Comet's Tale (18 page)

One morning, as I was trimming some overgrown sage bushes, I noticed smears of blood on the patio. I followed the trail back out over the rough red granite chunks that were spread over the backyard and then thought to look at the soles of my feet. They were cut up and bleeding from walking barefoot on the rock cover. I put on some shoes and kept working, ignoring the fact that my feet apparently had no feeling.

I should have known something was up when my retorts to Freddie that “I don't need to rest” started being met with a monotone, “Fine. I'm too tired to argue.” When I tried to tell my girls about my impressive recovery and they cut me off with, “Please, Dad, can we not talk about it?” it should have slapped me out of the fairy tale. When Freddie drove the entire way to Denver for my one-year checkup while I slumped in the passenger's seat, I still didn't get it. I wasn't recovering. I was more like an overtrained quarterhourse, fit on the surface but dangerously fatigued and heading for a crippling fall.

The visit with Dr. Frey started out swimmingly. “This x-ray looks wonderful. See all the white along here?” His pen pointed along boxy white outlines and distinct screw shapes that constituted what now served as my spine. “This is new bone being formed in your disc spaces and along the outside of the vertebrae. It looks like it's all filling in solidly. Barring anything crazy, you should have a good solid fusion along that whole area.”

The good news gave me goose bumps. “That's great! When do you think I'll be able to return to work?” There was no point in wasting any more of the doctor's time.

Dr. Frey's smile faded, replaced with a pensive look as he took a seat on the wheeled stool. He didn't believe in wasting time either. “You're not going to be returning to work. You're not cured. We've just made your condition tolerable.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I've read plenty of stories on the Internet about people who go right back to their normal lives after these surgeries.” I didn't care if there hadn't been enough surgeries like mine to make that type of anecdotal evidence relevant.

“It's true that we sometimes release patients without restrictions once all of the bone grows in. We don't like to set ceilings on what they can or can't do. But your pain symptoms are still in the upper range, even after a year. I want you continuing to do whatever you can within reason, but I also want you to remember how bad you felt before the surgery. If I told you to go back to snow skiing or golf, would you?”

“Probably.”

“Then you haven't learned a thing. I'm afraid that a lot of your pain is chronic and will always limit you. I'm also confident that if you went right back to doing those types of things, whatever is causing your discs to degenerate would move up to the healthy part of your spine. Besides, you're a long way from even being able to sit unassisted on the floor. Your rehab has been great, but you're trying to overcome decades of damage.”

It was time to stop pouting and start negotiating. “Okay. I'll come back in six months and we can talk about it then.”

Dr. Frey smiled. “I'll be glad to revisit the issue anytime you want. But let me ask you something. Isn't one miracle enough for you? Why don't you find something more useful to do than pestering people with lawsuits?” The doctor laughed at his own joke. I don't care how intelligent he was, I was downright hilarious next to this guy.

I left the doctor's office deeply shaken by Dr. Frey's final pronouncement: “I don't think you'll ever go back to your old profession. Just staying healthy enough to walk unaided will be your full-time job from now on.” It didn't dawn on me for at least ten minutes that Freddie hadn't spoken a word since we got into the car. Now I watched her intently studying traffic that was backed up on I-25 before our exit to the hotel. “Hey, it's not as bad as it sounds,” I insisted. “In six more months he'll think twice about that miracle comment.”

But the harder I tried to get our life back to the way it was, the more irritable Freddie became. I knew all was not Sedona rosy red in our house, but I was too frustrated and angry to do anything about it. As I read it, Freddie was clearly unhappy that her prince was never going to present her with a glass slipper. So be it. I stuffed what I perceived to be her disappointment in the same mental folder as my daughters' apparent lack of interest in my recovery. If I could just concentrate long enough, work hard enough, keep nose to grindstone, they'd all come around.

17

MARCH–OCTOBER 2006—SEDONA AND OMAHA

It was a sunny March day, crisp with the possibilities of spring. As had become her new routine, Freddie sprinted past my spot on the patio when she got home. I could see her sitting in the living room, waiting to talk with me. What she had to say did not take long.

“I'm leaving you.”

“Knock it off. I'm too tired to think that's funny.”

“I'm not making a joke. I'm leaving you—tonight.” Her words were not frantic or loud, but as matter-of-fact as if she had been planning to leave for some time. Which she had.

“Come on, Freddie. Stop it. What'd I do to piss you off this time?” We had been having our share of arguments lately.

“This time?
This time!
Why do you always think our arguments are my fault? That I'm always pissed off at something?” Freddie turned to a small suitcase that was already packed and waiting in the entryway. “It's time for me to go.”

My mouth was open far enough to dislocate my jaw. I was stunned at the look of resolve on Freddie's face as she wheeled the suitcase out the door.

“Wait a minute! What's going on? You can't be serious!”

