As anyone who reads my blogs regularly knows, we added a new member to our family last August, a little Pomeranian puppy named Sparky. We had decided that Phil needed a companion dog, and our two monsters, Shadow the Newfoundland and Dante the Wolf-Hybrid were just too intimidating and clumsy for him. I believe that all things meant to be come in time, and responded to an ad on Craigslist: Special Home Needed for a Special Puppy. Reading the ad and subsequently talking to the breeder, we found out that Sparky was born with a broken heart. His puppy exam found him to have a rather severe heart murmur. What was she to do? Put him down? Sell him dishonestly without a warranty? Two wretched options, when you looked into those shiny, mischievous black eyes of his. Is it possible that someone would want this little pup, special needs and all?
I looked at my son, reclining in his hospital bed, recovering from surgery for his g-tube, and suddenly knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was the pup for us. We picked up this little bundle of affectionate fur in a McDonalds parking lot, and it was love at first sight. Nothing about him would indicate that he had any problems at all. Philip christened him “Sparky” because of his firecracker disposition, and probably to stop me from calling HIM Sparky when he got sassy.
The first night he was here, we set him on Phil’s bed to say goodnight, and he promptly peed on him. After a good laugh, (and a linen and PJ change) we decided that Sparky was just claiming his territory. Lucky Phil. Happy to say, he was potty trained in record time, and integrated well into our family, including befriending the monsters outside with Napoleon-esque confidence, apparently oblivious to the fact that he would be a mere hors de oeuvre to Dante. He delighted us with his intelligence, and quickly learned to come, sit, stay, lie down and dance. And it was very easy to forget that Sparky had any issues at all. At six months, he had become the kind of dog that every pet owner wants – a well behaved, friendly, fun, lively and altogether pleasant animal.
In November, my daughter’s work schedule picked up, requiring long hours, and she asked if we would watch her dog, Lucy, for a month. Now Lucy has been part of our extended family for better than five years, a spunky and loyal Rhodesian Ridgeback/Catahoula hound mix, and we were more than happy to have her here. She and Sparky hit if off immediately, and soon became fast friends. We had our hands full with two house dogs and two yard dogs now – a little pack that provided for us far more entertainment, love and companionship to compensate for their care and feeding. And it was a happy time.
But Lucy’s stay was temporary, and she went back to Chicago with my daughter after Thanksgiving. The day after thanksgiving, we were all a bit over indulged, per the American Tradition of overeating and drinking on this festive day, and so the fact that Sparky lacked a little spark, well, we just figured he felt the same way as we all did. On day two, however, he seemed quite depressed. No trying to chase our stocking feet around the living room. No challenging Dante to a sparring match, which he knew Dante would let him win. No mock growling or wrestling with his stuffed toys. Just a sad look in his eyes, and a curly tail that unfurled and hung down like a flag without a breeze. Poor Sparky…surely he just missed Lucy, his constant companion for the past few weeks. He still ate, just a little less. He still had all his bodily functions working in proper sequence, so there was little reason to think he was ill. But it cropped up in the back of my mind that he was, after all, born with that broken heart. Could this be a manifestation of that? We did not want to think so – and so extra cuddling and affection was in order from everyone in the house, and in another day or so, he seemed to come around to his old self. Perhaps a bit more subdued, but Sparky just the same. And all was well again.
Then a few days ago, Sparky slowed down yet again. His friend Lucy and her new companion, a Boxer/Doberman puppy named Bea had come to visit with my daughter, and he had been his rambunctious self, trying his best to “keep up with the big dogs” for the weekend. And after they left, again – he seemed fine. But then, the downhill spiral started again. We figured it was just the companionship issue again – but this time, each day brought a new concern about his health. And then he started having trouble breathing. And then he stopped eating. And his little ears collapsed. And his curly tail now drooped. And his black onyx eyes lost their sparkle. And I took a trip into the twilight zone of that Broken Heart.
What was I thinking in taking on a puppy with a condition that in many ways would mimic the disease process in my son? I did not choose Duchenne – it chose us. But I chose Sparky. I chose a broken heart. Somewhere inside, I must have known the redemption that comes from something so painful as a broken heart.
