“Saved is an honest account of the power of purpose and commitment… Anne walks through her deepest fears and discovers hope, humor and unconditional love amidst immense devastation. Allow yourself to be inspired…!”
Annie Denver
“In the middle of her own battle with cancer she reaches out to save some of the most forgotten and battered victims of Hurricane Katrina. Anne's story is cause for celebration and the parallels between her journey to wellness and reaching out to the “four leggeds” is further proof that we are inextricably connected to our animals and if we choose to listen, the lessons they give us can change our lives."
John
St.Augustine
Radio host and author
Every
Moment Matters
"Saved is a celebration of friendship… Anne's irrepressible spirit proves that saving oneself is often easiest done by saving another… This is a call to action: a reminder that the smallest gesture can make a world of difference…”
Lisa Consiglio
Executive Director
Aspen Writers' Foundation
A True Story
SAVED
Cancer, Katrina Dogs and Me
Anne Gurchick
Published by Transformation Media Books
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 Anne Gurchick
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This book is available in print at most online retailers under ISBN: 978-0-9852737-2-9
Dedication
To
Melinda Goldrich, Bland Nesbit & Jan Panico
&
Hanuman, Hannah & Bella who were with me at the beginning and comforted me throughout the journey
Acknowledgments
Although this book is the story of a short but significant period in my life, as with anyone, our life is not only about us but about the friends who accompany us on the journey. Friends whom inspire us when we wane, provide confidence when we doubt, provide hope when we lose faith and humor us when we need a smile. Our journey through life, while unique, is rarely a solo journey but more a team effort.
I don’t know if I actually would have written this book if it weren’t for Annie Denver who was the first one to say “write it” (whether you know that or not). My deepest gratitude to you for helping me find my way through some tough challenges and providing a special retreat deep in the mountains where I could relax and refocus. Many thanks also to Jenny Deutschendorff who read the first few chapters and encouraged me to keep going. Our frequent hikes with our packs and long talks are always special.
Thanks also to Cheryl Wyly for being the first to read the story in its entirety, for loving it and giving me the confidence to actually agree to publish it when I wasn’t sure I would.
I also want to thank Bland Nesbit and Adam Goldsmith for insisting on accompanying me to that first appointment when my doctor called and said “its cancer and you need to come in tomorrow.” How can you ever thank someone for that? It was the Saturday evening after Thanksgiving and already dark as we left the doctor appointment. I stopped in the hospital parking lot, looked up into the street light and watched as a steady snow fell, the flakes dancing in the light. Despite when I had just been through I remember thinking “What a beautiful moment” as the three of us stopped and watched the snow.
Heartfelt thanks to my sister, Mary Louise Mayo, for dropping everything in her life and driving to Colorado and be with me during my long surgery and ensuing doctor appointments. She sat with me for hours as they prepared me for surgery and then continued to sit late into night as she waited for me to come out of surgery. She rarely thought about herself but only of keeping me comfortable.
To John St. Augustine for agreeing to look at a few pages, seeing a story and sending it to Ginny Weissman.
To Ginny for her guidance in writing, her comments and edits and, most importantly, for her shared passion and love for homeless animals and finding a place for them.
Many thanks, of course, to Bland Nesbit, who shares the same intense passion and love for homeless animals as I do. She is as dedicated as I am to ending the killing of as many innocent pets as we can. To Melinda Goldrich who is such dear friend and so much a part of this story. Despite her abhorrence of any car trip over an hour, she persevered through the long road trip home with humor and only brief moments of utter frustration. The memories of our trip are cherished and something we will both always look back on fondly. To Jan Panico for her friendship and positive attitude. Despite all the trying situations we found ourselves in, Jan remained positive and provided comfort and humor. Bland, Melinda and Jan’s love for and desire to help animals made them the perfect accomplices on the adventure.
To Seth Sachson for opening the doors of animal rescue to me and for inviting me to be a part of what has become the most inspiring thing in my life, saving the lives of homeless animals about to be killed for no reason other than lack of space. As we worked together we became the best of friends and survived some trying times. When it comes to animal welfare, shelter operations or dog/cat behavior, Seth is a genius like no other. He selflessly opened his heart and the Aspen Animal Shelter to allow us to bring in rescues that otherwise would have been killed. There aren’t enough words of appreciation to express what that means and I am grateful to share his passions and be able to learn from one of the best. To his staff, Chad Clark, Sadie Thimsen, Alex Lara and Victor Salas who selflessly work 24/7 providing shelter, love and socialization to so many homeless animals. These are the real heroes.
To all the doctors, nurses, hospital workers, individuals battling cancer and cancer survivors who often need inspiration to keep going. We face tough challenges every day but are winning the battle and finding there is beautiful life after battling cancer.
To my current pups Bella, Max, Stryder and Haddie who had to forego their daily hikes in order for me to finish this book but who did so willingly … most of the time. My love for you fills my heart and makes me smile.
Finally, to those who volunteered to help the homeless animals of Katrina and to animal rescue and welfare workers and volunteers everywhere. We face hardships and must make choices every day. It is devastating to each of us when an innocent animal must die and yet they do by the millions in our country every year. Keep up the fight—it is difficult and we have a long road and tough journey ahead of us but we are making a difference and will end the needless practice of killing adoptable pets in the country.
Adopt a shelter pet – they are the most amazing pets available – and you a saving a life by doing so.
Chapter 1
“It’s cancer … and it’s bad.”
