle’s leg.

  We spent another night in New Hampshire and the next day, as we were driving to Maine, Rebecca looked at her phone. “Oh,” she said, turning and smiling at me. “My sister just texted me.” She thumbed at her screen. “She said to tell you that you can keep Gizelle at her house for a while if you
want. They live in a one story house with a little grassy backyard. She would be happy to babysit.” Rebecca’s sister Caitlin had met Gizelle a few times before in New York, and had been looking into getting a mastiff ever since. I really liked Caitlin. The first time I met her I felt like she was my older sister, too, like I had known her for years. She was so calm and motherly. She lived in Kittery, Maine, with her husband, John. I wanted to say no to the offer at first. I wanted to say, Absolutely not! It’s okay! It’s fine! We are totally fine and we do not need help and I am keeping Gizelle with me! But I couldn’t. I did need help. Gizelle needed a place without stairs, and I couldn’t rent another apartment. (I’d already looked into that option.) “Everyone needs help sometimes,” Rebecca reminded me.

  “But are you sure they wouldn’t be inconvenienced?” I asked.

  Rebecca shrugged her shoulders. “I doubt it! They have been talking about fostering a dog for so long. You know Caitlin. She and John are the most easygoing people ever. You might as well just check it out and see. They both work five minutes from their house and are home by three every day.” I was a weird mix of relieved and overjoyed and sad, but after a moment, not surprised. Somehow Gizelle always seemed to work her magic on people, and somehow Rebecca always found a way to make everything okay. And just when I thought I was running away, it turned out that my escape would end up fixing everything. For now, at least.

  * * *

  We pulled into Kittery, which was a simple Maine town on the water, across a bridge from Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Kittery looked the way I used to draw the world in second grade. The houses had picket fences and roofs that pointed up into perfect triangles. Rebecca and I drove, pointing again and again at how the pretty gray rocks lined the ocean, how the striped lighthouses contrasted against the bright-blue sky, and the way the blue ocean peeked through windows of tall, green trees. With the ocean breeze coming off the water, I could feel my shoulders relaxing, and took what felt like the first deep breath I’d had in weeks. Gizelle was back in goofball mode with a huge, happy grin on her face. When we lifted her out of the car, she walked straight to a pile of grass and rolled happily on her back, not seeming to be in much pain.

  Kittery had a couple of bars, a café called Lil’s, a locally sourced meat shop (with a dog-obsessed owner), a charming library, and the ocean. Caitlin and John lived on Pleasant Street, and their house looked like a cabin, dark wood with forest-green shutters. It had a fenced-in garden with a hibiscus tree blossoming with pink flowers. As we approached the front door, I could see succulents in the windows and plants hanging from the ceiling trailing long vines. Caitlin and John greeted us at the door. Caitlin ran to give me a hug that lasted just enough longer than normal to make me feel like she understood what I was going through with Gizelle. John was a laid-back, outdoorsy kind of guy. The moment he saw Gizelle, his face lit up. “What’s up, GG girl?” he said, laughing at her massive presence, shocked at how big she was as she crept over to him with her tail slowly swinging behind her.

  John made fast friends with Gizelle. She wasn’t even shy, which was surprising because he was so burly. He bent down to rub her ears and she rested her chin on his knee. As they led us into the house, I looked around and knew one thing had to be true—these people knew how to take care of things. They had bread baking in their oven, and when it was done, served it with homemade jam. The smell of sage wafted through the living room, and I heard nothing but the lovely sound of quietness. No sirens or shouting or loud, crowded sidewalks. It was peaceful.

  Gizelle climbed onto their couch and made herself comfortable, and everyone piled around her, stroking her ears and the extra skin around her neck and telling her she was the most beautiful dog in the world. Her tail thwacked against the sofa cushions. Then Caitlin and John went to show us the new vegetables they had from their farm share, asking what Rebecca and I wanted to eat. “Stay there, Gizelle,” I told her, needing her to stay resting. Amid our chatter in the kitchen, Gizelle disappeared, and I felt a pang of worry—I was supposed to be making sure she wasn’t walking much. We went looking for her and found her in the bedroom. She had helped herself right onto their bed.

  They didn’t even mind. “Good, girl!” they told her. Then they stroked her ears, cooed at her, and called her GG. I knew letting Gizelle stay here was the right decision. “It’s Camp Kittery,” Rebecca promised, reaching for my hand as she saw the tears welling in my eyes. “We can come back and visit next weekend, if you want.”

  So a couple of days later I took a deep breath, gave Caitlin and John the rundown on Gizelle’s list of fears, her pharmacy, and her food, asked them to please make sure she stayed off her paws so she’d get better soon. Then I thanked them again, hugged Gizelle quickly, and walked out the door.

