ABOUT THE PAST FEW WEEKS & WHAT HAPPENED TO MARLEY

August 20, 2024

             Nine years ago, Sue and I fell head over heels in love and not with each other - that had already happened decades earlier. We'd just retired and moved to an oceanfront condo in South Florida to spend our days on the beach and swimming in the warm, turquoise water. From our windows, we watched the sun rise over the Atlantic and gazed at the full moon making its majestic climb over the horizon on its way to a star-filled sky. I volunteered at a sea turtle hospital, fulfilling a lifelong dream, and Sue worked on her paintings, something she hadn’t had the time to do before. We thought our lives were perfect until Marley bounded into them and made them so much better. 

            Still recovering from the marathon of down-sizing, selling our home of thirty-plus years, and moving hundreds of miles away, we were just beginning to find our footing in a new chapter of life when we followed our hearts and 95 South to Hollywood, Florida. Puppies were for sale.

            Our son, JJ, warned us, "You know, if you guys go to see those puppies, you'll come back with one." As I recall, few words were said. I looked at my wife, raised my brows, and grinned. She smiled back.

             Marley is special. We knew it from the moment we first saw her, even though she was a clumsy ball of fluff back then. Is it possible for a dog to have the "it" factor? I think so. A big personality that forces your lips to curl into a smile, floppy ears that beg to be stroked, a furry face that's full of joy, and large brown eyes that have a way of looking deep into your soul. Random strangers often point at her and ask, "What kind of dog is that? Is she a puppy?" Even at nine years, she acts like one.

            Marley is a mini-goldendoodle, friendly to a fault, curious and sweet. She makes friends wherever she goes and she's been everywhere. With our careers behind us and our boys living on the other side of the country, Marley quickly became the focus of our attention. She spends her days with us, she sleeps with us, she even joins us at meals and has her own place at the table. Before you get the wrong idea, we're not those people. We don't serve her meals there; she eats from a bowl on the floor but she sits with us while we eat, waiting for a scrap or two from our plates. She knows I'm an easier mark than Sue.

            I love the ocean and have been drawn to it for as long as I can remember. A strong swimmer, there's little I enjoy more than tasting the salt on my lips and feeling the energy of the waves. So imagine my delight when I learned my dog shares this love. Retrieving balls from the water, riding waves, and just getting wet and sandy -- Marley loves all of it. It's part of the "it" factor I mentioned earlier.  

            Sitting on the beach with Sue, Marley and I watched the magic of sea turtles crawling from the ocean to lay their eggs and witnessed the Space Shuttle lighting up the sky as it blasted into space hundreds of miles away in Cape Canaveral. Perfect memories with a perfect companion. You get the idea.

            Life in Florida wasn't always fun and Marley was by our side during those times, too. She rode out a hurricane or two, stoically doing her business in tropical downpours while we were buffeted off our feet by gusts that made light work of our umbrellas. When an airborne virus with the capacity to kill threatened the lives of people everywhere and our elected officials turned a blind eye, Marley kept us calm. The three of us spent a lonely Christmas together when no one could travel, an experience that led us to move to San Diego to be closer to our sons. Through those dark days, Marley's light served as a reminder that there are good things in life, kindness in the world, and reasons to keep going. Remember what I said about her forcing your lips to curl into a smile?

            Whenever we traveled, Marley joined us. As airline regulations changed and she could no longer fly in the main cabin, the three of us crossed the country by car, not just once, but three times. Along the way, I'm certain we stayed in every LaQuinta motel in the south and southwest, not because we enjoy the smell of disinfectant or the first-floor view of the parking lot, but because that's where she's welcome and our sensitivities don't seem as important as her needs. Our adventures were always more interesting with Marley in the mix.

            Everything changed just a few weeks ago. Life threw us one of the curveballs it's so famous for. We noticed a discharge in Marley's left eye. We thought nothing of it, wiping it away, only to find more the next day. Her left eye also appeared smaller than her right, leading me to ask, "Can eyes shrink?" There was something else too, something we couldn't put our finger on, something only we'd notice because we're her people.

