Free Unsaid: A Novel by Neil Abramson Page A

need to go say the words and take care of business.” Liza kissed David on the cheek and walked away.
    I passed in silence four hours later.
    I was hoping that our good-bye would be an instrument of the understanding that had eluded me, that something would pass between us in those final moments. I was praying for the epiphany of closure—that we could be each other’s last, best teacher. Instead, as David sat next to me, I could almost hear his internal dialogue of doubt, fear, and self-deprecation—all the
I should have
s and
I can’t
s. I was unable to redirect him and so having him there with me, especially toward the end, was nothing short of agony. I became just another hard and futile ending.
    You never know who will turn out to be your greatest teacher until it all ends. In belated retrospect, I now realize that the most important lesson I’d ever learned about saying good-bye actually came from a six-year-old girl.
    A yellow Lab, humorously misnamed Brutus, had been brought to my office with a fractured pelvis—the consequences of his run-in with a Volvo SUV. I advised the dog’s family—a pleasant single mom and her young daughter, Samantha—that I probably would be able to repair the fracture but that there was a chance of serious post-operative neurological damage. I also told the mother that, in light of the cost of the surgery, the dog’s age, and the prospect that the dog might not fully recover, euthanasia also was an understandable option.
    The mother explained that Samantha had witnessed the accident that nearly killed the dog and that her husband had died two years earlier in a head-on car collision.
    “If there’s any way that Samantha’s last memory of Brutus can be something other than the accident,” she told me, “then I want to try to do that for her.”
    The orthopedic part of the surgery went well. Samantha and her mother came to visit Brutus at the hospital every day for at least a few hours. I can’t tell you precisely what the dog was feeling during these visits, but anyone who observed the dog when Samantha lifted his head and put it in her lap well understood that the visits were neither unappreciated nor unimportant. Anyone who says otherwise is either cruel or stupid.
    Unfortunately, my initial diagnostic hunch of nerve damage was spot-on. Brutus had no control over his back legs. Worse than that, he also couldn’t pass body waste on his own. This meant emptying his bladder with a catheter every three hours and subjectinghim to an enema every twenty-four hours. For a large dog who has lived an independent life, the inability to pass waste on his own is something I can only describe as humiliating. You can see it in the downcast eyes, the ears that refuse to perk up, and eventually, in some cases, the refusal to eat or drink.
    On the fifth day post-surgery, Brutus stopped eating. On the sixth day, he stopped drinking.
    When Samantha and her mom came to visit on the seventh day post-surgery, I took the mother into an empty exam room to discuss options while Samantha stayed with Brutus in the holding area.
    “Yes, I can keep him alive with IV fluids,” I answered the mother’s question. “But you’ve got to start asking yourself toward what end.”
    The mother started to cry. “It’s not so much about Brutus. I just can’t tell Samantha that she’s going to lose something else that she loves. She’s been through—”
    We were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Samantha. Her eyes were wet, but her voice was clear. “I think Brutus wants to die,” she said. “I think he wants to die so he can go to heaven and run again.” Samantha then turned on her heel and left the room, leaving her mother and me staring at each other.
    Samantha’s mother decided that her daughter didn’t need to see or know about the act of euthanasia. We ran through a short script of what I would tell Samantha later that day after I had ended Brutus’s life. Before Samantha and her