24. Stardust Lane #2
“I asked for the mortality rate, not the survival rate. I want to know what the chances are that my dog dies if I let you put her on that table.”
I clench my fists in an attempt to still the violent tremor in my hands.
“In uncomplicated cases, the mortality rate is about fifteen to twenty percent. Depending on how long the stomach has been twisted and whether other issues are present during surgery, the mortality rate can jump as high as thirty-eight percent.”
She nods, staring at her dog. “I need some time to decide. Maybe I’ll bring Pepper home, and we’ll see how she does over the weekend.”
“Mrs. Greene, with all due respect, GDV is a life-threatening emergency and requires immediate
intervention. It’s crucial we relieve the pressure on Pepper’s internal organs as soon as possible.”
Her eyes pool with tears, and she looks to Dr. Holmes at my side, like my professor might tell her I’m wrong.
“Rosie is correct,” she says simply. “And the longer a dog goes without treatment, the higher the mortality rates are. Untreated, a dog with GDV will
die. Is surgery a guarantee? No. But we can guarantee we will do everything in our power to help your girl. Your other option is euthan—”
“No. I won’t consider that.” Tears slide down her cheeks, and I fight to keep myself in check, biting my tongue to draw the pain out of my chest as Mrs. Greene stares down at her best friend. “I don’t understand how this happened.”
“There isn’t any rhyme or reason,” I tell her gently. “It does tend to favor bigger dogs, like Pepper, but it can happen to any dog.”
She wipes at her tears. “Can I have a few minutes alone with her?”
“Of course. We’ll start prepping for surgery.”
Dr. Holmes follows me into the operating room, watching as I organize the required instruments. “Is this how you imagined finishing off your first week of fourth year?”
“Prepping for surgery? I’d hoped so, honestly. I’ve been so eager to be on this side of the glass. But for GDV?” I think about Pepper, unconscious in her mom’s SUV when she rolled up here, how Mrs. Greene said she was sick all morning. “No, this isn’t how I imagined finishing this week.”
But truthfully, it’s on par with how it’s been going.
There was no easing into the year. We jumped right into the emergency setting at the campus clinic, and there hasn’t been a quiet moment since.
I’m exhausted, barely keeping my emotions in check, and last night I passed out on my bed with my shoes still on and my dinner—an apple—half-eaten in my hand.
I’m beyond grateful to be here, but I can’t wait for a break.
Dr. Holmes hands me Pepper’s chart as she’s rolled into the room. “Can you tell us about Pepper before we get started?”
I smile down at the sweet, gorgeous girl as she stares up at me.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I murmur, stroking the brown spot between her eyes.
“Pepper is a three-year-old, one-hundred-and-twenty-seven-pound St. Bernard. Her mom reported that she didn’t seem well earlier this morning.
She didn’t eat breakfast, was quiet and lethargic, and was favoring her bed, all of which are unusual for Pepper.
Mom brought her in when she collapsed trying to walk to her water dish.
” I smooth my hand over her ears, giving her a scritch.
“And she’s got the most gorgeous brown eyes. ”
“She certainly does, doesn’t she?” Dr. Holmes fixes her mask over her mouth and pulls on her gloves. “All right, let’s make sure we keep Pepper comfortable, and let’s get started.”
I don’t release Pepper’s paw from my hand.
Not when we put her under anesthesia, and not when I hand Dr. Holmes the scalpel so she can make the first cut into her abdomen.
I don’t let go when her stomach suddenly ruptures before surgery can even really begin, and I don’t let go when the energy in the room becomes frantic as Dr. Holmes works as fast as she can, does everything in her power to save her.
I don’t let go, even as I watch her pulse drop lower and lower, until she flatlines right there on the table in front of me, her paw still warm in my grasp.
I don’t let go when Dr. Holmes touches my shoulder, tells me this is the toughest part of the job and she’s sorry I had to see it so quickly.
I don’t let go until the room empties, until it’s time for the moment I dread, something I’ve spent these years hoping I’d somehow never have to do.
“Does it ever get easier?” I ask on a whisper, peeking at Pepper’s mom through the small window in the door.
Dr. Holmes hesitates. “Never.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Rosie.” She catches my arm, stopping me before I can open the door.
“You did great today. You were thorough and quick with your assessment of Pepper earlier, allowing us to get her onto that table as quick as we did, even if we were still too late. Give yourself some grace. We need to keep our emotions in check here, yes, but I don’t need you to be a robot.
If you need to cry after this, scream, swear…
give yourself the grace to feel what you need to feel. I find we can’t move on until we do.”
I nod, and before I lose my nerve, I push through the door.
Mrs. Greene jumps to her feet, wringing her hands. “That was fast. You said it would be longer.” She smiles, but it’s shaky. “Is that a good thing?”
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be responsible for breaking her heart, for telling her that her best friend isn’t going home tonight, that she won’t be curled up at her feet, or resting her head in her lap.
I clear my throat and step toward her. “Mrs. Greene—”
Her breath hitches, and she presses her hand to her throat, stepping back. “No.”
Everything pulls taut, so tight I feel like something has to snap. There’s a lump in my throat making it harder and harder to breathe. “Pepper’s GDV was extensive and advanced. Her stomach ruptured from the pressure shortly after we began, and we were not able to save her.”
My eyes burn as I watch hers fill with tears, spilling relentlessly down her face. I blink my own away, press my lips together to stop the sob that wants to escape.
“She was not in pain when she went. We made sure she was comfortable and loved. She was not alone.” My voice breaks on the last word, and I feel a gentle touch on my shoulder.
“Rosie held Pepper’s hand all the way through,” Dr. Holmes tells Mrs. Greene. “We know this is a lot to process. Would you like a moment alone, or would you like a shoulder?”
“I…” She sinks down to her seat. “I don’t…but Pepper…she was fine last night. Just last night she was fine.” Her gaze is lost, fixated on the floor, but I’d bet she’s not seeing a damn thing. Her eyes start roaming, bouncing around the room, like they’re making sense of the news.
Like she’s realizing she just lost her best friend.
I do fine. I swear
I’m doing fine, even as her chest starts heaving.
But when her face crumples, when a sob breaks free and she collapses into herself, burying her shaking hands in her hair and crying out for her dog, something inside me shatters.
I clutch at my chest, trying to claw the pain right out of there, and Dr. Holmes whispers a simple, “Go,” in my ear before she takes a seat next to Mrs. Greene.
And I go. I throw my clipboard down at the doctor’s station and burst through the double doors leading to the reception area. I rush past the stares and out the front door, into the warm September afternoon, and I run.
I run across campus, until I wind up at the same bench I fell apart at two weeks ago, when Adam found me here after I lost my scholarship.
And I do the same thing I did then.
I don’t want to, but I give in to the pain, burying my face in my shaking hands and letting it go.
Like I did right here on this bench in the safety of the arms of someone I loved and trusted, I fall apart.