My eyes well with tears as Dr. Nelson speaks, his eyes bearing the compassion so necessary at a time like this. My gut wrenches and I can’t breathe. The pain is unbearable but momentarily shadowed by panic. My safe and comfortable world has shattered into pieces that suspend in front of me, waiting for more information before they crash to the floor. I want to drop to the floor, right here in Dr. Nelson’s office, close my eyes and curl up in a ball until what he has just said goes away.
I look at the big brown eyes that view me with concern. They belong to my sweet pea, Hannah, my gentle and loving Rottweiler. It isn’t fair that her cancer has returned after such a valiant fight. Just six months ago, Dr. Nelson had assured me they had gotten it all and she would be fine. I thought we were clear on that.
He is speaking words that I can barely distinguish. His lips are moving; although I don’t really hear him, somehow his words register. Hannah must start chemo tomorrow and I should take her to Colorado State University in Ft. Collins as soon as I reach Colorado.
I’m leaving Austin the day after tomorrow. My furniture and belongings are already gone. My mind is in turmoil trying to figure out how to pull everything together given this new development. It seems impossible.
I rush home and as I walk in my phone is ringing. My sister starts rattling details of her son’s plan to arrive tomorrow to help me with my drive to Colorado. She’s going on and on without pausing for a breath so I interrupt her.
“Hannah’s cancer is back.” Saying the words suddenly makes it all real. Painful emotions flood over me. This time, I throw myself down onto the couch, unable to deal as the grief hits me.
“I wish it was me and not her.” I sob.
“Are you serious? Don’t ever say anything like that again!” my sister reprimands. “Seriously—never again.”
I wake early the next morning and rush Hannah to the veterinarian oncologist. By now she has stopped eating and will barely lift her head. It is heart wrenching. I love this little girl more than I ever thought possible. She will stay at the clinic overnight after receiving her first round of chemo and a battery of tests.
The next morning, I arrive for Hannah. Although her tests aren’t back, she has been given the green light to travel, since her health has improved health. Plus, we’re heading to one of the best canine cancer centers in the country. The vet tech brings her out and I rush to hug her, burying my face in her familiar, sweet-smelling fur. She is equally excited to see me, and her little butt wiggles back and forth enthusiastically.
We hit the highway bright and early the following morning. Excited and anxious, I am on the cusp of fulfilling my dream of moving to the mountains. But a cloud of apprehension hangs over me as I think about the detour to the vet hospital in Ft. Collins and what it will bring. That afternoon, I’m lost in thought, speeding through the Texas panhandle, when my cell phone rings. I recognize the vet’s number. I take a deep breath and answer, afraid of what she will tell me.
“Hi, Anne, this is Dr. Jenkins. I have Hannah’s test results and I’m beyond confused. I really don’t know what to say but the tests came back negative. There is no cancer.”
I’m not sure I hear her correctly. “What? What do you mean? What does that mean?” I’m flabbergasted, flooded with mixed emotions.
“Again, I really don’t know what to say. I’m happy they’re negative, sorry Hannah went through the chemo and utterly baffled. I am glad you’re heading to CSU as I’m eager to hear what they have to say.”
We say our good-byes and all I can do is stare at the highway in front of me. Can I be so bold as to feel ecstatic? Could it be possible that the test results are correct? Would Hannah really be OK?
It was too good to be true.
When we got to the CSU vet hospital, Hannah was cancer-free. They diagnosed her with a severe lung infection.
Just five months later, my turn: I was diagnosed with stage two breast cancer.
Chapter 2
I stare in the mirror at my bald head, shallow skin and hollowed eyes. My head isn’t bald, technically. It seems to be covered with a baby fine layer of what looks like peach fuzz. I finally have my eyebrows and eyelashes back. That makes me smile. It really does come down to the little things in life. It’s been two months since I finished my chemotherapy and radiation treatments, and my body is a testament to the damage. I open my robe and look at the scars on my chest where my breasts used to be. I feel somewhat deformed, my once pert breasts replaced now with hard, round implants, my nipples replaced with scars that run the length of the implants. I run my finger over the scar just below my neck where the port that fed the chemo into my body had been located. I raise my right arm and look at the scars where the lymph nodes were removed. I pray that the cancer hasn’t spread beyond the lymph nodes that tested positive.
This bodily inspection has become something of a routine for me. Finally past the shock of the diagnosis and the numbness of the months of treatment, I now find myself mesmerized, on a daily basis, with the aftermath. Having been poked, prodded, cut into, radiated and exposed to complete strangers, I still feel somewhat removed from my physical body. What I see in the mirror now isn’t my body, but a roadmap of the cancer that tried to rob me of life. I refuse to let it. I think back to the day I was diagnosed, coming home and throwing myself on my bed. Alone. Lying in the fetal position and sobbing for what seemed like hours, but in reality was only ten or fifteen minutes. One day, life is normal and carefree, and the next, it’s not. It’s that quick. It’s all so surreal, since I’ve never been sick other than the occasional flu or hangover. I let out a breath. I’m alive. I remind myself, It could have been much worse. I stand, looking at my naked body, trying to feel the depth of the experience but I’m unable to feel any emotion. Bored with staring at myself in the mirror, I search for a distraction to make me forget my bald head and scarred body.
In the background, I hear the television blasting the latest news about a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico heading straight for New Orleans. I hear the name. I chuckle at the irony, thinking of my cousin’s girlfriend, Katrina, who also has the ability to cause mass destruction, albeit emotional. The growing concern in the newscaster’s voice again distracts me from my thoughts. Closing my robe, I turn to watch the coverage to see how close the hurricane actually is to landfall. A green-glow emanates from the television. As I walk closer, the picture captivates me. The radar image is of a hurricane that appears to be the size of the entire Gulf of Mexico and, yes, heading straight for New Orleans.
