Dog Named Leaf (14 page)

M
Y BRAIN HAD BEEN TAMPERED WITH, AND ITS MATRIX OF CONNECTIONS
disrupted. My frontal lobe, the section of the brain that regulates emotions, had slipped from what I hoped was tip-top performing condition into obvious unreliability.

Supposedly as people age, their frontal lobes weaken. This is why the stereotype of the senior citizen who blurts out whatever is on his mind exists. Postsurgery, my frontal-lobe-impaired emotions fluctuated wildly. They ran the scale from deep gratitude for my life to sadness over not being able to function fully. I dreaded that everything had changed and I had no control over any of it.

My mood swings began to take a toll on our empathetic dog. In spite of all he went through before we found him, he’d gradually acquired more trust in me and confidence in my strength. His resiliency, complex intelligence, and engaging personality had enabled him to form a whole and healthy emotional life. But for every step I took forward in my recovery, Leaf seemed to be taking two steps back. He was regressing into the anxious dog who could rely on no one but himself for protection.

Probably feeling like I was no longer on the job as Alpha of our household, he stepped up his alertness. Prior to my surgery, with the help of treats and rewards whenever anyone came to the house, he’d started to display less fearfulness and was acting friendlier to strangers when we walked around the neighborhood or played at the dog park. After my
surgery he reverted to growling at visitors and barking until they left or flinching at anyone who unexpectedly tried to pet him.

It seemed like he was campaigning for Alpha Dog of the World again. If Linda took him out for exercise, his eyes darted around warily as if expecting to fight attackers behind every tree. His regression made it clear that healing from his own past traumas and now dealing with mine was depleting his emotional reserves.

“What’s happening, pup?” I asked him one day. He sat on the couch next to me and looked out the front window. He had just gone ballistic at a delivery truck that drove by our house. He hurled his body so hard against the picture window that I thought he might have broken a rib. I had to run my hands along his ribcage to make sure everything was still intact.

This was a dog who needed to feel secure and safe. He had to know he could rely on me. But I was in no condition for anyone to rely on me for anything.

As my days recovering at home dwindled, I was grateful to my publisher, editor, and literary agent for not panicking when I told them about the brain surgery. Our editor had sent us a card and gift certificate for a visit to our favorite restaurant. Since I’d soon be thrust back into the business world and also wanted to give Linda a break from caring for me, I suggested that we use the gift certificate before I returned to work.

We drove to a cheery restaurant in downtown Minneapolis. Its menu of organic foods, white tablecloths, and wide glass walls that allowed for people-watching made eating there a special occasion. After ordering our meals I looked at our predominantly green-filled plate and said, “It feels like we’re on Sesame Street. This meal is being brought to you by the color green.”

Linda laughed. It felt good to have a lighthearted conversation that didn’t revolve around medications, looming medical bills, my job, the next
deadline for a book, or Leaf and his issues. We raised our glasses of Perrier and clinked them together. My heart filled with gratitude. Maybe things would get back to normal. Maybe sooner than later.

During my healing process Leaf became my channel for viewing and living in the strange postsurgery world where my body could no longer be trusted to do what was necessary. After I was cleared to drive again, I took Leaf to the dog park so both of us could relax. With my frontal lobe still not in total functioning mode, other drivers agitated me. I now understood how a person could be overtaken by road rage. To my embarrassment, I found myself yelling at drivers who lingered at stoplights. It irritated me that they crossed lanes too close in front of my car, chattered on their cell phones, or indulged in other poor driving habits. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have been fazed much and just made sure I got out of their way.

In our car CD player, we keep a recording of around five thousand people chanting the mantra “HU.” For me, it is an incredibly soothing sound. The voices of all these chanters fluctuate and harmonize into a magnificent, unrehearsed symphony of high vibrational sound. When I’m driving I often push the button on the car stereo system and listen to the uplifting song waft through the speakers. With Leaf in the car, I doubly enjoy the chant, sensing that it also soothes and comforts him.

On this day Leaf watched me from the front seat as my anger erupted at other drivers. I was like someone with Tourette’s syndrome, unable to censor my negative mind talk. After watching me scream at a bus that stopped frequently in front of my car, Leaf reached his paw over to the CD player. Out of six buttons on the stereo, he firmly pressed the one that allowed the CD to play.

The timing, position of his paw, his selection of buttons, and the CD that happened to be in the stereo could have all been coincidental. I didn’t care. I needed it. Consciously or not, I knew Leaf was being God’s messenger for me. His act of compassion had its desired effect. I calmed down
and let the chant heal my troubled, aching heart and mind. Gratitude welled up in me. My dog had figured out how to supply exactly what I needed to dissolve a passion of the mind I couldn’t control.

