Not Without My Lola

 

Activated charcoal, to bind the poison. Anti-parasite meds. Antibiotics.  Pain killers (on my request). A mineral drip.

My baby is in hospital. I cannot see anything beyond Lola. Not yet anyway. She’s still 4 years old. We still have at least 10 more years, no?

Her eyes are darting side to side. She’s not responding to anything, not even an ear massage. She’s just laying there, in her cage at the local vet hospital.

Lola went from bouncing dog to a drooling mess. We couldn’t find her in the morning. She was discovered facing away from life, while seated on a muddy patch. She struggled to go into the house, and then still faced the wall when she got into my room.

A five-minute drive to the vet felt like a mountainous train journey.

The vet staff helped us get her to a doctor’s table and she was immediately taken to a “procedure room.”

After the longest 30 minutes, it still needed to be clarified what the issue may be. But poisoning is the main suspect. We are in South Africa, after all.

Tick bite fever is discovered in her blood.

She’s vaccinated. No? She gets a powder coating every week, no? The two dogs from next door are kept on a leash on the same spot and they have ticks. 😠

Three hours later we went back to check on her. “Ma’am. I cannot promise that she will make it overnight. She’s in bad shape. This has hit her hard and she looks set for seizures and a possible stroke.”

A blood draw shows thick, dark blood. She’s actively passing. The doc starts to speak about options… you know, because she has a 50/50 chance of survival.

My son bursts into tears right there and then. I can’t hold back either. But a part of me wants Lola to think that everything is gonna be okay. What is Lola thinking right now? The vet suspects she’s not thinking anything, by the looks of things and lack of response beyond the darting eyes. Her tongue is dry as she’s breathing fast and shallow. I can’t help but keep dipping my fingers in the water bowl and wetting her tongue. She doesn’t respond.

As the doctor gets ready to do more work on her, it’s time for us to leave.

She licks off some of the water. So Leandro and I both reach for the bowl to get a repeat of that reaction, the first reaction of the day. She gives us what we need. Hope. Hope that her mind is still there and that she knows that she can’t leave us.

The last phone call was at 6 p.m.

Lola’s blood count is high enough for the therapy they want to use on her. They still can’t promise that she will be alive in the morning, but everyone is more hopeful.