What is a broken heart? A metaphor, usually, not an actuality. It’s a picture that reflects the pain that we feel in our body over mental and spiritual pain. That hot, crushing feeling in your chest when you can do nothing but watch as part of your world unravels. The shock of emotions as they swim their way to the surface, only to find it has turned to ice – and they struggle and die inside you. And something gives – and it feels for all the world like it’s your heart. A sensation that has you clutching at your chest, just trying to - what? Stop the breaking, perhaps.
But this little heart was born broken. Yet like the most admirable of the broken hearts, it has risen to the occasion of life. The fact that it cannot keep up with all the life that is flowing through it does not stop its desire to LIVE, and live it up! To wrestle down giants, to dine on fine meat, to enjoy a great adventure as much as an afternoon snooze. To give love and to accept love in return.
But most admirable of all, this little broken heart has accepted the fact that it is broken. How many of us know broken hearts that just never seem to mend? Perhaps our own – time does not heal the wound; joy seems lost and gone forever. No way of binding this one – it’s broken for good.
Oops…you want to read that last line again? Yes – we use the term all the time – FOR GOOD. Meaning, forever or permanently, I suppose, but the word stands literally: for GOOD.
“It’s over, for good.”
“He is gone for good.”
“This heart is broken for good.”
And when I can put aside all the subjectivity of my life, I am forced to acknowledge that this is a true statement – for all that happens to us, if we will but maintain a 5-year perspective – it all happens for the good of who we are, and who we are becoming. This is not to say that our tragedies ever become pleasant – but that in 5 years you will be able to look back and see that some positive result came from your heart break – and THAT is good.
And so in the quiet of the morning, I looked at my poor, poor puppy – and see what I know to be the manifestation of his brokenness. And I am thrust into the parallel universe of my own son’s brokenness. He, too, was born with all the vigor of a healthy baby boy. As time went by, there were some signs that perhaps all was not well, but we were too busy just living life and loving him to really notice much. And when the tests came in that Philip had Duchenne, well, in all honesty, this did not rock my world all that much at that time. He was like every other kid in almost every way – just a little slower. And we tucked the diagnosis into a little box and stuck it in a corner and tried to forget about it. And while the disease progression is gradual, the deterioration comes with such face-slapping suddenness and roller-coaster-drop sensation all at once. Your stomach lurches, and your heart races, and your head spins with the reality that a life-threatening condition can arise out of nowhere. The diagnosis rips out of the box and expands to fill the room like a river raft, pinning you against the wall and displacing everything in your room. You want to cry. You want to fight. You get angry. And above all, you just plain and simple don’t want this to be happening. Not yet. Not now. Not EVER!!
But today I realize, Philip, too, was born with a broken heart. Not physically, perhaps – but a body that will try to break his heart, for good. This, in turn, is breaking MY heart, and hearts of the people who know and love Phil, for good. In every way that it means – it’s for GOOD. I may not be able to tell you today, or tomorrow just how this is so – and I may be thought macabre or morbid or fatalistic to even say such a thing – but this is what I believe. I don’t think the details are all that great, quite frankly many of them suck, and I complain and lament about them plenty! But to suggest that Phil – regardless of his condition of Duchenne – is anything less than GOOD would be an insult to everything that is my life.
I am not saying that Duchenne is intrinsically good. I am not saying that I do not hope for an effective treatment or even a cure. It’s just that I have accepted the fact that we have a broken heart from the get-go – just like Sparky. I took that pup knowing full well he was a heartbreak on our horizon, and I think I would take my son, too, even if I knew he had Duchenne before he was born, especially if that was a decision which was made from a place higher than this earth. And again, I believe it was.
Through the generosity of a friend, we were able to take Sparky to the vet, and find that he does, indeed, have 3rd-4th degree heart failure. Medications will be administered, and 24 hours later, li’l Sparks is on a little rebound. We have only been told that medication will “prolong his time and keep him comfortable”. Heart surgery is out of the question now, at 5-digit minimums. But what we can know is that he will have the best life possible in the time that he is with us. He will be loved…and he will continue to be a blessing to our lives – in spite of his broken heart – or ours.
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