“Steve, listen to me. Don't get mad, just listen. I can't stand our life any longer. I can't stand coming home to an obsessive crazy person who just can't get on with life.”

“Freddie! We need to talk. You haven't said a word to me about any of this. You can't just walk out on me without talking about it!”

“Oh, Steve. I
have
tried to talk to you. Your only response to how I feel is, ‘Hang in there.' I don't want to hang in there anymore. There's no light at the end of the cave . . . or whatever. I am leaving you.” Freddie was standing straight, tapping courage in a way that would have been heroic in other circumstances.

“You're only leaving me because I haven't been able to return us to our past life of luxury. Admit it!”

“Yes, that's exactly why I'm leaving,” Freddie said quietly, and then, “I wouldn't care if the only thing you could ever do was pick up people's garbage or nothing at all. But if
you
don't return us to our past life,
you'll
feel so guilty and be so mad at yourself for ‘failing' that it'll be almost like the surgery never happened. You've been trying so hard to prove you can overcome everything that you don't have anything left, for me or anyone else. I can't live like that anymore.”

She pulled her suitcase to the car, shoved it inside, and drove away. The entire conversation had taken less than ten minutes.

For the next three weeks I could hardly function. Anger drove me from room to room or out back to furiously rip and hack at the trees and shrubs. All I could focus on was “I was wronged!” Every bit of my energy had been devoted to recovering and getting our past life back. I wanted our family to be strong again. It was all up to me! I was pushing myself past exhaustion to prove to Freddie that I was the man she had married. I wanted to be in shape, run for miles, have a body fat of 8 percent, bicycle a hundred miles a weekend. I wanted to be all that I once was. Freddie just didn't get it! How could I “get on with life” being only a small fraction of the person I could have been? Should have been?

Comet suffered Freddie's absence in an entirely different way. Even more than most dogs, greyhounds thrive on routine, and Comet's was now severely altered. Instead of greeting Freddie after the workday, being fed within an hour after that, and seducing Freddie into giving her three treats—always and only three—Comet now began her evening by stretching onto the rug in the foyer. She would stare at the front door, ears perking at the slightest outside sound, refusing to relax until it was dark. Yet she didn't seem angry that she had been slighted. Her expressions and body language told me she was more concerned than irritated.
Why are you mad at me? I will tell you I'm sorry. What did I do wrong? I'll correct it. When are you coming home? I still love you.

I heard through back channels that Freddie had moved in with a girlfriend. Meanwhile, Freddie steadfastly refused to permit any of our friends to give me her new address or even a phone number. By early summer my manic yard work, sessions of exercise, and miles of walking slowed and then stopped. Instead, I sat in my chaise lounge outside until the heat became too intense, then moved indoors to sink deeper into my personal assessment: one failed marriage and possibly a second, daughters who were emotionally wrung out, pain that persisted regardless of how hard I rehabbed or how much I exercised, and the reality of permanent disability and unemployment.

Lying in my recliner with Comet curled at my feet, I drifted back to the black-and-white Westerns I had watched as a kid. The plots were always the same. Man rolls into town, man meets girl, outlaws rob bank, man gets shot. Then man captures outlaws! He saves the bank, gets the girl, she nurses him back to health, and he rides into the sunset alone so he can do it all again the next week. There was never a time when the cowboy sat down in the middle of the road and moaned about life's unfairness.

The community where I grew up was not unlike one of those dusty towns, and the lessons I learned around the dinner table echoed the same themes. My father earned the respect and devotion of his family by staunchly following that code of conduct. Being a man meant something. Women weren't weak in Dad's family, but it was unforgivable if the men around them weren't capable of providing primary protection and sustenance. Dad was sixteen years old when he left the family farm, twenty when he married my sixteen-year-old mother, and twenty-three when he secured himself a “city job” so he could support his wife and two children. When he said, “It's a man's job to take care of his own family, no matter what. Don't complain. Don't make excuses. Just do it,” I didn't question him.

As the only male in our immediate family, I was expected to fill the leadership role when my father died. But by 1997 my health was already tempering those expectations. After Dad passed away, I was not able to step up and take over. Instead, I was sliding into disability, dependent on my wife, unable to work hard enough to overcome my pain. All I could focus on was my failure to tough it out and live up to the code.

In the long days alone with Comet and Sandoz, it now occurred to me that if my father were alive he might have a few things to say about the situation I currently found myself in. He might have given me a hard shake and demanded, “What the hell is wrong with you? You have three daughters and a wife who need you. You can't be there for them if you're hiding in the house like a little kid who had his feelings hurt at school. Act like a man. Buck up and get your ass out of that chair. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

Losing all perspective while I obsessed about my “failures” was detestable, but voluntarily surrendering marriage and family because of pride was a sin. The coping strategies I had relied on all my life—denial, isolation, stubbornness, silence—now revealed themselves to be as useless as rusty old farm tools. When had strength curdled into self-sabotage? I couldn't put a finger on it. But in the middle of the afternoon, I clearly heard my dad saying,
Family is the most important thing.