In the days that follow, I find myself glued to the television watching the twenty-four hour, live coverage of the mass evacuations along the Gulf Coast, followed by coverage of the storm as it slams ashore. I’m sure nothing could be worse than enduring this nightmare, but the devastating floods that follow prove me wrong. For the next two days, I watch in horror as thousands of people are left stranded on rooftops, begging to be rescued. I see the near-riots at the Superdome and the complete paralysis of the entire city’s government. We all watch, a nation stunned at the surprising incompetence of our government and their inability to handle the disaster.
With mounting sadness, I watch people standing firm and refusing to leave their pets behind. My heart aches as they are forced to do so. Tears roll down their cheeks, distraught at being pulled off a rooftop and away from their beloved pet. Their confused and frightened pets stand abandoned in the flooded city. As coverage comes in from the streets, I realize these pets may be the lucky ones. Frightened and starving animals, once pampered family pets, fearfully roam the deserted streets. I am horrified when I hear stories of pets being left behind, chained to porches and drowning in the rising waters, unable to free themselves and swim to safety. Initially, I can’t understand how anyone can leave their pets, given the enormity of the disaster. In the days that follow, I realize that the pets have been left for many reasons, but primarily because their owners had no choice. The pets aren’t allowed into the shelters that have been set up. A person faced two choices: leave your pet, or potentially lose your life. Thanks to a lack of adequate disaster planning, these innocent animals are left to fight for their own survival and, in far too many cases, to die.
I look away from the television and stare out my window. It is a spectacular, clear, crisp autumn day. The aspen trees on the mountains are ablaze, a bright, sunshine yellow, contrasting against the dark green pines. The maple trees, sparsely scattered among the aspen and pine, have turned color, their leaves bright orange like glowing embers. I try to remind myself to look at the mountains every day. They make me forget, if only for a few minutes, my “cancer life”. I love the mountains and feel privileged to live among their majestic beauty. It is a stark contrast to the scenes on the television, as I turn back to watch more of the Katrina coverage. Forgetting my own fears, I realize I want to be there, in New Orleans. I have to help care for these innocent animals and try to save as many of the beloved pets as possible.
Chapter 3
We find a private plane to get us there. Through a stroke of luck, a friend has connected with Katheryn, an animal shelter supporter. Not only does Katheryn have a plane, but she also really wants to travel with us and help the animals. She, too, has been watching the heartbreaking stories and wishes she could help. Katheryn is passionate about animal welfare and will always generously give whatever she can in order to help animals in need. When she heard we were planning a trip, she immediately offered to take us in her plane.
Getting to Louisiana will not be a problem – or at least I hope not. In my search for sleeping accommodations, I again encounter the obvious. After a major hurricane, or any other natural disaster, hotel rooms are rare commodities. We’ll be landing in Baytown, Texas, and will have to settle for a hotel in Beaumont, on the Texas/Louisiana state line, for the first night.
In my increasingly futile search for somewhere to stay while in Louisiana, I’m drawn into a phone conversation with a lady who has just told me she has no availability at her inn. As we chat about the hurricane’s impact on her area, I tell her I’ll be traveling from Colorado with three girlfriends to help care for the animals caught in the storm’s aftermath.
“Oh, honey! That’s so nice of y’all. Ya know, I might have someone who y’all can stay with. Let me check,” she says. in her deep southern drawl. We hang up. Five minutes later, she calls back and says that yes, Liz, her son’s ex-girlfriend, will let us stay in her lake house outside Baton Rouge. She gives me Liz LeJeune’s telephone number and I thank her profusely and hang up.
“Yes!” I yell, throwing my arms into the air. I quickly call Liz and am amazed at her generosity. After talking less than five minutes, she agrees to let us stay in her home, sight unseen. I’m touched by how disasters bring people together in unusual ways. Conventional defenses drop and hearts and homes open to strangers.
“If y’all are comin’ this far to take care of animals, y’all must be good people.” Liz laughs. I promise to call her as soon as we get to Louisiana. Apparently my synapses aren’t firing properly. In my desperation and excitement at having found somewhere to stay, the fact that the house is over an hour’s drive from the animal shelter in Gonzales doesn’t faze me.
My friend and fellow animal advocate, Bland Nesbit, calls. I give her the good news and we chat excitedly. We’re eager to set off on the adventure and begin rattling off details and making a list of things we need to take and to do before we leave. We plan everything possible to the most minor detail.
“Jeez…” Bland says, flustered. “I forgot to tell you, Jan wants to come along, too.”
“Excellent!”
I’m happy that she’ll be joining us. Although Jan Panico is petite in stature, she can definitely carry a load. She’s also a phenomenal artist with a unique talent for painting cats and dogs. In keeping with the artist stereotype, Jan has been known at times to be somewhat absent-minded. She has a tendency to mix-up words, like the time she applied for a Colorado driver’s license. She had every intention of asking the safety officer if he wanted to see her Virginia license… but she asked him if he wanted to see her vagina license.
Everything is in place. We have no idea what we’ll encounter when we get to Louisiana.
