Discuss This Article
Previous Columns
There are times when all writers must walk through dark places where sunlight does not penetrate. Times when the fear and hurt are so great our minds close up and refuse to allow us to express to others what we've been through or continue to go through
Until recently, when I read an article in a popular writers' magazine, I held my pent up emotions hidden in my heart afraid to reveal to anyone my pain, and inconsolable grief. The article said writers could not write well when they wrote only from the mind. Unless, it said, we write from the heart, from the core of our soul, we would never succeed as writers.
Finally, the dam burst. The emotions I've fought for so long broke through and I came to a serene place where I found myself writing about my journey through the Valley of the Shadow. This is that story. A story of hope and of loss readers will see as my personal catharsis, my release and re-entry into the world of writing.
On a gray day in November 1998, the phone rang. It was my doctor giving me the results of a biopsy he'd taken from my colon. The words, Colorectal cancer, were added to my vocabulary. "It's in the early stages," my doctor said. Early stages? I found that this meant a skilled surgeon might be able to remove the cancer and resection my bowel. Nevertheless, I experienced the metallic taste of fear and the rancid smell of death. My husband cried. I cried.
Having recovered from bleeding ulcers only a few short months prior to this time, I knew I was strong enough to fight the dreaded "C" word, but did I have the will to fight? This is where my tiny life companion, Mandy, comes into the story.
Mandy weighed less than seven pounds. She was a toy poodle with enough love and determination to fend off any threat to her mistress. This she did with steadfast loyalty. She felt my fears and tried her best to put them to rest with sweet doggy kisses and precious attention.
Surgery was scheduled and performed. And, as the doctor predicted, they were able to remove the cancer and surrounding tissue, then resection my colon. A port was put into my vena cava vein where chemotherapy drugs could run through my body twenty-four hours a day. Each day at a set time I made the trip to a local hospital where radiation was beamed into my lower back. Each trip was like an emotional whirlwind. Walking down a long hall way far beneath the hospital to the monstrous machines seemed not unlike a prisoner's last walk down the infamous "Green Mile." My husband always walked with me. He only left my side when I was taken into the radiation room.
I can still hear those kind technicians' words as they tried to still my fears of the monstrous machines. Yet, they too, left me before the radiation began. A clanging of a heavy door, retreating footsteps, were the sounds I heard before the big machine began its dance macabre. At last the position was reached, the therapy began with an eerie hum. My mind raced away to wild and scary places.
Once back home, little Mandy took over. The treatments always left me weary, and so weak all I wanted was the safe haven of my bed. She would leap up beside me, nestle down with her head on my stomach and watch as I lay there full of dread and all the fears of what might be in my future.
During the weeks of my chemo and radiation treatments Mandy padded softy around me, followed me throughout the house. When I showered, she lay outside the shower door. When I cried, she crawled into my lap and nuzzled my hand until I'd stroke her little head. Strange, there is something soothing, calming, about stroking a pet's fur and feeling her life forces beneath your fingers. Was it just life or was it love? The latter, I think. Maybe both.
After the hospital visits were over, the port removed from my chest, life returned to a somewhat normal routine, but Mandy continued her watch over me. She knew, I believe, that death had come close to her loved one and she wasn't going to let it come again. This constant vigil was kept for two years and one and a half months. I was Mandy's personal human and she never let me or anyone else forget that.
Mandy had her routines and she kept them. When I went to my computer, she was there. When I sat in my chaise to rest, she was there, and when my husband had to be away teaching or running errands, she was there, and her tiny black shadow followed every move I made
During my own struggle for survival, Mandy began to fight her own battle. Her doctor said she had an enlarged heart and put her on medication. She never allowed how she felt divert her attention from me. The ever alert little dog with the big heart remained at my side as I remained at hers. I guess we were looking after each other, only she never recognized I was watching her as she watched me.
Mandy turned ten years old on December 10, 2000. When our children and grandchildren came for Christmas, Mandy had a big time keeping me from over extending myself. She managed though, and we both came out of the holidays intact. The first twelve days of January 2001 were peaceful and quiet for us. My husband, home for winter break from his college chores, spent a lot of time with us and life seemed almost back to normal.
Then on Saturday morning, January 13th, the unthinkable began to happen. Mandy got up at her usual time but was panting hard. I let her outside as I always do and she went out through the snow, but returned quicker than usual. She came into the house, sat at the foot of my chair and stared up at me as if asking, "What's wrong? Why am I breathing so hard?"
Then, as if she'd sent me an ESP message, I knew. She was having a heart attack. We called her Vet, bundled Mandy up in her special blanket, and raced for the doctor's office. Mandy lay in my arms looking at me, then she sat up and looked out of the car window. All the while her breathing labored and her heart thudded too heavy beneath my fingers.
By the time we arrived at the Vet Clinic it was obvious Mandy was dying. She was awake, her brown eyes searched my face. She even managed to kiss my fingers as I laid her on the examining table. Over and over I told her how much I loved her and how dear she was to have given all she had to me during my sickness. I caressed her little body as I felt for the now faint beat of her faithful heart. Still, her soft eyes looked into mine, and I knew she knew she was leaving me.
My heart broke. Hers broke. I lived, she didn't. I watched the glaze come over her eyes, saw the beautiful spirit fade from her tiny body and wept as I've never, in this life, wept before. She wasn't just a dog, she was my Mandy, my life companion, my precious caretaker and my dearest friend.
I have a long way to go before I'm out of the valley of the shadow, but I know I'll make it. Somewhere out there on the other side of the "Rainbow Bridge" is a tiny black poodle named Mandy, waiting for me. Interesting, the future holds no more fear. Not even the big "C" scares me anymore. I've learned that patience and love will lead me to my destiny where ever that might be.
Copyright February 21, 200l Patricia Ann Jones, all rights reserved. (Jones is a published writer & literary critic)
The information compiled on this site is
Copyright 1999-2008 by Attard Communications, Inc. and by the individual authors.
Business Know-How is a woman-owned business and a registered trademark of Attard Communications, Inc.
Phone: 631-467-8883.
