KEEP YOUR EYE ON THE WALL | Suzanne Travis

Today is another scorcher, a record-breaking heat wave in Los Angeles that won’t let up. Now that our refrigerator stopped working after an early morning power outage, the apricots from our front yard tree, pitted, halved and meticulously placed in zippered plastic bags at the bottom of our freezer, have turned a melty, slushy brown. Probably inedible by now. Our cell phones have lost service so there’s no way to call a repair person.

“This is beyond apocalyptic,” I mutter to my perspiring husband, who is trying unsuccessfully to fix the ice maker while mumbling unintelligible curse words to himself.

Cooling off in our pool isn't an option. Not after my thoracic surgeon removed two cancerous lobes of my right lung. I’m given strict instructions not to swim for at least four weeks but at least I can put on a bathing suit. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I can’t help noticing how my swollen torso resembles a German sausage punctured with fork marks.

Staring out the window at the shimmering aquamarine water, I find myself remembering when the kids were little, screaming and splashing and playing Marco Polo. And how my biggest problem back then was how to sneak broccoli into their Sponge Bob Mac and Cheese. Before the surgery, my husband loved doing his morning laps. But not anymore. I think it’s a solidarity type thing and it makes me want to cry.

Along with everything else going on, my favorite dog Frankie may have to be put down. Barely able to stand, he developed an uncontrollable cough during my five days stint at the hospital. On our first night home, we stayed up all night, taking turns holding him like a baby, trying to force a syringe of sweet-smelling cough medicine down his throat. None of it helped. 

After driving to the emergency vet the next morning with a pillow pressed against my excision site, Frankie was placed in a plastic oxygen tank for two nights of observation. While my husband pays the receptionist, I pop another oxycodone. Then I take an Ativan, pretty sure how this is going to play out. The credit card charges will be exorbitant, probably more than flying to Kauai, sipping oversized Mai Tais and snorkeling with the sea turtles, our vacation plans before the cancer diagnosis, a trip that most likely will have to be canceled now.

If my one-eyed, snaggle-toothed dream dog Frankie doesn't pull through, I’m afraid of becoming unhinged, running through the streets and screaming at strangers how unfair this goddamn world is. 

Before Frankie was sick, I’d walk the three dogs up our canyon every night when there were fewer cars and people to deal with. Buttercup, our Golden Retriever, is morbidly obese, according to our retired veterinarian neighbor across the street. Guilt sets in like it’s my fault, like I’m feeding her bacon burgers every day. Along with her weight issue, she’s stubborn, pausing to lay down in various driveways, all ninety pounds of her refusing to budge while someone's Ring camera repeatedly warns You are on private property and being videotaped. 

Our other dog Murray looks like an albino sea otter or a white loaf of bread. Yipping at everything from random leaves to shadows, he’s also challenging to walk. But not Frankie. He’s all business, nose to the ground, tail wagging, his paws clicking on the pavement, trotting beside me like he could go for miles. 

Frankie patiently waits as I drop the other two dogs off at home and then it’s just the two of us. Breathing in the eucalyptus-scented air, we continue on our evening walk, listening to unseen owls calling out from silhouettes of trees. Sometimes bats zigzag above our heads, looking like tiny black specks. It's peaceful, meditative, an almost sacred tradition, something I count on and look forward to, something that keeps me going.

While visiting Frankie at the four-story animal hospital, I try not to look at the limping French bulldog with an IV, the thick coated Husky with a cast, a tiny black puppy with patches of hair missing and teary-eyed owners reaching for boxes of Kleenex placed strategically throughout the sterile waiting area.

Holding my breath, we’re led upstairs by a cheery young vet tech in pink scrubs. When my husband croons Franklin Time, to the tune of Christmas Time, through an opening in the cubicle, Franklin’s curly white ears perk up. But he’s too weak to raise his head and his eyes are listless, foggy.

Like most sane people, I’m afraid of dying. My daughter tries to encourage me by saying, “No one knows when their time is up. My old college roommate, Yvette, was snorkeling in the Caribbean with her 50-something Dad and he died of a heart attack right there in the water.”

Unfortunately, her words don’t make me feel any better. Neither do friends and family and lab techs and my own patients assuring me that oncology nurses like me don’t die of cancer. Even though my doctors have a plan for a year of immunotherapy and maybe a study drug after I recover from the surgery, I find it hard to hope. 

What I want to hear is “Great news! The pathology report shows the mass is gone with clear margins so you can stop worrying.”

Maybe my oncologist did say something like that, but without the enthusiasm I would have hoped for. Unlike car salesmen, doctors don’t make false promises. If Frankie ends up having to be euthanized, the only thing that makes me feel somewhat better is imagining myself playing the cancer card, a reason not to be present when the vet inserts the needle. There’s no way I can picture myself watching Frankie’s body twitching, the same way it does when he’s sleeping, probably dreaming about chasing squirrels. Or feeling him become heavy and limp in my arms. Or watching his pink tongue fall to the side of his mouth after he takes in one last whisper of breath. Or hearing the vet with a sympathetic face saying something like I’m so sorry, but he’s gone. Please take as much time with him as you like.

But I also can’t bear the idea of my husband being alone with Frankie in the special room where animals are put to sleep. On day three we get up early to drive to the emergency vet hospital in the hot car. I've forgotten my pillow for the pain and don’t care. This time, climbing up the stairs feels more difficult, almost impossible. Pausing at the top to catch my breath, I clutch my husband’s arm as we head towards the plastic box. Frankie isn't inside. Maybe he already passed away and no one told us? We squeeze each other's hands, not speaking.

At that moment, someone rounds the corner with Frankie in her arms. After setting him down on the floor, he bolts towards us, skidding across the slippery linoleum. Jumping up against our legs, demanding to be picked up, he’s himself again. Better than himself. Driving home with our discharge instructions and bag full of medications, my husband says, “See, everything worked out after all! You just have to keep your eye on the wall.”

I laugh. "Eye on the wall? Isn’t it eye on the ball? Like in sports?”

My husband doesn't back down. “I’m pretty sure it’s eye on the wall. But both can work.”

I let him think he’s not wrong, pulling Frankie closer as we turn up the canyon towards home. Feeling the hot leather seat sticking to the back of my thighs, I roll down the window, listening to kids screaming at passing cars from a lemonade stand. It’s still hot, maybe hotter outside than the last few days. A few houses away from ours, our neighbors watch their naked toddler laughing and running through the sprinklers. Frankie snuggles into the crook of my arm, then sits up to look out the window, sensing we’re almost home. For the first time in a long while, I don't feel like I'm dying anymore. 

Suzanne Travis is a semi-retired oncology nurse and former stand-up comic. She enjoys spending her extra time pursuing her passion for writing memoir and short essays. Living in Los Angeles with her husband and three rescue dogs, Travis likes cycling and hiking with in the Santa Monica mountains surrounding her home. She continues using humor as a healing tool with both patients and their families at her part-time infusion center job. Travis writes about her experiences during both the AIDS and COVID epidemic and the lessons learned in a career that spans over forty years.

PRINT