            "It's just allergies," said the veterinarian, her diagnosis rushed. "All my patients have them now. Use these eye drops, it will clear up." We did what she told us and the discharge stopped. But there was something else, something different. The "it" factor was gone. Seemingly overnight, our playful pup had become an older dog. Her summer had turned into winter.

            A day or so later, on an early Sunday morning, a bigger change came into view. Marley's left eye was even smaller, like it had shrunken into her head. It looked watery, too. And to our horror, when we held that sweet furry face in our hands, the left side of it felt hollow. The muscle above her left eye and in her left cheek had all but disappeared. Even more alarming, she seemed off balance and a little dazed.

            "I think she had a stroke," Sue said.

            "Or she got into the vodka," I offered. "She's wobbling."

            After googling the symptoms we were seeing, we came up with Horner's syndrome, a condition that affects the face and eye on one side of the body. It's caused when the nerve pathway from the brain to the head and neck is disrupted. The good news about Horner's is that it resolves over time. At least that's what Google said.

            First thing on Monday, we called the vet and brought her in for a second time. "Oh, this is different. Her eye looks smaller," she said, concern reading across her face.

            Sue and I have been married for almost forty years. We're at a place where we can read each other's thoughts. So when we looked at each other, I knew she was thinking the same thing I was. The vet is covering her ass. We'd told her that eye seemed smaller.

            "We believe it's Horner's Syndrome," Sue said, feeling confident in our googled diagnosis. "She's got all the symptoms."

            "Well, I guess there's no need to go to veterinary school now that we have Google," the vet replied in a pissed off tone of voice. We looked at each other again, reading each other's thoughts. We're not coming back here. Ever.

            "No, it's not Horner's, it's something else," the vet said. "She needs to be evaluated by a specialist right away. No time to lose. Whatever it is, it's happening very fast."

            Let me stop here and ask, have you ever wanted to punch somebody in the nose? Not that you'd actually do it, you just thought about doing it? In her rush to diagnose Marley the first time, it was now sounding like the veterinarian had wasted valuable time important to Marley's recovery. The eye looked smaller the first time we brought her in and when we'd pointed it out, we'd been dismissed. I kept my cool. Marley sensing my annoyance crawled under my chair and out of the fray.

            Unable to get us an appointment with a neurology specialist until the following week, the vet suggested we go to the emergency room at a specialty hospital the next morning and plead to be seen. "Be prepared to wait and don't feed Marley," she said as we departed her office. "She may need anesthesia."

            We spent the night worrying and googling. Something was disrupting Marley's nerve pathway and causing her symptoms. Facial muscles don't just deteriorate for no reason.

            "It could be any number of things," Sue said while looking at me over the screen on her laptop. "This says it may be an infection, an auto-immune problem, trauma from an accident or it might be idiopathic, which means they might not figure out what it is." She stopped reading and her mouth fell open. "Or it’s a tumor."

            Morning came, and we made the trip to the specialty hospital, a modern, well-kept facility that sat atop of a hill. "The parking lot's full," I said. "I hope we can get her in."

            With Marley pulling on her leash, we entered the place and my eyes landed on a sign that warned in large letters; EMERGENCY CARE: 2 HOUR WAIT.

            Two hours, that's not so bad, I remember thinking to myself. An efficient young woman who sat behind a computer screen greeted us and took our information. She asked us to take a seat in the waiting area. "Maybe we'll get some answers today," I said to Sue. She sighed, looked away, and wiped a tear from her cheek. If there's one thing I just can't handle, it’s seeing Sue cry, and she does it a lot. Sappy television commercials, movies, beautiful writing, anything with animals, even Simone Biles' Olympic performances, they all make her faucets turn on. I've been her partner for four decades and should be used to it, but it gets me every time. I want nothing more than to ease her worry. I can't.

            A half an hour passes before a vet tech arrives to do our intake. After hearing our story, he assures us Marley will be seen within the hour. It's serious, I think. They're rushing us in. Sue and I glance at each other. I don’t ask, but I know we're thinking the same thing.

            As we wait, a parade of dogs, cats, and their owners come and go. None seem happy to be here. The facility has an outside area that looks a lot like a putting green. It's for dogs to do their business. After an hour, we figure Marley might need to avail herself of this amenity, so we go out. Marley, however, has always refused to go on artificial turf. She snubs her nose at the putting green and holds it. 

