How had I never noticed gaits before?
They were practically a love language all to themselves.
In another situation, I would have melted at the sight—dripped through the bench slats and puddled on the sidewalk.
But I stayed focused. For Peanut.
I stood up as Dr. Addison got closer, totally unaware that I was rocking the opposite of his GQ cover shoot vibe: I was still in the cotton calico baby-doll pajamas I’d slept in. And I should’ve popped on my sneakers as I headed out the door, but I somehow traveled two blocks to the vet clinic in my fuzzy slippers shaped like bunny rabbits, instead.
But the mortification of that would hit me later. Right now, there were only two things in the world: the little fuzzball dog burrito in my arms and the man who needed to save him.
Dr. Addison slowed as he got close, taking in the sight of us.
“There’s something wrong,” I said, my voice trembly from crying. “He won’t eat. He won’t move.” And now, we both noticed, he was panting.
Dr. Addison nodded like an unflappable hero and said, “Let’s get him inside.”
He led us straight past all the exam rooms, back to the back, where the real veterinary medicine took place. All the boarded dogs in their kennels woke up as we came in and started barking and whining and rattling around.
Dr. Addison didn’t even notice.
When we got to an exam table, he said, “Remind me of his age?”
“Fourteen,” I said—then added, “A very youthful fourteen,” like that might matter.
Dr. Addison reached for Peanut, and I handed him over like a swaddled babe. Then he unwrapped him, saying, “Hey, buddy. Let’s get a look at you.”
Peanut must have really been feeling bad, because even though he didn’t like men in general, he tolerated Dr. Addison—holding still and crouching on the stainless-steel exam table.
Dr. Addison ran his hands all around, feeling for lumps and bumps. Palpating things. Checking his gums, which were, apparently, too white.
“That’s bad?” I asked.
“They should be pinker,” Dr. Addison answered, but he was already on to checking other things.
When the rest of the staff arrived, they gently led me back out to the waiting area, saying they could work faster that way. The faceless tech I’d met the first day said they’d be running blood work and chemistries, checking red and white cells and platelets and kidney and liver function. “We’ll know a lot more in a few hours,” she said. “You can go home. We’ll call you when we get the results.”
“I’ll stay here, if that’s all right.”
The faceless tech nodded. “Sure.” Then she held out a folded lab coat to me. “Dr. Addison said you might say that. And he thought you might be … cold.”
And so I put it on and stayed. I think I was hungry, but I didn’t notice. I hadn’t had any coffee that morning, and I did notice the caffeine headache creeping up the back of my neck. I didn’t have anything to do—hadn’t even brought my phone—so I just squeezed over and over on that little spot between your thumb and forefinger that’s supposed to be a pressure point for relieving tension. Pressing on one hand, then the other … waiting for it to work.
It didn’t really work.
I kept expecting—any minute—for Dr. Addison to come striding out like a TV doctor and tell me that everything was fixed.
Instead, at noon, he came out and told me they wanted to give Peanut a blood transfusion.
That didn’t sound good.
I worked my pressure points even harder.
“The labs came back,” he said, “and we’ve diagnosed him with IMHA, which stands for immune-mediated hemolytic anemia.”
Oh god. More medical terms. I shook my head. “What is that?”
“His immune system is attacking his own red blood cells. His hematocrit was at twelve when it should be closer to fifty. That’s why he’s panting. He can’t get enough oxygen.”
All I could ask was, “Why is this happening?”
It was probably more of a rhetorical, big-picture, why-is-my-whole-life-falling-apart-all-at-once question than a medical one. But Dr. Addison answered it anyway, all earnest: “We don’t know what causes it,” he said. “It’s idiopathic. All of a sudden, the immune system just goes haywire and starts attacking itself.”
“Is it curable?” I asked.
“It’s life-threatening,” he said, “but it can be cured. The survival rate is thirty to seventy percent.”