“I know,” I agreed out loud.

The living room blared a barbed silence back at me.

A man's humblest hour is when he compares his life story as it is with what he had hoped to make it. I was not only humbled, I was embarrassed. Freddie's parting words to me—“I need to be away from you”—were harsh, and they left little room for interpretation. But my daughters hadn't given up on me. I could start the next chapter of my story with them.

I was reminded of the old days as I prepared for my trip. Food needed to be trashed, mail had to be canceled, and Sandoz had to be situated at the neighbors'. Since, as always, Comet would be my traveling companion and copilot, there would need to be plenty of her favorite food and treats on board, as well as a stuffed animal or two. I told enough people who circulated around Sedona that I was traveling to Nebraska so that word could filter to Freddie, allowing her to remove the rest of her belongings from the house while I was gone.

It was time to heal the important parts of my life; my body could wait. But I was scared. What if I didn't approach the girls just right? Neither Kylie nor Lindsey knew I was coming for a visit. After spinning in a world of uncertainty during the drive, I decided to fall back on a tried-and-true rule: When in doubt, do anything, but do it today. An hour outside of Omaha I called Kylie and told her, “I don't know how long I'll be in town, so I'd like to have dinner with you and Lindsey this weekend.”

Kylie's response was wary. “Well, I'll try to get in touch with Lindsey and see what her plans are. Let's shoot for Friday evening.”

When Freddie left me I had called Kylie and Lindsey and told them the news. Freddie had kept in touch with the girls but had not confided in them. Friday night, as we sat down for dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, they couldn't wait to vent their anger at the absent party.

“I'm really mad at Freddie,” Lindsey announced. “I don't know what she's thinking or doing, but it feels like she left the whole family. And didn't that girlfriend she's living with leave her husband last year? Sounds like Freddie's having a midlife crisis.”

“I agree with Lindsey. Freddie's acting like she's gone wacko,” Kylie chimed in.

“Don't be too hard on her, girls. She has her reasons.” Being the oldest adult, it was my duty to impose a sense of decorum. Besides, I was increasingly convinced that Freddie had been justified in leaving, even though I missed her terribly. I took a deep breath.

“Look, I think everyone sitting here can agree about one thing. I have what I guess you could call a personality glitch.” The daughters froze and stared at me. “I've always felt like I had to show strength at all times, to all people, even in the slightest crisis. I think that's been hard for Freddie to live with. And maybe for you.”

“But you were sick,” Kylie objected.

“Doesn't matter. We're a family. What was happening with me affected everyone, but I wouldn't let anyone else have an opinion about it. Especially over the past year.”

Kylie and Lindsey exchanged perplexed glances and let the topic drop. I was practically hyperventilating from this confession, but I don't think they noticed.

Over the next ten days of my stay Kylie and Lindsey kept criticizing Freddie, but I knew part of their anger was misdirected. They also had plenty of pent-up hostility toward me. The girls had been in their teens and early twenties when my illness struck. They didn't have the experience to comprehend my depression and withdrawal from the family. My manic behavior after the surgery had to have been just as disturbing. I could have promised them, “I've changed,” but instead I vowed to myself that I would prove it.

I left Omaha feeling better about my prospects as a father. Rebuilding my reputation with my daughters was a worthy goal, even if it had to be done in increments of weekly phone calls and the occasional visit. I had the time, and for once I also had the patience. I had learned from watching Comet that you could gracefully leave an old you behind, concentrating on each day's offerings and knowing that there might be purposes in life quite different from the ones you had originally chosen. It wasn't failure. It was life. If I had not learned these lessons in time to preserve my marriage, it wasn't too late for me to show my daughters that I was a father they could once again depend on.

Back home in Sedona, I grew physically stronger by the day. I still had trouble socializing in groups of more than a few people, but my mind was clearing. I accepted that certain amounts of pain medication would always be a part of my life. As long as I took advantage of a flexible schedule to rest and properly medicate, the pain was no longer totally debilitating. It was obvious that no one was going to hire me to practice law, because I couldn't guarantee that I could string enough consecutive hours together to be a productive employee. As far I was concerned, sitting in a straight chair or standing up for more than twenty minutes at a time was a feat best left to the young and able.

But there were some new things that I wanted to explore. I had always loved to read, both for the distraction and for the solace. Literature offered perspective on my personal trials and had pulled me through some very long nights. I had been devouring mysteries since I was a boy, and during all but my most painful days, they still had the power to captivate me. I spent enough time with them that I had begun to fantasize about writing one myself. The Native American Rights Foundation newsletter, which I received every month, was full of fascinating legal cases that could be an ideal jumping-off point for a mystery series. Why not? I needed something to keep myself busy. Golf and snow skiing were certainly out of the question.