  11

  The Discovery

  Then it happened. That phone call. The phone call. Gizelle was in Maine with Caitlin and John. I had missed my qualifying race for the marathon that morning, and when I got back to my apartment, there were the three missed calls. The voicemail waiting. So there I was in my running shoes, standing in the living room back from my run, dialing the number. The phone rang twice.

  “Hi, Lauren,” Caitlin answered, her voice soft when she said my name.

  She explained they were at the vet in Portsmouth, whom they vouched for and whose card had been placed in my wallet some weeks back, where it stared at me every time I fumbled for my MetroCard.

  “Gizelle had a hard morning,” she continued. “It was like she woke up so much worse, and we just knew we needed to take her in today. We didn’t want to wait.” I nodded my head and thanked her, and next thing I knew the vet was on the phone.

  “Hi, Lauren, this is Dr. Mathewson.” His voice also dropped when he said “Lauren.”

  “Hi,” I murmured.

  “We—” He cleared his throat. “We really are sorry to have made this discovery with Gizelle.” I stopped at the window overlooking the dog run. I felt frozen, as the weekend crowd of canines scampered around below me.

  “But Gizelle has osteosarcoma, or primary cancer of the bone origin.”

  And there it was.

  “I’m so sorry you have to get these final results this way. No one could have identified it sooner for you. Sometimes it just takes longer to identify the disease with these giant breeds.” He paused for a moment to wait for me to chime in, but I had nothing.

  “We really are sorry to have made this discovery,” he repeated.

  I hated the word “discovery” in reference to disease. The word “discover” had always seemed it should be followed by wondrous things, like buried treasure, a waterfall in the woods, a swimming hole. But I guess it was a “discovery,” like an old bone down in the dirt. The cancer that made Gizelle limp had been buried in her all this time, and this vet had finally dug it up. Dr. Mathewson reminded me this disease was “common in giant breed dogs.” He told me the cancer would only keep growing, like it had been all along. The cancer cells would duplicate and invade Gizelle’s body. Then cancer would take over, and take Gizelle with it. And that’s how it would go with my giant breed dog.

  “Unfortunately, this is an aggressive malignancy in dogs with a high metastatic rate.” He sighed. “But there are a couple of approaches we can take.”

  I could amputate Gizelle’s back left leg, to cut off the heat. After the loss of the limb, the vet continued calmly, Gizelle would be hit with intense chemotherapy. At this rate the cancer was likely to have reached Gizelle’s lungs already, so Gizelle was still unlikely to survive. This was also a lot of pain for her to go through, and not something he recommended for such a big dog.

  The other option was palliative therapy, which focused on controlling the pain and slowing the process of bone loss, with monthly ketamine treatments given to Gizelle through an IV, followed by loads of pain pills, which she’d already been on. With this option she may have another couple months or so left, but that was hard to predict. It could be a matter of weeks. The v
et said I would know when it was “time.”

  I’d known this day was coming, but nothing could have prepared me for it. It was a little like when you are about to jump into the ocean in the winter, and you know the water is cold, but nothing could have ever trained you for the moment your head dips under and the ocean wraps her frigid fingers around your body. Never, ever could I have imagined this news would hurt so badly, that it would take my breath away, that finding out would feel like I could not and would not ever go on. I sat down, and I sobbed.

  I don’t know how long I sat there, crying. I resented the fact that I wasn’t there, that my constant, my Gizelle, was dying and in pain. I was pissed at the vets; how dare they give me hope that this might be a torn ligament! Then I was pissed at myself for thinking that it might be a torn ligament. But that wouldn’t change the results. I still wanted to blame myself, wondering if I had done everything for Gizelle that I could have. Dr. Mathewson tried to make me feel better by reminding me that even if I would have tested sooner, it still might not have even shown up yet. He repeated that he was so sorry. Then he described Gizelle as stoic, and I knew that. I was almost bitter about that, too. How much pain had my brave girl endured over the past three months without complaining?

  Then, I wasn’t mad. I was in a rush. I grabbed my laptop and began to look up the best way for me to get off this island. A bus from Port Authority? Rental car? Maybe a train to Boston and then a rental car? I looked at the clock in the corner of my computer screen and every time it changed, I got more anxious: 12:30, 12:31, 12:32. Tears fell to the keyboard. Every tick of the clock was less time Gizelle had on earth.

  Then my phone rang. It was Dad, calling to check in and see how my race had gone. I could barely see the screen through my tears, and my explanation to him was just about as jumbled.

  “Slow down, buddy,” he soothed.