            Back inside, the hours continue to pass. Dozens more dogs and cats file through the waiting area. They have appointments. We don't. Marley decides she's not in the mood for other dogs and takes a seat on the bench between us. This isn't new behavior for her. Where I've always been more drawn to animals, Marley's more of a people kind of gal. Whatever's wrong with her, that hasn't changed. She's still herself and I hug her for it. My eyes fill up for the hundredth time that day and I swipe at a tear when Sue isn't looking. I don't think she can stand to see me cry, either.

            It's mid-afternoon when we're called back. As we sit next to each other on a tiny bench in a drab-gray examination room, a man with kind eyes enters and introduces himself. "I'm Matt. It’s my job to assess all the ER patients. I've read the write-ups on Marley, including the history your regular vet sent over." I like this guy immediately. He does his homework. He was worth the wait.

            "I already have some ideas about what's going on," he says in an unhurried, casual tone that I find assuring. "I'm pretty certain it's Horner's syndrome."

            Sue's mouth hangs open as she looks at me. "That's what we thought, too," she says. Now remember what I said earlier about wanting to punch a certain someone in the nose? That feeling was back. Our regular vet got it wrong again.

            "So now we need to determine what's causing it," Matt says.

            "I'm hoping for an infection," I say, trying to be funny, but not really. "Some anti-biotics and she's as good as new." Matt knows things I don't. He gives me the briefest of smiles.

            "Let me show you how we'll figure this out." He draws a diagram on a white board that shows the nerves leading from a dog's brain and what functions they control. "Based on Marley's symptoms, it's likely to be this one, the trigeminal nerve," he explains as he points to one of the lines he's drawn. "We can do a quick test that will tell us where the problem is."

            The nerve Matt identified starts in the brain, runs behind the eye and down past the cheek. Sue looks over at me. I watch her swallow the same lump in her throat that I have.

            The test Matt is about to do involves a simple eye drop. "If it's good news," he says, "her left eye will appear normal in just a few minutes. That tells us the problem is further down and away from the brain, making it a lot easier to treat."

            "Okay," I respond because I don’t know what else to say. Matt’s in charge and we’re along for the ride. I stand next to the examination table with Marley in my hands, so she doesn't jump off and make a break for it. Matt puts the drop in her eye.

            "If there's no change, it means something more serious. Either way, I want the neurologist to have a look." With that, Matt leaves us alone to wait for the eyedrop to do its thing.

            "I don't see any change, do you?" I ask after a few minutes. Sue looks at Marley's eye and shakes her head. We sit in silence until I break it. "Let's google him. You know, see where he went to vet school." It doesn't make any difference where Matt went to school, but it's something we can do when we can't do anything else. It turns out, he went to Michigan.

            Matt returns and checks Marley's eye using a flashlight. "No difference," he says. "Not what I was hoping for, but we'll figure this out. I'm curious," he explains. "I want to know what this is."

            "We do too," I remember saying, although that might not be true anymore.

            "Someone from the neurology department will take Marley to see the doctor in just a few minutes," Matt informs us as he heads out the door. I worry we may not see him again. I've become attached and feel unmoored without him there.

             We wait for another hour, maybe longer. I'm not sure because with nothing to eat all day, my sense of time is fuzzy and I have a headache. "Do you think they forgot about us?" I ask Sue. “No one can see us in this tiny little room."

            Sue goes into full-blown "woman from New York City" mode, because that's where she's from and if you know someone from New York, you know what I mean. She goes out to talk with a person at the reception desk but Matt overhears her and comes to our rescue. At this point Marley's empty stomach is causing her to belch like a college freshman at a beer bash. Everyone hears it. No one says a word. We're stressed, but still polite.

            Matt looks at Marley's eye again. "Hmm... there’s a change now, a delayed reaction. Very interesting." He takes a few seconds before he makes up his mind. "I'm forcing the issue; I'll take her to the neurologist myself."

            You go Matt, I think. I look over at Sue. Her expression says the New Yorker approves. Minutes later, he's back with Marley. "He agrees with me. It's the trigeminal nerve. We're scheduling her for an MRI on Friday morning. The neurologist will call you as soon as he reads the scans, but you need to be prepared... you may get bad news."

