Sparkie, the Wonder Dog

    My kids, 8 and 6, nod eagerly and go running to the nearest pens.  My daughter immediately lights on a small shivering dog whose back is to us. 

    “Mom! Look at this one!” calls China.  The poor dog almost convulses from her attention. Because the dog doesn’t move from its spot, China eventually says a sad good-bye and moves on.

    Meanwhile, Austin is rounding up the rowdiest dogs he can find and stands amidst three barking dogs. He laughs as they lick and run around him.

    “These would be great, mom! Can we get all three, then we’d each have a dog! Wouldn’t that be great?”

    His sister has been standing outside a pen, frowning at her rule-breaking brother. She enters the pen and is promptly knocked over by a big, gray dog. I wince, wait for her cry. She pushes the wiggling dog off her, then pulls him to her by his huge head.

    “You’re nice but you’re not my dog,” she tells him.  Satisfied with this brief bit of attention he runs to the other side of the pen.

    “Hey guys, listen, these are nice dogs but they are too big!”  I yell.

    Groans are emittedbut the kids move on. We play Goldilocks as we move past dogs that are too small, too barky, dogs that scowl and dogs that seem aloof.  I wander away as they begin playing with a huge but friendly German Shepherd.  I am chatting with a lovely, aged Airedale when I hear the squeals of joy, a chorus of Mom Mom Mom!

    Turning around, I see the kids fawning over a tri-colored dog. Her tiny head is black, her chunky torso is black and white, and her dainty feet are covered with golden freckles. Both kids coo over her.  She sits between them regally, quietly taking in their offerings of affection and adoration. We have found the dog of our dreams. We name her Sparkie.

    Both kids love her but Austin fawns over her. He ensures her water bowl is clean and full, that she has a daily snack. She sleeps on his bed and routinely, he awakens pushed to the edge while she sleeps on his pillow.  She is his first concern in the morning and the last at night.

    Seven years later, on a day when he refuses to go to physical therapy after his brain injury, when no threat, no plea, no request is met with a positive response, I pull out the final card: “Fine, no p.t. means I am not bringing the dog to visit.” 

    I feel like a total loser when his eyes tear up. I feel like a total genius when he gets up and follows the physical therapist.  I learn to use my Sparkie card judiciously. She’s a powerful antidote; she bestows on him unconditional love, she makes no demands that he do therapy or turn his music down. She doesn’t remind him that he can’t hang out with his friends unsupervised. Sparkie loves him without reserve. Most powerful, I suspect, is that she doesn’t remind him in a 1000 different ways that he is changed.

    Austin is overjoyed at what he views as his release. Repeatedly we have emphasized that he will return to the rehab center after the play. We perseverate on this just as he perseverates on getting out. Good god, brain injuries are apparently contagious. As I expected, the transfer of him from the wheelchair to the car goes nothing like it did with the physical therapist.

    “Mom! I can do it! You don’t have to be all like, you know, those people who take your temperature!”

    “You mean I don’t have to be like a nurse?”

    “Nurse, yes. I mean no, don’t be like that.” He pushes off the wheelchair before I have the wheels locked and we both wobble as the chair slides away. He stands, swaying slightly to the right. With determination, he steps into the car and then crows, “Ha ha, Judy! I get to ride shotgun!”

    Judy and I look at each other. Our sighsare mutual. We have talked about our hesitation that returning to his high school for a play seems like an invitation to trouble. Austin has no insight into the reality that he is not the same as when he was last in high school.  As with many brain injured people, he sees himself as he was pre-accident, able to overlook the fact that he has trouble walking, talking, and still has a feeding tube. In his mind we are the problem and if we could learn to chill out, his life would be much easier.

    Driving to the school, he chatters non-stop while switching radiostations every five seconds. The car is a cacophony of sounds and none make sense. But it is easy to take pleasure in his delight because it is so pure and so simple. He wants to be just another kidgoing to see his high school friends in a play and for these two hours, he almost gets to be. Except for the wheelchair and the fact that he has to wear a helmet.

    “Listen, mom, Iwant you to drop me off at the entrance and then you and Judy can park the car and come in.”

    My heart sinks. His helmet and the wheelchair are necessary but already he’s dismissed them as something that only happens at the rehab center, not high school. I meet Judy’s eyes in the rearview mirror. She frowns and I give a slight shake of my head. There is no use responding to him, it will escalate into a fight. Instead, I depend on his short term memory to let this request go and sure enough, he doesn’t say anything as I drive past the entrance and into the parking lot. We are exact in our motions this time, the wheelchair whipped out and locked into place before he can get the door open. While one of us is talking to him and fastening him into the wheelchair, the other pops the helmet onto his head.

    Kids throng around him as we near the entrance. Austin looks so happy it makes me teary. He should be here with his friends having fun, normal fun, joking around, standing around, awkward teenage fun. It’s bittersweet, seeing his joy and seeing his friends, but also seeing him in a state that may or may not ever let him be like his friends again. At this point, he continues to have trouble remembering names and words so he has learned to joke around more to cover his confusion. Unfortunately his humor doesn’t make sense and I note a few acquaintances backing away.

   A student comes out before the show begins and dedicates the show to “Austin, the mostamazing dude!”. The crowd claps and Austin waves. He grins widely. He also seems slightly annoyed when the lights go down to start the play.

    The play is a musical, a love story set on a tropical island. At this stage, abstract processing is almost absent for Austin and he clearly cannot follow the show. His attention span is minimal and he begins moving around inhis seat, craning his neck to find people in the audience. “Hey!” He calls out to someone and throws out his hand in a peace sign. He is irritated when we ask him to be quiet, trying to explain that others are watching the show. “Yeah, but they’re making all kinds of noise up there,” he says with frustration. He begins bumping his helmet on the seat in front of him.

    Time moves slowly when you most want it to speed. I am aware that we are getting dirty looks from others. I like to think it is from people who don’t know about his accident, but I know that these people include parents who were kind before the play. Parents who have kids in the play and now want their kids to have their spotlight...I get it. I do.

    Austin was the single freshman chosen for the school play that would go to Scotland after being in high school only four weeks. When he decided to leave the theater program, his teacher told me, “He came into the program with more talent than most kids leave with”. Being at this play is so bittersweet I want to walk out, get into my car and drive away from it all.

    Instead, we return Austin to rehab and then go home where I hold on to the dog for dear life. She is more than his lifeline-she is mine too.