Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News

It is exactly 6:30 in the morning.

I call Scott with the update. He is appropriately horrified. Both by the ordeal and the price tag.  But he agrees with my decision. How could I risk any chances standing there knowing what I learned?

I wonder what the next few days would have been like if I'd not seen the needle dangling from Trinket's mouth. If I'd not known she'd swallowed it. What would have been her fate?  As awful as this last hour has been, imagine how terrifying and sad the next few days would have been if I'd not known.  I can not imagine her being sick and suffering and dying.  How dreadful.

I decide to rally and go to work. I will be a few minutes late. I just need to call my assistant. I go into the attic to spend a couple of minutes with Gidget while I call. I won't be a minute, and I can just do my makeup while I am up here with her.

I calmly dial.

She answers.

I come unglued.

Through sobs and sniffles I relate the story to her, beginning with Trinket eating a needle and thread.

Of course she thinks I've said, "Trinket is dead" and immediately begins to console me. Asks some questions. Wants to know if anyone is with me. Where Trinket is.

I tell her she is at the vet, which of course given the hour and what she thinks she heard, does not compute.  And after 10 minutes of repeating and explaining and asking more questions, we are laughing. She thinks I should stay at home. I know I need the distraction of work. She says she'll meet me in the lobby for coffee and a pep talk on the elevator ride.

I manage to get myself dressed responsibly and remember my lunch. On the drive in, I call Scott. He'll feel better knowing that I've composed myself sufficiently to drive. 

I am chatting brightly with him on the phone when I get a call waiting. I don't recognize the number but I do recognize the exchange. It is the vet hospital.

Oh no. It's been only about 45 minutes.  This can't be good.

I tell Scott I have to go and why. He wishes me luck and asks that I let him know what the news is.

I am in near panic when I click on the other line. Hold my breath while the surgeon announces himself.

"We are out of surgery..." he says.

"And....." I say closing my eyes and bracing for the news, which if of course, not advisable in traffic.

"It went very well," he says, and it is all I can do not to turn my car around and go back and kiss him.

"I made the incision and I could feel the needle in her stomach. I was able to just poke it through and pull it out without actually cutting the organ. Which from a recovery and an infection standpoint is ideal."
Oh I am sure it is when you are you. I am getting the willies just hearing about it. TMI, doc, TMI.  I would have been just as satisfied to hear that she went to sleep and the Needle and Thread Fairies came and took the needle and left a dollar. To shake away the image, I focus on the practical.

"When can she come home to me?" I ask.

"We'll have to wait and see. She will need to eat and we'll monitor her temperature. And hopefully, in 24 to 48 hours, she'll be well enough to come home."

I am dying to hold her. I want to see her. I want to tell her how much I adore her and let her know she's not been abandoned.

But I try not to seem like a loon. I ask if I can call later to talk about her progress. The surgeon tells me that of course that is welcomed.

I promise to call and hang up.

And as I dial Scott to tell him the news, I realize, you guessed it, I am crying again.