I don’t sleep well that night and the next day dawns early. The sun is just rising when I get out of bed, make a cup of tea and sit in my nightgown making another list. It will be a day full of errands and a flurry of activities. People think I’m kidding when I tell them I have “chemo brain” if I’ve forgotten something. I’m not. It is a fact that people who have had chemotherapy sometimes experience episodes of short-term memory loss. I have stood in front of a co-worker and been at a loss for their name. So lately, lists rule my life. I have a long one for today.
We have each been limited to twenty pounds of luggage by Katheryn’s pilot, Steve. I’m uncomfortable flying on large commercial jets, and I can’t begin to describe my fear of having to fly in a small Cessna. I take a deep breath to try to alleviate my rising apprehension. I cannot and will not let fear get in my way. Carpe diem. I remind myself and let out the breath.
I call both my oncologist and regular doctor and receive their initially hesitant approvals to visit the disaster area. Neither is overjoyed that I’m traveling to a potentially disease-laden area so soon after my chemotherapy. They both remind me of my weakened immune system. My body still bears damage, internally, from the months of poison coursing through it. Sensing my determination, they relent and encourage me to make the best of the journey. I squeeze my eyes shut as I’m given the recommended tetanus and hepatitis shots, and then ask for a few valium to help me overcome my fear of flying – and anything else that might rattle me as I head into the unknown.
Evening falls. As I pack, I meticulously measure and weigh everything I’m taking with me. I continue to pare things down until I only have eighteen pounds of luggage. Heaven forbid that we’re two pounds overweight and the plane goes down. Bland and I talk and she assures me that she has done the same. She isn’t motivated by a fear of flying, but by following the pilot’s orders to a T. Bland is both organized and obedient.
It is later than I want but still fairly early when I finally make my way to bed. My mind races. I never sleep well the night before I have to fly, but this night, I’m particularly restless. I toss and turn and cannot find a comfortable position. I hear every noise, both inside and outside, and every breath that my dogs take next to me on the bed. I move closer to Hannah and put my head on her chest. I feel her body rise and fall with each breath. I pick up her paw, as I always do, and smell it. Puppy breath and dog paws are two of my favorite smells. I stroke Hannah’s head, thinking about the dogs I will see over the course of the next ten days. I hope it won’t be traumatic. I try to envision what the shelter will look like but can’t. I have no clue. I finally fall asleep to images of injured and frightened dogs staring at me out of wire kennels. I wake up every couple of hours, anxious and frustrated that I can’t sleep.
I try not to fight it. That only makes it worse.
The next morning arrives. I’m up an hour earlier than I need to. The sun is just beginning to rise. My three dogs raise their heads in unison, look at me curiously and lay their heads back down. It’s too early for them to be bothered with anything. I gaze at them as they sleep peacefully. Tugs on my heart. I will miss them. I rarely leave them and so have become accustomed to them traveling with me. There is something very calming and right with the world when we travel together. I am complete. But not this time. I have enlisted my brother, Michael, to come and stay with them for the ten days I’ll be gone. They love Michael – he was their official sitter during my hospitalizations over the past year. This will be a longer absence, and I have to repeatedly remind myself that I am the one who will be taking it the hardest. Dogs live so completely in the moment. They don’t feel the increasing, heart-tugging apprehension as I get closer to leaving them. They will barely take notice of my absence until the door opens and I return to them. That’s when the happiness is permeable as they bound to greet me, barking, bucking and bouncing off me with glee. I feel a need to explain to them why I must go and leave them for so long. It’s not really for them but for me. So I can remind myself of why I am leaving them for so long.
I go over and put my face next to Hannah’s nose so I can feel and smell her breath. I kiss her gently as I do my other two dogs, Hanuman, a large male Rottweiler, and Bella, a black Border Collie-Lab mix. They aren’t at all interested in me at this early hour and only want to sleep. I move back over to Hannah and lay on the bed next to her. She opens a sleepy eye, sees it is me, and closes her eye again. In a whisper, I explain that I have to leave them and go help the poor dogs and cats caught in the terrible flooding in New Orleans. I tell her that she and Hanuman and Bella are so lucky to be in a home where they are loved so much, have big, dry, comfy beds to sleep on, go on hikes in the mountains and get lots of treats. As I tell her about the poor starving and abandoned dogs, I imagine a scene. What if it were she? Wouldn’t she be so happy to see someone there to help her? I cannot bare the images my words conjure up as I visualize the three of them tied on a porch and abandoned in the floodwaters, hungry and frightened. The thought brings tears to my eyes. Instead of motivating me to get up and go, it makes me want to lay there for a few minutes more. I listen to Hannah’s deep breathing, which is now bordering on snoring, until I finally have to tear myself away from this warm, safe and peaceful place. With them.
Dressed and ready to go, I sip the last of my tea and stare at the mountains. I haven’t yet left and I already miss being home. I pick up my bag and head out the door feeling melancholy.
My friend and our fourth adventurer, Melinda Goldrich, and I meet Bland at her car. As we get in, I immediately eye Melinda’s luggage.
“We’re only supposed to have twenty pounds each. It looks like you packed for a long vacation,” I chide Melinda, only half-joking. I hope a little humor will mask my distress. She isn’t amused and ignores me. I pout, wondering how she could be so careless as to disobey the pilot’s order.
Finally, she responds. “I weighed it. Chill out. It might be over twenty pounds but not by much.”
“Then you’ll have to get rid of some stuff.” I’m adamant, my concern no longer veiled. “Steve said no more than twenty pounds each.”
