Miracle Boy

Eight days ago, Monty and I were in the parking lot of the CSU Veterinary Teaching Hospital.  Rian had been admitted to the critical care unit of the hospital, and we were waiting to hear from the vet who had taken his case.

Rian had gotten sick almost overnight. One day, he was a hyperactive kitten; the next, he was unable to walk, only moving by pulling himself along on his belly. Monty and I had taken him to four different vets, none of whom could pinpoint what was wrong with him. The last vet we took him to told us to get him to the ER of the CSU vet hospital as fast as we could.

So there we were, waiting in the parking lot. Six hours after we arrived, the vet called. She told us that she didn’t know exactly what was wrong with Rian, but it was something neurological involving his spine. Given his size (not quite two pounds), age, and extremely fragile condition, finding the cause and a way to treat it might not be possible. She gave us two choices: we could euthanize Rian, or we could go “all in,” meaning MRIs, ultrasounds, biopsies, possibly a spinal tap—anything that could be helpful with finding a diagnosis. She warned us that if we went that route, Rian’s prognosis would probably still be “grim.” I asked her if Rian would be in pain during the tests, and she said he wouldn’t even be aware of them—she had him heavily sedated and on pain medication. She asked if we’d like some time to consider our options. Monty and I looked at each other, and we both said, “No. Let’s go all in.”

The next day consisted of phone calls from Rian’s neurologist followed by long periods of waiting. Finally, that night, the neurologist called with a diagnosis: Rian had an abscess on his spine that needed to be surgically removed. The surgery was risky, and we were warned that even if the abscess was removed, Rian’s prognosis still might not be good. We wouldn’t know until after surgery. The neurologist asked us what we wanted to do. We said we were all in.

Rian had surgery Friday night. The surgeon called us when it was over and said she’d been able to remove most of the abscess. She was confident that after some treatment with antibiotics, Rian would fully recover. Monty and I didn’t even have time to celebrate before Rian’s neurologist called, telling us that Rian was awake and alert, and we could visit him in the morning. We arrived at the vet hospital just twelve hours after the surgery. We pulled into a parking space, prepared for another long wait, when we saw Rian’s neurologist, surgeon, and two assistants walking towards us with Rian’s kennel. It was hot and sunny out, so they suggested we sit down in the shade on the grass. The surgeon opened Rian’s kennel, and Rian popped his head out, more bright-eyed than I’d ever seen him. I expected some timid steps as Rian got used to walking again, but instead he ran out of his kennel and straight to me. He climbed up my shirt and snuggled next to me. For a minute. Then he bounded down and started hopping around, sniffing the grass, swatting at the surgeon when she moved her hand, and biting Monty’s knee. He had a bandage around him to cover his sutures, and a tiny drain taped to his back.

We brought Rian home with instructions to change his drain daily, keep his stitches covered, and keep him still. We’re done with the drain now; he got it removed on Monday. But—and this is a magnificently wonderful problem to have—keeping him still is practically a full-time job for both Monty and me. Rian can truly walk and hop and climb now, and he wants to do it all. He really wants to do it without a T-shirt over his stitches—that shirt has become his mortal enemy. He fights it all day long. As I write this, he’s trying to pull his front paw out of it while popping his head around my laptop screen to look at me. If I make eye contact with him, he takes it as an invitation to jump on my lap and run on my keyboard. I’ve deleted several lines of numbers he’s “typed” while I’ve been writing this.

The night that we were told how grim Rian’s condition was, Monty and I begged God for a miracle. And we got one. I don’t know why God saved Rian and not Seamus. I do know that since we lost Seamus, I’ve been in a dark place, doubting God at times, wondering if He even sees me. The miracle of Rian broke through that darkness. Every time I see Rian hop or climb, I think of the way he was trying desperately to drag himself along just a week ago, and I think, God saw Rian. He saw Monty and me in our hours of need. He saw. He cared. And that’s what I’m choosing to hold onto. Not my questions or doubts. I need the joy of Rian. I need the faith of that miracle. And the more I choose joy and faith, the more they grow. By leaps and bounds. Just like Rian.