I looked over at him. As if nothing had happened, as if he did this sort of thing every day, his attention returned to the traffic. His curious eyes darted back and forth as he watched cars whiz by. Who was this dog? If I couldn’t register an oncoming vehicle, would he lean over and steer the car out of the way for me too?

Later that day I sat on the living room couch with Leaf in his usual spot. His body draped across my torso, and his head rested on my crossed leg. Although I’d grown over the months to appreciate him at deeper levels, at this moment I experienced an epiphany about our relationship.

I looked at my little adopted dog and realized that we were both emotionally damaged goods. My lack of trust in people, fear of being dependent like my stroke-ridden father, discomfort when people expressed their emotions, and an overwhelming need for privacy all sprung from a childhood in which I never had enough strength to feel safe. Eight years of police work had confronted me with some of the worst humanity had to offer. With its random violence, it had reinforced my low opinion of anyone’s, including my own, trustworthiness.

Leaf’s fear, mistrust, and mercurial emotions arose from losing everything he’d ever known and being left without any safety net but his own street smarts. Although he’d been the abandoned shelter dog we rescued, without a doubt he had more than returned the favor. I knew now that life had turned our relationship to its flip side. Leaf was rescuing and trying to heal me. This little black cocker spaniel, abandoned and thrown out like someone’s trash, named after a motorcycle he detested, had become nothing less than a spiritual giant in my life.

S
TANDING AT MY OFFICE DOOR, THE PRESIDENT OF MY COMPANY SAID
to me, “We’re having a company-wide meeting in ten minutes in the conference area. As a test of your mental capacity, you’ll need to remember everybody by name.” Knowing his sense of humor—at times, humor only he appreciated—I looked up at him with a grin. Then I checked the position of my trusty tan cap. It covered disconcerting visual reminders of my brain surgery.

I was back at work on the fourth Monday after my surgery, not yet fully recovered but feeling unreasonably optimistic. As far as anyone at the office knew, I was ready to operate at full throttle, ready to jump back into the game. The swelling on the right side of my face was now only slightly noticeable. The dark circles around my eyes had faded.

“No problem,” I said, but of course, this was a huge problem. I could never remember names even before brain surgery.

Much to Linda’s frustration, I’d remember very personal things about people—some of them embarrassing—rather than their names. “Dropped out of school when she was fifteen. Hates vanilla ice cream. Talks out loud to her cat,” I’d say about someone. Then I’d wait for Linda to piece together the puzzle and come up with the person’s name. It was an “endearing” habit of mine that drove her crazy.

While I really liked my coworkers, I had no idea what most of their names were. I always felt that requiring nametags would be a good
company policy for those of us, mostly me, who were name-retention impaired. Instead, I had to know their names strictly by memory. This didn’t happen in the best of times. And these were not the best of times.

“You do know I couldn’t remember their names
before
surgery,” I reminded the president. “And you always have new people around here.”

He smiled and said, “No worries,” and walked away.

I glanced back at my computer screen and our network’s empty log-in fields, then down at my photo of Leaf. It was the same picture that had been on my desk the day I got the news about my unruptured brain aneurysm from the neurologist. I imagined that right about now, Leaf would be curled up on the couch, snoring and dreaming of a chase.

I wondered why, other than due to an inadequate brain, my log-in didn’t work. It was a simple password that anybody, even I, could remember. It started with
L
and ended with F, with the letters E and A in the middle. I punched it in. Nothing. Access denied.

I panicked that it was all my fault that I couldn’t remember my password. Luckily the IT tech walked by and saw that I was there. He called out casually, “All staff log-in credentials were changed while you were away.” Relief flooded my body.

“It’s time for the meeting,” I heard the president say.

So this was no joke. He really
was
going to make me remember everybody’s names. Filled with dread, I walked down the hallway to the makeshift conference area where our president stood surrounded by the rest of the staff.

“Does anyone notice anything different?” he asked the group.

Everyone looked at me.

At that moment any delusion of being at full throttle evaporated. No longer able to rely on my core beliefs, I felt like a ghost of the man I had been. I fumbled with my cap to make sure it still covered my incision.

“We’re all very happy that you’re back,” the president said with enthusiasm.

These fifteen or so men and women I’d worked with for over three years clapped and smiled. They expressed heartfelt happiness that I’d survived and returned. Many came up later and personally told me they were glad I would be OK.

