Imagine you launch off the 3rd floor of your home, fly, and two seconds on gravity fails you. It crashes you to the concrete, breaks both your legs. You get operated after a few days and get rods implanted. The right foot has a broken thigh, and the knee of the left is turned to debris. There runs a rod from the head of your thigh to the ankle, and there’s no bending for life now. You stay put in bed for two months, need assistance to pee, poop, eat, let alone for anything else. A cocktail of 14 chemicals is injected in you everyday, poking 14 new holes in your body daily. Then there’re 16 tablets you guzzle with your bland food. Your skin is a mess, emotions tangled, urinal infection doesn’t let you sleep, and social acceptance is a lifelong struggle now.
HEALED, OR NOT?
5 months on, he’s healed, and can walk and run. He has regathered his strength and confidence, and is charming as he was as a pup.
But then one final stitch-wound has remained at the tip of the ankle, since it’s inception. For 5 months, he’s had bandages and medicines to fix it, and it hasn’t. And finally when it was near healed, now there’s septic around it. A septic that the doctors indicate might have come from an unclean screw(s) in his implants. The bone has inflated, and the skin’s a mess all over again.
Imagine you get a cocktail of 8 medicines a day again. One of them makes you hungry, two make you drowsy, irritable, and foggy. Your meals taste of antibiotics, giving you a metallic steely palate all day long. You wish to play, make hay, bark at everything, and be a guard, but you can’t even gather the strength to walk to your meals from under the couch. And this goes on for another 10 days. To curb the septic, now you get the heaviest oral treatment that there is. Because if not, then the ordeal begins all over again.
The skin would need to be cut off, muscles slit through, implants removed, new holes dug into the broken bones, new implants put in, muscles redone, skins re-stitched, new lifelong scares be made in you, and you’re put in bed again for months. Yet again the isolation. Injections will poke your skin on a daily basis. Yet again, a bitter mix of medicines garnishing your meals, and shattered confidence. It shatters your confidence because you peed in the bed from lack of bladder control or urinal infection, or pooped in the car because going to the vet is traumatic, or puked in someone’s lap just because you got excited. Of course there’s empathy, but often there’s anger from your sole (or soul?) guardian too.
All this while you’re just 16 months old. You were only 358 days old when you flew and fell and broke. Before that there was the neutering surgery to heal from. That came after the 48 days of hostelling, since your guardians were battling to keep themselves together. They were looking for someone to adopt you, and no one would take you since you’re a desi/Indie. Even if they do, first you need to be neutered. You didn’t know all this.
Before that was the adjustment to a new home, the training, the scoldings, and learning to love your new parents. Because prior to that you were being fostered at someone else’s home. At least your sweet biological mother was by yourself. Fostered, because you were a street litter, and a car had killed your siblings and left your mother with a broken leg. And someone’s warm heart had it to ensure you survived
Imagine your child going through that, or yourself.
THE MAN THAT AL IS…
There’s a sincere hope that the little one has to go through no more surgeries or treatments, not be fed a single pill again. Else, it’ll be an uphill battle, for him, and moi. And I’m not sure who’s ready for it, neither him, nor me. Good thing for Al is that he doesn’t even know what he’s to go through. The complications, treatments, the duration, all the surprises that come along. At times that’s worse than knowing, shattering his confidence and hopes day after another. Yet, to see what he goes through breaks my heart. It certainly delivers a promise of strength and renewed confidence in seeing him embrace the challenge, filling me with passion and grit to bring him back to normal.
At the end, the pain, the suffering, and the healing is personal. No one can make a proxy on someone’s behalf.
Hope he gets back on his feet soon, again.