            With his assistant at his side, Matt lays things out for us. He's kind, but frank. "You need to be ready. Something might happen to Marley while she's under anesthesia. They might find a condition that requires immediate attention, and you may have to decide if they should wake her up or let her go."

I'd done alright until this point. Now tears roll down my cheeks. I don't look at Sue, but I hear her sniffles. She's crying. Like I said, I can't bear to see her cry.

            On Wednesday and Thursday we try to pretend things are normal, but they're not. The diagnosis each of us settles on changes by the hour. "I don't think it's a tumor," I say. "We'd know that somehow, wouldn’t we? It's got to be an infection."

            "See how she does that leaning thing? It's a stroke," Sue insists. The next day we decide on a tumor, then we change our minds again. Holding it together for each other is hard. Not knowing is harder.

            On Friday, we're up early, neither of us having slept much. We forego our usual coffee and climb into the car. Sue drives this time and Marley sits on my lap and stares out the window. Her nose makes smudges on the glass. The smudges used to annoy me. Now they seem kind of precious.

            Traffic is light and because we arrive early, we're once again directed to the waiting area. We choose the same seats we'd occupied the last time we were here. They're our seats now. As she had before, Marley squeezes in between us. Whatever we're facing, we're facing it together.

            Sue and I go for coffee and a walk by the ocean while Marley is evaluated and prepared for anesthesia. Dogs don't stay still during an MRI the way humans do, so a full course of anesthesia is required. At least Marley will have a good nap. When we receive a text that she's under and the MRI has begun, we head back to the waiting room and take our seats because whatever news is coming, we don't want it by phone.

             Two more hours pass by. We're too anxious to do much but mindlessly stare at our phones until a young woman in scrubs informs us the neurologist is ready to see us. I notice she's not smiling and avoids looking me in the eye. It's not a good sign or, she's having a bad day. I feel guilty, but for Marley’s sake, I hope like hell her day sucks big time. 

            I enter the neurologist’s office first; Sue is right behind me. Marley's MRI scans flash up on a large computer screen, but that's not what catches my eye. A second screen displays a small photo they'd taken of her. I suppose it's for identification but decide it's there to remind them of what's at issue here. Love is on the line, and they've got to get this right.

            "I'm sorry," the neurologist says. "It's a very large mass and, given its location in her brain, there isn't much we can do." He says a lot of other things too, but I can't hear them. I just stare at that photograph as my heart shatters into a million pieces.

The tumor had been there for some time. They know that because of how large it is. Had it grown to its current size quickly, Marley wouldn't have survived. The neurologist leaves it to us to decide what to do next but we already know. We won't do something selfish. We'll do whatever we can to give Marley the best quality of life for however long she has left. The neurologist suggests steroids to minimize the swelling and improve Marley's symptoms.

            "Yes, let's do that," I say. "She's not in any pain, is she?"

            "No pain. Just monitor her. You'll know when it's time."

            There is one remaining question that I could have left unspoken. We don't want to hear the answer, but I ask anyway. "How long?"

            "Maybe a month."

            We're back home now and as I write this; Marley is under my desk with her front paws on my feet. That isn’t new for her, she’s a little clingy and likes the added assurance of touch. She doesn't want us to leave her. Ironic, right?

            Marley had her paws on my feet when I wrote Treasure Coast and its sequel, Blue Ridge. She's in both, the only character with her real name. She's supposed to be with me at my book launch party early next year. And I had plans to bring her on a book tour, thinking we'd stay in more LaQuinta motels. That won't happen now. She'll be gone. Writing those words takes the breath from me.

            Someday in the future, Sue will ask me if it's time for another dog. The heartbreak of losing Marley is excruciating and I know bringing another dog into our lives means it will happen all over again. Dogs don't have as much time on the planet as humans do.

            As I wait for the signs that will tell us it’s Marley's time to leave, and with everything I know about what it is to lose her, when the day comes to consider another dog, I know I'll say yes. Because that's the only way my broken heart will ever heal.  

            Update: Marley died in James' arms on a sunny September morning four weeks following her diagnosis. A month later, Sue convinced him to welcome Maple, a rescue from Baja, Mexico, into the family.