From that point on, each of them did their part to provide a soft landing for me. My boss was able to reduce my stressful workload when colleagues offered to take on some of my clients. I will always appreciate everyone who helped and welcomed me back to Planet Day Job. With more optimism than I’d felt in a long time, I could let myself hope that things would get back to normal in record time.

But progress was slow. During that first week at work, I grew increasingly concerned over my inability to focus. I could no longer count on my memory to kick in. Incessant headaches continued to pound my thought processes into submission. Now, it wasn’t only names I couldn’t remember. I had a tough time instantly recalling details of clients and job sites as well.

I’d come to the office every day, sit at my desk, and struggle to stand tall on a wobbling brain stem.

Prior to the surgery I was asked and had agreed to lead software implementation and training at a client site in North Carolina. This meant that at only the fifth week after my operation, I’d have to go to the airport, get on a plane, and drive a rental car to the site. To add to the tension, it was a troubled site with unresolved client issues. For reasons I’ve never understood, I had a reputation for handling thorny problems with diplomacy.

I made reservations for my flight and rental car. But in my heart I knew I wasn’t nearly ready for this assignment. Linda pleaded with me to stay home. “It’s too soon,” she said. “What if you have a relapse? What if you have a stroke? What if there is internal bleeding? Will you be near a hospital that has a neurosurgeon on staff? Will they know what to do with someone who had brain surgery only a month ago?”

Of course, she was right to be concerned. But the site and this big client were a major key to my division remaining open. Now that the merger had occurred, if our division lost money, we’d all be unemployed.

And so only a month after surgery, I sat on a plane, head wound and all, and flew to North Carolina. I had to be able to communicate effectively about the best ways to use our complex software systems. If I failed, I’d be labeled as dead weight at the site. With that kind of client feedback, I was sure that my employer would view me negatively.

Sitting in a window seat, I looked out at the clouds and tried to relax. Clouds weren’t doing it for me, so I closed my eyes and thought about Leaf and our favorite sanctuary—the large dog park by the river. Our adventures together exploring the wooded paths, hills, and river beaches brought a smile to my face. I recalled watching my canine problem-solving specialist make decisions about what direction to explore and which dogs to befriend. As usual, I counted on him to mirror back to me solutions and issues I couldn’t see in myself. So far, our lives had run uncannily parallel paths. During my recovery I had become even more observant of how Leaf dealt with challenges.

By the time we landed in North Carolina, the steroids I was still taking for healing had worn off. I was bombarded by loud noises from every direction. Adding to my already shaky nerves, the steroids made me feel as if at any moment someone might physically attack me. I again admitted to myself that although it had taken courage to keep my commitment, I truly was not in tip-top shape for traveling or for handling the subtleties of meeting our client’s needs.

I thought of Leaf, who was not really in tip-top shape for swimming in a river with strong currents because of his short legs. Like him, I was determined to succeed. I’d do my best to restrain my frontal-lobe outbursts.

After checking in at the hotel, I did what Leaf might have done: I strategized for my own well-being. “When I am not on-site, I will be in bed sleeping,” I said out loud to myself. I decided for the entire week,
anytime I wasn’t working, I’d sleep. I searched the Internet for the closest emergency medical facility that could handle someone who’d recently had brain surgery. The University of North Carolina Medical Center was nearby. I took a dry run and checked out the emergency room. At some level I knew I wouldn’t need to make that trip or require an ambulance to transport me, but I prepared for it anyway.

Twice during that week I found myself in a state of paranoia. At the hotel I curled up in a corner of the room and stared at the bolted and locked door to make sure intruders didn’t break in and steal my food. I was ravenously hungry. Like a feral animal, I gobbled down dinner from a fast-food restaurant.

After a couple of days, the irrational episodes subsided. To regain balance, I’d call Linda and she’d hold the receiver to Leaf’s ear. I’d tell
him how much I loved and missed him. I tried to contain my emotional breakdowns to the hotel room but my fight-or-flight response occasionally took hold at work. When someone asked me a question I couldn’t immediately answer, I didn’t know what to do and panicked. In my mind the world had turned treacherous, so the questions could be attempts to trip me up. Since everyone knew me from previous visits to this site, if they noticed my hesitation, they were polite enough not to say anything,

Somehow I managed to call upon every ounce of energy and resourcefulness I had left to solve my client’s software issues and alleviate their concerns. By the end of the week, I’d fulfilled my commitment. I was more than ready to go home.