A Little More Time
Friday's Terrifying Emergency Surgery
We were supposed to be fishing.
That’s what was repeating over and over in my head while the veterinarian was describing the fatal infection devouring Friday’s uterus at 9AM on my birthday.
We were supposed to be fishing…We were supposed to be fishing…We were supposed to be fishing…
It wasn’t that I was mad. It wasn’t anything involving spoiled plans or inconvenience. I was incredulous. I couldn’t believe this was happening. And like all horrific news, all you can do is absorb it until it sticks.
My dear friend Patty invited me and Becca (A friend who visits the farm every summer during my birthday week) to join her fishing on the lake. Patty has a beautiful vintage canoe and private lake access—which sounded gorgeous. I was so looking forward to it. The idea of doing something I love with people I love sounded like the perfect way to greet 43.
Instead I was trying to process what was being explained while my ten-year-old border collie lay panting at my feet. The stress of the sterile office and change of routine had her exhausted. She was in pain and sepsis was a ticking bomb. I was cursing myself for not noticing the signs sooner.
She stopped eating her dry food a few days ago, but happily ate anything more appealing so I assumed she was spoiled for bacon ends and biscuits. She’d been drinking more water than usual, but it was also 90°this week and she was a double-coated dog. She seemed tired and a little slower going up the stairs but she was also ten years old. None of these signs clocked as urgent. Not until 12 hours before the fishing trip when the symptoms got so dire, so fast, I knew I needed to get her to the vet as soon as they opened the clinic.
I apologized to Patty, texting way past her bedtime to explain what was happening with Friday. I explained my concerns, her symptoms, and told her we would be taking her first thing in the morning to whatever office would take her and not able to join her on the lake. I thanked her for the invitation and knew when she saw the text in the morning she’d understand.
I didn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t. And in that fog deprivation and fear of costs, the results of the x-rays confirmed pyometra, a fatal infection of the uterus. Friday was going to die if she didn’t get a hysterectamy today and the clinic’s surgeon was on vacation.
As the doctor talked, and Friday shifted uncomfortably at my feet, I was trying to process what was actually being said to me:
“Your dog is going to die today unless you can afford this emergency surgery that costs twice what you paid for your car…”
I knew I had enough in my checking account to cover this diagnostic visit, and possibly a standard routine spay with a coupon or uncomfortable dickering, I certainly didn’t have the resources to cover the $8,000 estimate of the closest emergency clinic. If there wasn’t a regular veterinary clinic with an open appointment and surgeon waiting right now; Friday would be gone, and soon.
I was grateful Becca was with me. Having a friend to witness and comfort the fear was a gift. I was leaning on her emotional support, trying to keep it together, and keep myself upright, when I heard a familiar voice coming from the other side of the examination room door.
“Which room…..Jenna in… Woginrich…Friday? Yes… Friday…This one!?”
The door burst opened and Patty came striding in. That moment of relief and shock at the same time was easily a top-ten moment of my life. Now I was ready to cry for an entirely different reason.
I looked over to Becca and mouthed “Did you text her?!” She did not. Becca didn’t even have her number. Then I remembered texting Patty in last night’s doom panic. My explanation was her invitation.
Patty knew this was my regular clinic. She knew when they opened. She didn’t know that it was dumb luck there was a cancellation at 9AM and the office could see Friday first thing. She just drove over and saw my car in the parking lot and found me, like a goddamn guardian angel hero.
Patty, who had experienced with this exact disease with a beloved dog of her own years ago, knew exactly what to do. She took control, asked the doctor questions I didn’t even consider.
Becca was as relieved as I was to see Patty. Becca had plenty of experience and advice to offer with anything medical concerning cats, but was out of her league with canine menopause complications.
I comforted Friday. Becca comforted me. Patty discussed the importance of ultrasounds, CT scans, urine tests, bloodwork and second opinions with the doctor while I tried to think about what organs I could sell on the black market.
In the flurry of it all, I looked around the room. Two best friends, a beloved dog, and medical professionals were all in one place trying to get the fasted and most affordable solution.
Things were bad. I was a mess. Friday was suffering. But amongst all this I felt very lucky. To have these friends, this doctor, this hope that somehow we could find a way to save my dog’s life...
There was still a chance for a full recovery if surgery could happen affordably, and soon. It’s not over until it’s over, but the uncertainty and volitility was making my tired heart race.
The staff were on it. They made some calls, trying to find the closest available clinic, all a shot in the dark. Patty, who had the morning free now that our fishing plans were tanked, offered to drive all of us to New Jersey if we had to.
We got word that a clinic 45 minutes south of us had an opening for a spay, but only if we could get there by 1PM.