She looks at me as if I have lost my mind. Maybe I have, at least temporarily. Fear of flying does that to me. Clearly perturbed, Melinda takes bags of trail mix, snacks and a couple bottles of water out of her bag and tosses them onto the floor of the car. Bland gives me a sideways glance and purses her lips to stifle a giggle. We head to the awaiting plane, picking up Jan on the way.
Arriving at Rifle Airport, we walk through the small terminal, chatting nervously about the latest Katrina news, our flight ahead and our mutual apprehensions. We walk onto the tarmac and I stop cold in my tracks. In front of me is not the sleek Gulfstream I envisioned, but an older twin-engine Cessna. My disappointment isn’t elitist, only a warped sense that jets are safer than twin engines. Maybe it’s because they get you to your destination faster. Not wanting to seem unappreciative, I put on my best game face.
I look at Bland and smile. “Carpe diem?”
It is a question, not a statement. She laughs and watches me dig in my bag for a valium. An hour into my adventure, I’ve already used up one of only two valiums I brought with me.
Steve loads our bags onto the plane, we pose for a group picture, board the Cessna and take off for Louisiana, via Santa Fe … and Baytown … and Beaumont.
The flight to Santa Fe is calm and somewhat uneventful, given that none of us, except Steve, are overly excited about flying in the small plane. It is a beautiful, cloudless day, and as we soar over the foothills and mesas of southern Colorado, my valium kicks in and I actually begin to relax and enjoy the stunning views. The red rock cliffs and outcroppings are amazingly picturesque from where I sit. Far below me, a river winds along its lonely course, pine trees hugging the banks. The red cliffs and mesas disappear, replaced with tree-covered foothills. The foothills quickly transition into flat farmland and ranches as we cross the border into New Mexico. We begin our descent and fly over the familiar red rock hills just north of Santa Fe. We’re about to meet Katheryn, the kind benefactor of the plane.
Chapter 4
We decide to get off the plane to wait for Katheryn’s arrival. After waiting patiently for almost a half hour, I finally see an older sedan drive across the tarmac. As the car stops in front of us, I’m taken aback when a tall, blond woman with large breasts and a very low cut dress emerges. I divert my eyes and silently chastise myself for zeroing in on her breasts. I seem to focus on breasts. I long for mine, since they were taken from me so abruptly. I am conscious of the two round implants stitched neatly into my chest, still strangers, and have to stop the tears welling in my eyes.
Katheryn is dressed in hot pink from head to toe. Hot pink high heels, dress, and purse. Even her lips are hot pink. Big hot-pink hoop earrings and pink sunglasses complete her outfit. If this doesn’t give pause for concern, she adds to it a bright, white neck brace.
The four of us stand staring, our mouths slightly agape. Bland is the first to get her wits about her. She nudges me and walks over to the car to greet Katheryn. Still somewhat bewildered, Melinda, Jan and I quickly fall in behind, thanking Katheryn for flying us to Louisiana. She barely acknowledges us or the conversation and starts to unpack the car. The first items out, of course, are two large hot pink plastic suitcases, Barbie-doll style. “Way over twenty pounds” is my first thought. To our further amazement and my horror, Katheryn flings the back doors open and pulls out every type and size of dog crate and pet carrier available, big plastic ones, little metal compact models, and collapsible, tent-like dog carriers made of canvass. She then pulls carry bags and groceries from the trunk. I quickly try to tally the poundage of each item she unloads. Katheryn seems to slur as she issues orders to us.
I look at Jan standing next to me. “Is she slurring or is it her accent?”
Jan shrugs, her eyes still wide and slightly dazed by everything. She smiles and, as ordered, picks up some bags and heads for the plane.
Melinda rolls her eyes and picks up a bag. Looking at me, she nods toward the stack of luggage. “I could have brought my trail mix!” She is clearly perturbed.
Hot flashes ripple through my body as I watch Steve stuff, unstuff, reorganize and restuff bags into the small luggage hold. I can’t tell if it’s the stifling New Mexico heat, the side-effects of my cancer medication, or sheer nervousness, but I break out in a sweat. I’m on the verge of tears from watching as more and more weight is packed into the small plane. My valium seems to have worn off, and fear has set in. My mind races with nonsensical questions. What am I doing getting on this plane? Why am I going into a disaster area? I have no knowledge of or experience in working disaster areas. Am I strong enough? Physically? Emotionally? Should I just turn around and go home?
Fear seems to feed on fear; I am now scared out of my wits. I take deep breaths and struggle to replace my heightened anxiety with positive thoughts. Be brave, live life, carpe diem, I repeat over and over as I climb the steps of the plane.
It is only as we’re boarding the plane that Bland musters up the courage to pose the question we’ve all been desperate to ask: “Why the neck brace, Katheryn? What happened?”
“I fell off my horse a couple days ago,” Katheryn replies. “I really hurt myself … I have to take pain pills and I have to …”
Her voice trails off. Bland, Melinda, Jan and I stare at her, temporarily suspended in time as we wait for her to finish her sentence. What exactly is it she has to do? But that’s it, the end of her story. The four of us exchange bewildered glances.
Concern mounts but we’re helpless to do anything about her peculiar behavior. The plane engines whine loudly. We taxi down the runway and are airborne once again.
Our flight is interrupted with a quick stop somewhere in west Texas, so Katheryn “can pee” because the plane’s bathroom is stuffed full of luggage. Once we land, we again take the opportunity to stretch our legs and privately discuss how to deal with the mounting concern we have over Katheryn’s ability to work, given her physical challenges.
“What are we going to do?” Melinda asks. “How can she work if she’s in a neck brace?”
