Under my Care
By Amberleigh Curry
You must love your job,” they say. “You get to play with puppies and kittens all day!”
Sometimes, that’s true.
Your mom has brought you in for your very first visit. She graciously hands you over, little more than two handfuls of fluff, to my care. I sweep you away to the back because, yes, you need your care but also because everyone needs to know how precious you are. I hold you aloft like I’m introducing the Pride Lands to their young new king. “Behold!” I say. “A puppy!” You are swarmed by adoration and coos.
You’re being stabbed with a needle now and, oh, I’m sorry, I know it pinches; but you don’t react, you don’t even know it’s happening because, goodness, we are just feeding you gobbles and gobbles of cheese. I bring you back to your mom, tell her what a good job you did, and she takes you back from my care.
You’re still a puppy but a bit older now. Your paws are big and your legs are long and awkward. You’ll grow into them. Today is the first time you will taste the kiss of Milk of Amnesia. The doctor gives you the medicine to make you take the most solid nap of your life. You don’t register when I inject a local anesthetic; you don’t register when I inject your pain medications. Your pain is well controlled. You’re under our care, after all. We won’t let you hurt. And as the doctor takes the ability for you to make mini-me’s, I watch over you oh so closely. Oxygen saturation, heart rate, heart rhythm, respiratory rate, blood pressure, temperature, palpebrals.
It’s time for my lunch break now and I clock out and I don’t get paid and I don’t eat either because you woke up dysphoric. The medications made you confused and that made you scared. I wrap you in a blanket and set you in my lap and for the next hour we sit like that until your howls become whimpers and then fade away altogether as you decide you’re really not in such a scary situation after all. You’re in a blanket, in my lap, in my care.
At the end of the day, your mom and dad both come to pick you up. It was a big day for you, after all. I go over post-op care and the medications to go home. I ask if they have any questions. They do not and, with that, they take you back from my care.
You’re four now and you are subdued because you don’t feel well. Your tummy hurts and you’ve been having diarrhea. We run some tests and you don’t have any parasites or pancreatitis. You probably ate something you shouldn’t have, silly. We give you fluids and pack up some medications in a bag that I drew a picture on just for you. When you’re all ready, we call your mom and tell her that you are ready to be picked up from our care.
The next time we see you, you are happy and energetic and I am happy, too, because I know you’re feeling better for having been in our care.
You’re eight now and you’ve come in for your annual dental cleaning. I’m stabbing you with a needle again but you sit so patiently because you don’t know why it’s necessary but you know I have to do it and you trust me. You are such a good boy.
But, wait, the blood work is back and there’s abnormalities in your liver values. “Pump the brakes,” the doctor says. She calls your mom, recommends further testing and a supplement. Your mom is frightened but we assure her that we will figure this out and do whatever is needed to take care of you. We always do. You don’t get your dental. Instead, we draw more blood, get your meds, and your mom takes you back from our care.
The next day, I get to call her and tell her the blood work came back normal. Despite the elevation, your liver is still working fine, buddy. Continue the supplement, we’ll recheck in a month.
A month later, your hepatic values have returned to normal. Good boy.
The same years that pass for me pass for you and I am a little bit older and, somehow, you’re a lot older. You’re gray in the face, pot-bellied, with muscle atrophy, and at night you take Melatonin because you pace restlessly without it. Sun-downing. You’re sun-downing these days, old man.
You’ve come to visit again and when I enter the room, you are happy because you are surrounded by your family and you don’t know the cancer has metastasized. Your mom and I lock eyes and we don’t say anything. Instead, our faces just crumple and we crash together in an embrace; because, no, I’m not your family but, yes, somehow you and yours are my family after all.
I stab you with a needle again. I promise it’s the last time. I give you the turkey from my lunch – I don’t need it – and you snap it up gleefully. I give you a kiss on the forehead and you don’t seem to notice the tear that lands there, too. For the last time, you get the Milk of Amnesia and you fall asleep in your mom and dad’s laps. You don’t feel fear or pain; you’re not aware when the pink potion casts its Time Stop spell on you.
With all the reverence the dead demand, I slide you, stiffening and glassy eyed, into a body bag. I tuck your chin to your chest, tuck in your limbs, too, and seal you away. With all the care of putting a sleeping baby into its crib, I gently lower you into the morgue and wait for the crematorium to pick you up from my care.
Two weeks later, you come back to me, this time in a beautiful six-inch by four-inch by four-inch mahogany box with a brass nameplate on it that has a name I rarely called you inscribed on it because I affectionately had ten thousand nicknames for you. I call your mom and tell her your cremains are here and, when she’s ready, she can
for the final time
take you back from my care.
It was an honor.