We eagerly accepted, and Patty made space in her car for the patient. A few moments ago I was trying to mentally prepare for spending hours in the heat on 36-hrs without sleep digging a grave beside Gibson’s. Now there was a surgeon waiting in the wings and two friends beside me, and they were needed here way more than in a canoe.
We had the appointment, had the deposit down, the cost of the entire thing would be a standard spaying fee and not 8x that in an emergency clinic. We found a reasonable path out of the woods. We just had to act fast.
It was then that the doctor explained that Friday also had a collection of tumors around her mammary glands. There was a chance that once the surgeon was inside they could be metastasized beyond help and she’d have less than 6 months to live.
If she was already under anesthetic, it would be my decision to have her put down in that case. It’s one thing to spend a thousand dollars to give a family member a third more of life. It’s another thing to spend that money on a dog already dying an inevitable painful death that wouldn’t survive to Yule. All I could do was get her under the knife and wait to hear what happened next. So that’s what I did.
When I was in the second vet clinci of the morning—handing her leash to the vet tech to prepare for the operation—I knew it may be the last time I ever see her alive. When the door closed behind her I realized I didn’t say goodbye.
I forgot to say goodbye.
A little over a year ago I lost Gibson to cancer. He was the dog that raised me. It was one of the most painful, heart-wrenching, experiences of my life. I was not ready to lose my girl.
It’s just me and Friday here. She’s my family, my co-farmer, my best friend. We have not spent more than two nights apart in a decade. I never even had an off-farm job in her lifetime. If I lost her I would be the most alone I had ever been in my entire life. I wasn’t ready to be that alone. I needed her more than I needed anyone.
The surgeon’s staff took down our numbers, told us they would call if the surgery turned out to be hopeless, if the tumors or anesthesia was too much for her to survive. I carried my phone around like a bomb taped to my chest, waiting for my life to explode.
At this point Patty and Becca were starving. I am fine not eating until 6/7PM in summer, and when I’m this scared, avoid food if at all possible. But we found a roadside tavern close by and all of us had lunch.
If I wasn’t with people handing me a menu and encouraging me to eat, I wouldn’t have. I couldn’t have. But my body took over and I cleared my entire plate without tasting anything, it was the biggest meal I ate in weeks. I welcomed the energy.
At some point I started crying in the restaurant. I didn’t look great. I was in a pair of overalls and faded tank top. I had no makeup, and my hair was just wrapped up in a headband. Everyone at the table knew there was a chance Friday wasn’t coming back to the farm alive and none of us had any natural talent for divination.
The waitress saw me and made that polite face kind people make when seeing breakdowns in public. She must have overheard us mention the surgery, the intensity of the birthday, the dog, me crying. And when she brought the check she set down a takeout container that held a slice of iced maple pecan cake so large I worried about her keeping her job.
Compassion was everywhere.
An hour later, when the doctor finally called there was only good news.
She told me that Friday’s operation went well. The pyometra infection was spreading but caught in time. She told me the tumors were all hormonal and would probably shrink now that her reproductive system was removed.
I asked the surgeon if she was married, I was ready to propose. No woman had ever made me that happy.
Friday was picked up around 6PM that same day. We made a nest in the back of Becca’s SUV and brought her home to Cold Antler. I have never before or since felt such relief. She was home. I didn’t lose her yet.
The amount of luck was astonishing. For there to be two open appointments exactly when we needed them. Friends visiting and available to help, hell, banging down office doors to be there for us. The luck to get a regular spay appointment exactly when we needed it for regular price and not the house down-payment of an emergency clinic. For her tumors to be related to hormones. The rides, the hugs, the passed tissues, the surgery, the best friends, the luck of of it all.
Three days out of surgery she is slow and under careful supervision, but okay. This morning there is leaking coming from a section of her stitches (and I am a little scared about that as I write this) but the clinic opens at 8:30 tomorrow and I am keeping pressure on it, bandages clean, and she’s still on her prescribed timeline of mild sedatives so she won’t tear her stitches more, just sleep and heal. She’s on pain medication, had an IV of antibiotics, and while she is annoyed she can’t do morning chores or sheepbother, I can’t stop smiling when I see her watching me through the farmhouse windows.
She’s there. She’s home.
We have a little more time.
Thank you, everyone, for the kind words. Friday is currently resting and she is leaking from her stitches, but changing the bandages every few hours and will call my vet in the morning to get it looked at, I think she just needs some stitches redone.
Hard to believe it's been 10 years since I read the first post you ever wrote about this dog! Literally crying right now because I just went through my own emergency ordeal with Beebe just a few months back and I know full-well the terror and panic that comes with having your partner--your everything--in such a precarious position.
So glad it turned out to be an affordable fix, and looking forward to more Friday-stories and pics coming soon.
Love from Maine.
Sam