“Do you think she brought other shoes?” I ignore Melinda’s question and stare ahead at the clack clack clack of Katheryn’s stilettos crossing the tarmac.
We re-board. As I’m buckling up, Bland motions to me from her copilot seat and mouths, “What are we going to do?” I just shrug and shake my head as we taxi and takeoff for the third time.
Suddenly, I feel drained and anxious to take a nap and regain some energy. It’s been an eventful, tiring day, and it still isn’t anywhere near over. I know I’ll desperately need my strength as the day drags on. Within a half hour, the constant drone of the plane engines lulls us all into a sleepy relaxation. A couple hours later, I am awakened by Steve telling us to prepare for landing in Baytown. I’m filled with anticipation, knowing we’re one step closer to finally beginning our adventure.
Chapter 5
The hot, humid air hits me like a furnace blast. Bland and I walk over to meet the rental car representative and hear Katheryn’s high, shrill voice behind us.
“I need to go to a pharmacy!”
Bland looks at me. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know, but there’s no way she can go with us.” I’m firm in my decision, but unsure of how to handle the situation.
Katheryn’s voice grows louder. From where Bland and I stand, we can tell she’s upset, her voice reaching a fevered pitch. We rejoin the group, only to discover that Katheryn is upset because she left her wallet at home in Santa Fe. She has no driver’s license, money, credit cards or identification. It’s been a long day, and the four of us just want to get on the road from Baytown to New Orleans with as little drama as possible.
“I’ll talk to Steve. He’ll know how to best handle this.” Bland heads over to where Steve stands and pulls him aside. Her demeanor is very diplomatic as she appears to be explaining the predicament. I can’t hear the conversation, but from the look on his face, it’s obvious that Steve knew it was coming but doesn’t seem thrilled to have to deal with it.
Katheryn will not be accompanying us. Telling her will be the hard part. Despite everything that has happened, I truly feel sorry for her. We all do. She’s a good person with a big heart. She loves animals as much as the rest of us and really wants to help care for them. Given her condition, it doesn’t make sense for her to accompany us, but we commend her for trying to help.
It is a most uncomfortable few minutes as Steve takes Katheryn aside and tells her. They argue back and forth, but Steve finally convinces a tearful Katheryn that the four of us must get on the road without her. We thank them both for their generosity, telling them we hope to see them soon. It isn’t a comfortable parting of ways.
Melinda and I jump into one SUV and Bland and Jan into the other. I practically peel rubber leaving the parking lot. In the rearview mirror, I see Katheryn looking totally dejected, surrounded by her bright pink luggage. I feel a pang of guilt, but the trip has already taken us twice as long as it should have. We need to get on the road. This might be our last opportunity to get a good night’s sleep for the next two weeks. We’ll need every ounce of strength to be capable of handling what we are about to endure.
The sun is setting. As we start the long drive to Beaumont, this journey is starting to have more legs than an octopus. We’ve been up since before five o’clock and I’m tired after enduring the long and eventful flight. I think back to my oncologist’s words of warning. The damaging affects of the chemotherapy are still prevalent and my body will tire easy. He was right. I’m exhausted. The days ahead will be filled with hard work and emotional turmoil. This day has already overwhelmed my senses and left me frazzled. I eagerly anticipate taking a hot shower, slipping into fresh, crisp sheets, catching up on the latest Katrina news and falling asleep in a comfy bed.
The hotel in Beaumont is not the nice hotel we anticipated but an older, economical motel. Disappointed, I’m too tired to be overly concerned. Okay, minor flaw, I think to myself. Or did I say it out loud? Doesn’t matter. Melinda is distracted as she talks to someone on her cell phone.
I pull into the hotel parking lot. Melinda puts her phone in her lap and looks at me. “This is where we’re staying?”
She’s obviously disappointed. Feeling responsible for the screw-up, I can’t think of a reply, so I stare straight ahead and say nothing. The motel is rundown, the grounds littered. Little patches of parched brown grass peak up out of sand, behind them a dirty, cracked cement sidewalk and then a long line of dingy grey doors. I look up at the second floor. Hanging onto and over the railings are several men and women, sweating in the humid night air. They look haggard. Most are barefoot and dressed in worn shorts and tattered t-shirts. Some of the men are shirtless with big beer bellies drooping over low-hanging pants. Almost all look downtrodden as they stare off into an empty distance with blank, shell-shocked, emotionless faces. Some take long draws on cigarettes.
As we survey the scene, someone spits off the balcony in front of the car, barely missing the hood. Melinda looks at me, her faced crinkled in displeasure. I peer over the steering wheel and look up to see where the spit came from. An old man stares down at us. I stare back with wide eyes, not knowing how to react. I quickly sit as far back in my seat as possible with my head pressed against the headrest so he can’t see me.
I pull around to the registration area, get out of the car and am blasted by acrid air that smells of refinery oil. I feel clammy and grimy; whatever is in the air immediately attaches itself to my bare skin. After we check in, I walk back out into the night and am again assaulted by heavy, foul-smelling humidity. I don’t understand how people can live in places that are so toxic from pollution. I try to breathe in as little of the putrid air as possible. I fight a desire to run across the littered parking lot. “Evacuees,” I say aloud as I reach the car.
