Of all the places my husband and I could move to with the military – we never expected the Walter Reed Military Medical Center would be one of the choices.
But on a warm, spring morning in May – we moved into their Level II Trauma Center and stayed for nearly three weeks.
We were living just outside Washington D.C. at the time. My husband was training for the Marine Corps Marathon and had set out on a morning run. It was one of those perfect spring mornings, the sky streaked in shades of pink and powder blue.
He’d been gone just minutes when my phone rang. A few short miles into the run, he’d hit an uneven chunk of sidewalk and fell. Hard. He was on his way to the ER via ambulance.
As x-rays and examinations ensued, we learned he’d sustained a massive injury called an acetabulum fracture. During the fall, the head of the femur had rammed back into the pelvic socket, shattering it into several pieces. Surgeons predicted a nine-hour surgery, but the trauma was so severe that it actually turned into two days and over 15 hours of surgery. It would take nine titanium plates, over a dozen screws and 67 staples to close the incision surgeons needed to re-build his shattered hip.
A Therapy-dog Rx
During the first day of surgery – I stayed glued to the hospital room, convinced I couldn’t leave for a second, even though nursing staff took my phone number and promised updates. By day two, I was running on pure adrenaline and caffeine. I hovered at the nurse’s station like a round of ‘whack-a-mole’, popping my head around the corners and over computer screens every time the phone rang, or a disembodied voice warbled through speakers.
It didn’t take long for the staff to politely shoo me away from their station, imploring me to go on a “walk-about” to burn off some energy and anxiety. With over two million square feet of hospital space, it was a great suggestion.
I found several prayer rooms with beautiful stained glass windows. I found a vendor selling porcelain cats. I saw the Jacksonville Jaguars cheerleaders and their mascot, and several famous athletes in the halls visiting our nation’s wounded.
I walked until my phone read 7.2 miles. I walked until I cried, then walked until I stopped. As the second round of surgery approached hour number eight, I stopped thinking in units of time, and wondered how many more miles I would walk until I heard news.
In a blessed stroke of serendipity, a cheery-looking woman with a beautiful Golden Retriever at her side found me wandering. She introduced herself as a volunteer with the Red Cross’s pet therapy program for Walter Reed, and asked if I knew someone who could use some cheer and a little extra love. As if on cue, the sweet pup nuzzled her head under my hands – tail wagging in happiness as I scratched her ears. In spite of everything, I found myself smiling and laughing as she circled my legs, nudging her head around me as she went.
I finally got the call that surgery was complete, and 24 hours later – it was my husband’s turn to experience the surprising joy of a therapy dog.
Healing and Hope, Four Paws at a Time
Several dogs visited the trauma wing that day, sparking laughter and smiles as they came. A giant bear of a dog named Paddington trotted into our room as if he owned the place and plunked his watermelon-sized head onto the hospital bed railing – eyes gleaming, tail swishing and ready for pets. I’m not sure what breed he was, but he looked like two Saint Bernard’s put together.
And I watched my husband, who’d been through so much pain and trauma, absolutely beam with happiness. Color flooded back into his pale face, and he smiled. And laughed!
With each yip and tail swish, these sweet creatures broke through the clouds of fear, pain and crippling uncertainty, leaving a calm anchor of peace in their wake.
It wasn’t just patients and caregivers that benefited. The dogs were just as affectionate toward hospital staff. The life of a medical practitioner serving in a trauma wing, is to see tragedy on a regular basis. It was heartwarming to witness these brilliant life-saving doctors and nurses smile and unwind, their faces glowing with a happiness that matched our own. The dogs seemed to sense that even our best healers, needed healing too.
Even after the dogs were gone, the lights shone a little brighter, smiles lingered and we were all left with a little more happiness than we had the day before.
Real or Imaginary – Pets are Awesome
As the dogs left, we were treated to another, albeit unconventional, therapy animal visit. Jaxson de Ville, the seven-foot tall anthropomorphic jaguar for the NFL’s Jacksonville Jaguars was also making the rounds.
My husband had just clicked his IV-line pump for pain medicine until it maxed out and would click no more. He sighed, pain momentarily abated and pulled a blanket up to his chin ready for a long nap.
At that moment, a gigantic furry cat bounded into the room followed by two drop-dead gorgeous cheerleaders, metallic pom-poms sparkling as they came.
Instantly, my husband was awake. But it wasn’t the statuesque women that had his attention, it was the cat!
In true mascot form, Jaxson hammed it up and boogied around the room like it was an audition for “Dancing with the Stars.” Bless his heart, my poor husband was absolutely transfixed. One of the cheerleaders asked him a question. It fell on deaf ears. Under the influence of heavy pain medication, he was desperately trying to make sense of the giant, yellow-furred cat waltzing around his hospital room.
Levity accomplished, Jaxson got down to work. He donned a toy doctor’s headlamp, produced a stethoscope from somewhere, wiggled his paws and pretended to start typing on the in-room computer station.
At this point, the intravenous pain medication fully kicked in – and my husband frantically motioned for me to come over. As I did, he grabbed my hand and whispered, “There is a cat on my keyboard.”
After Jaxson left, a nurse came in to check my husband’s vitals, and he began to tell her of the seven-foot cat that was just in his room.
She laughed and said, “Good. That means we’ve got your painkillers just right.”
We would go on to see dozens of pet therapy animals during our stay, both living and anthropomorphic. They walked the halls spreading laughter and cheer. They stood steadfast by service members during grueling physical therapy. They nudged encouragement to those who needed it most.
The day the therapy pets came was a turning point for us in the hospital. It was the first time either of us smiled since the accident, let alone laughed. Each animal left a little bit of magic behind, a glimmer of hope that brightened dark days in a way no human, or medication ever could.
And that kind of healing is truly powerful medicine.
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