The motel reception area was dreary, worn. The clerk at the counter was tired. Her eyes never left her computer screen as she commented on how lucky we were to get any rooms at all. Every hotel in town is full of refugees from New Orleans. I cringe, feeling guilty for having judged the people hanging around outside. They had fled their homes with nothing and had probably been in the same clothes for days. Despair and apprehension reign. Where the four of us now find ourselves is very far from the comfortable lives we left in Aspen. I think of the thousands of people displaced from their homes and their lives, now living in rundown motels or worse. It is unimaginable. This is something I have never been through, never thought about and even now, while in the midst of it, cannot fathom.
Touched by their plight, we become very quiet. We each grab our small bags and walk silently toward the row of doors. I unlock the door to my room, walk into the darkness and am greeted with a strong, musty odor. I flip on the light and am dismayed to see newspapers scattered on the chair and nightstand. Used towels lie wadded up on the cracked and yellowed linoleum bathroom floor, next to an overflowing trashcan. The toilet tissue holder is empty. The room smells of stale cigarettes and pine cleaner. The bed is rumpled, like someone simply pulled the bedspread up over already slept in sheets. My skin crawls as I realize I am standing in a stranger’s leftover mess. I back out of the room and walk next door to Bland’s room.
“You won’t believe my room.” I tilt my head and give her a goofy grin. “It looks like we’re bunking together, roomy.”
After settling into our rooms, we decide to grab something to eat and pick up provisions for our stay in Gonzales. Melinda is intrigued and happy to find that Wal-Mart is actually open twenty-four hours a day. It’s a novelty to her, having grown up in Beverly Hills before she moved to Aspen. It doesn’t surprise me that she’s excited. There are two absolutes with Melinda: she’s almost always talking on her cell phone; and the girl can shop anytime, anywhere.
It’s almost nine o’clock, so we decide to eat first and shop afterwards. Finding a restaurant close to the hotel, we eat a quick, unremarkable meal, drink a glass of wine and head to Wal-Mart. We brought dog paraphernalia and our eighteen pounds of luggage each, but little else. Not knowing what we’ll be walking into the following day, we decide to prepare for the worst and spend the next hour going up and down the aisles randomly throwing stuff into our carts.
“Wow.” Melinda laughs. “I can buy tires, wine and a bathing suit. All at midnight!” She’s delighted.
We regroup and make our way through the crowded check-out lanes. In the parking lot, we stand back and admire our swag. Both SUVs are loaded to capacity with dog supplies, gas cans, gallons of water, medical supplies, snacks, paper products, insect repellants and, of course, several bottles of Wal-Mart’s finest Pinot Noir.
It is past eleven o’clock when we return to the hotel, exhausted to the point of being zombie-like. Remembering a safety precaution, I carefully back the SUV into the space in front of the hotel room door. I’ve been told that looting is a very real risk. It isn’t that I don’t trust; I just don’t know. Desperate people sometimes do desperate things in desperate times. I’m not overly concerned, too tired to care and wanting nothing more than to put this crazy, crazy day behind me.
Only after I fall into bed do I finally have time to think about seeing Edward again. Edward is the CEO of a large national animal rights organization. He’s also a former flame, one that very briefly burned white hot but didn’t have the chance to get past the initial spark. He was the last relationship before my cancer diagnosis, and that diagnosis ended any further intimacy between us. It was my choice, not his. We had known each other less than three months and although I was strongly attracted to him, I wasn’t comfortable exposing myself, physically or emotionally. I also didn’t think it was fair to drag him through all that a cancer journey entails, especially not knowing what the outcome would be. He might have signed on for a passionate love affair, but definitely not sitting in doctors’ offices and hospital rooms with me.
I had called him when I decided I wanted to go to New Orleans. In his DC office, his voice was caring, but frenzied as we spoke. He told me they were desperate for help with the animals. I had assured him I was serious about going, although at that moment it might have been more of a desire than a determination. Still, he encouraged me to get to New Orleans as soon as I could and to try and find others to take with me.
Edward had called my cell and left a message saying that he might be in Gonzales sometime in the next few days. I close my eyes so I can better envision his face, trying to remember each detail. His big, brown eyes and perfect smile. It makes me smile to think of him, and I pull the covers up around me and snuggle down into my pillows. In a different place and different time, we might have been so much more. Edward is very much your typical tall, dark and handsome man. He’s gorgeous and travels around a lot so I often worried that he might be a bit of a player. He insisted he wasn’t. I didn’t want to find out. The times we shared together were wonderful, but I always held back, afraid of getting hurt. I wonder what might happen if I see him on this trip. I burrow further into the blankets, basking in warm thoughts. I’m vaguely aware of a queasiness coming over me, but I’m too tired to give it much thought. I write it off as side effects of the grueling and overly-stimulating day. Too much excitement, wine and shrimp, I think as I fall into a deep sleep.
A fierce headache jolts me awake. I feel more nauseated than I ever felt through all my chemotherapy sessions. I lay in the dark, wondering what time it is, unable to see the clock. I’m scared. Once you’ve been through a major illness, even the slightest ache causes concern. Especially now, less than three months after my treatments, I live with a constant, nagging fear. I’m overcome with anxiety as I wonder if I pushed myself too much. Or might this be what a relapse feels like? I have no idea; I’ve never been there. I was warned that my system is still weak, but surely that can’t be it. I don’t understand why I’m feeling this bad.
The nausea gets worse. Trying not to wake Bland, I stagger to the bathroom, feeling my way along the rough walls for direction. I barely make it to the bathroom when I immediately start throwing up. My first wretch awakens Bland. I continue to throw up on and off for the next hour. Bland is desperate to help but knows there is nothing she can do.
She squats on the bathroom floor and comforts me. “Just like old times,” she says, smiling. “Your co-patient is right here with you.” Bland had insisted on accompanying me to so many of my doctor appointments, surgeries and chemo and radiation sessions that my doctors called her my co-patient.
My head rests on my hand on the side of the toilet seat, and I turn and try to smile. I know she’s anxious, too, and I don’t want to add to her stress. Not now, not tonight. It’s bad enough that she’ll get little to no sleep thanks to nursing me through the night. I stumble back to bed and collapse, pulling my body into the fetal position. I am both freezing and sweating, the once snuggly blankets now searingly hot to my skin.
Within minutes, I throw up again. This time, I’m too weak and dizzy to make it out of the bed. I’m scared.
“Food poisoning,” Bland diagnoses, nodding her head.
“Great … of course.” Tortured by my pounding head, I’m panicked at the thought of not being able to travel in the morning.
I alternately toss and turn and throw up for hours. I finally see daylight breaking through the crack in the dingy curtains. I am at sick, exhausted and consumed with guilt at the thought of holing everyone up in this seedy hotel.
The obnoxious buzz of the alarm clock startles me. Bland calls Jan and Melinda to tell them of my illness and the delay in leaving. Minutes later, they join us and take turns bringing me Sprite and cold washcloths. I realize I am too sick to travel, and I’m not getting better. I insist that they leave me with one car and head to Gonzales in the other. I promise to follow as soon as I’m able.
At first, they will have none of it. I don’t have the energy to argue. I can only assure them I will be fine after a few hours of deep sleep. Then, they finally relent. They can do nothing here but sit and stare at me. None of us want that. Their time will be better served at the shelter. Bland helps me sit up and I take half a sleeping pill someone hands me. She puts several cold washcloths and more Sprite on the night table, instructs me to lock all of the locks on the door.
They walk out reluctantly. Within minutes, I melt into the darkness of deep sleep.
I awaken and look at the clock. Just before noon. My white cotton nightgown is soaking wet. I feel weak, numb and dazed but thankfully not nauseous. Anxious to get on the road, I pull myself out of bed, shower and put on a pair of khaki shorts and a black tank top. I throw on a cap, gather my things and head out the door. The sun is bright and blazing. Walking out into the oven-like heat makes me immediately feel weaker. I make my way to the car, stop for coffee and Gatorade and head east on Interstate 10. I’m in somewhat of a fog, oblivious to almost everything but the asphalt in front of me, yet I drive with determination. I am on a mission. I’m finally on the verge of experiencing what I could never have imagined.
Chapter 6
I drive the entire distance to Gonzales in total silence, windows up, radio off, completely lost in thought. It is mid-afternoon when I arrive at the Lamar-Dixon Exposition Center. Turning into the facility, I drive past an empty guard station and into a massive concrete parking lot. I feel like I’m driving into Churchill Downs. The building straight ahead is a large brownish equestrian-looking structure with a tall, squared clock tower in the center of two larger wings. Each wing contains three huge, open-air barns. The parking lot seems to go on forever and is eerily calm – all things considered. It is less than half-full. I drive around, trying to shake off the uneasiness that has come over me. I’m not sure where I’m heading, or if I’m even allowed to be here.
I park and stare at the building. When I finally open the car door, the heat and distant sound of hundreds of barking dogs smack me and I stand there, dazed. I don’t know why, but I frequently find myself momentarily frozen in whatever spot I happen to occupy. I am fearful and apprehensive about moving forward. I have to make a conscious effort to take my next step, but I’m glued to the spot, not knowing in which direction to head.
I have arrived at my first-ever disaster area. It’s unnerving, not what I expected, to say the least. Then again, I don’t know what I expected. It doesn’t look like a disaster area, but then it isn’t. The actual disaster is in New Orleans, several miles south of here. Still, judging from where I stand, I could just as easily be walking into a dog show or sports event.
I work up the courage to walk closer to the building. I look from one end to the other. It is only then that I notice a long line of cars, pick-up trucks and flatbeds at the far end of the facility. I can’t see where the line of vehicles begins or ends, but it is the first sign that something big is happening. Anticipation, excitement and nervousness create an inner force and my adrenalin spikes. My pace quickens. Even in a fairly weak state, I want to run in the direction of the anxious barking. I want to do what I came to do – comfort the obviously distressed dogs.
I reach the building, round the corner and come to a dead stop. I stand, wide-eyed, and try to take it all in. The area is buzzing with activity and I’m intimidated with the largeness of what is in front of me. Vehicles ranging from recreation vehicles and semi-trucks to compact cars cram a small parking area. The entire area is dwarfed by the six massive, covered barns open on the sides and at each end. Within these barns, most of the activity seems to be happening. I glance across the parking lot and am curious to see a field littered with camping tents of various sizes and colors. Lawn chairs and small grills are scattered here and there within the maze of canvas. People mill about with serious faces. Some are in more of a hurry to get to their destination than others.
I’m literally steps away from my adventure, mission and desire… my confidence sinks. Have I taken on far more than I can handle?
No. I won’t let the unknown intimidate me. I can’t. I am stronger now. I have faced challenges I never thought I would have to, and here I am. Still here. Alive. Remember, I am brave. Isn’t that what I’ve been told? Am I really? Or is it a ruse? Have I fooled everyone into thinking I am stronger and braver than I really am? Determined to overcome my initial trepidation, I begin the search for my friends. I head toward the first barn, walking with confidence as if I know exactly where I’m going.