Healing myself through healing others by Debra J. White
Healing myself through healing others
A pedestrian car accident on 1/6/94 left me with disabling injuries from a traumatic brain injury. My social work career was over due to memory loss and mobility issues. After a long recovery, I forged a new path through volunteer work and freelance writing. My foray into pet therapy was an unexpected gift, both memorable and rewarding. A surprise gift, pet therapy touched my life forever.
My two rescued dogs, Judy and Maxine, were instrumental in my recovery. During my lengthy hospitalization, friends brought my dogs to visit. At the time, I was unable to identify myself, what had happened or where I was, but friends said I called my dogs by their correct names. Medical records indicated slight improvement after their visits. Once home to a vastly changed world, my dogs gave me a reason to get out of bed. I remain thankful to the friends and neighbors who cared for them in my absence. I could not imagine being without them.
By 1998, Maxine had aged and slept most of the time. Judy needed a new companion. I visited the county animal shelter in 1998. Hundreds of cast-off mixes and purebreds yapped for attention. Their eyes melted my heart, pleading for love and attention. I could only take one.
Out of his cage, Luke’s personality sparkled. He smothered me with slobber. Tail flapping, he howled as if belting out a top ten hit. My motorized scooter was no impediment for him although he tried lifting his leg on the rear wheel. Luke handed me his paw, rolled on his back, and kicked his legs in the air. There was no way to resist his canine charm. I adopted him that sweltering July afternoon in 1998.
Luke showed potential for pet therapy. I wanted to share his gifts with sick or injured patients, just as Judy and Maxine had uplifted me when my life unexpectedly capsized. My dog breezed through a behavior test and passed a medical examination, allowing us to join the Companion Animal Association of Arizona (CAA), a requirement for therapy work. We were assigned to visit sick, elderly, or injured patients at a rehab center starting in the fall.
On our first week, Luke endeared himself to Kim, the recreation assistant, a gregarious young woman with a Julia Roberts smile. Luke and Kim developed a comical routine that never wavered. At 9:00 a.m. every Friday morning, Luke and I arrived and waited in the lobby. As Kim approached, Luke’s tail wiggled in circles. He yipped and yowled. I let go of his leash, cracking up as my dog dashed down hall throwing himself into Kim’s open arms. My twice abandoned dog was on a roll.
Patients welcomed us with priceless reactions. Take Maria, the older Latina woman with a brain hobbled by a stroke as an example. Only two words remained in her vocabulary – Maria, Maria, which was her name. Grinning, she stroked Luke with her good hand and said, “Maria, Maria.” I always said hello and asked how she was. Nodding, she replied, “Maria, Maria.” As Luke brushed against her wheelchair, the gleam in eyes showed appreciation. "Maria Maria," she said as I rolled out of her room, always smiling at Luke.
For reasons I never understood, Luke picked Frank as his special friend. Luz, Frank’s mother, was stricken with lung and heart disease. In his younger years, Frank drank to excess, was chronically unemployed and often gambled away his mother’s meager earnings as a janitor. Frank finally spruced up his act and visited Luz daily. Every time Luke saw Frank, he bellowed as if he’d seen his best friend. Although Luz was on a ventilator, she smiled at their tender interaction. Several years after I left the rehab center, I drove through a Tempe neighborhood. I noticed Frank outside tending to his lawn. I pulled over to say hello. He invited me inside for an ice-tea. There on the couch sat a big fat dog named Budgy. Frank’s mother Luz had passed away and I offered my condolences. He took Budgy from a neighbor who no longer wanted the big boy. Frank and his canine companion seemed content. That made my day.
Bald and be-speckled Will saved treats for Luke, such as bacon strips, hard-boiled eggs, and soggy wheat toast, which my dog gobbled up in seconds. Luke’s bad manners tickled Will. The two always interacted with each other good-naturedly. Again, I brought dog biscuits and convinced Will to hand him only these treats on our visits. Two years later, Will had suddenly died. As we bypassed his room, Luke yanked on his leash as if to say, “What about Will?” He missed the old man’s affection.
Nearly all the patients were elderly except for one, a young man named Mark. He was profoundly brain injured from a drug over-dose. Blinking eyes were his only body movements. One blink meant yes; two was a sign for no. On my first visit, he looked down at my dog as if he wanted to pet him, so I guided his hand over Luke’s back, moving it back and forth. Unable to smile, a look in his eyes told me he appreciated the gesture. That became our regular routine. One week, we popped into Mark’s room, and he wasn’t there. A nurse said he was in the hospital across the street being treated for an infection. Luke and I visited the hospital before going home. Of course, Mark couldn’t speak so we sat in his room, and I talked to him like a regular person. Then I heard a voice behind me asking who I was. That was Mark’s mother who told me his story. Out on a weekend evening with friends doing drugs a couple of years ago, Mark apparently overdosed. Frightened by Mark’s condition, his friends deserted him. By the time Mark was found, he was almost dead. Paramedics revived him but by then he was severely brain damaged requiring round the clock care for the rest of his life. Pro-active as a result, his mother talked to high school students about the dangers of drug abuse. Mark had a dog that she took care of after the incident. That’s why she said Luke’s visits were a gift to her son.
Luke not only brightened up patients’ lives but he brought relief to over-worked staff too. Nurses, doctors, aides, and therapists benefitted from Luke’s weekly visits. Everyone loved Luke, especially me.
On a blistering summer day in 2001 I stopped at the now closed Bone Appetit dog bakery to buy snacks for my old scraggly hounds. As a shelter volunteer, a steady stream of unwanteddogs found refuge with me. Tasty treats perked them up. At the checkout counter, a newspaper clipping, tacked on the wall, caught my eye. It was about a doggie beach party. What on Earthwas this. We’re surrounded by the sprawling Sonoran Desert.
“Who had the beach party?” I asked, paying for a bag of pupcakes.
Bakery owner Helen smiled as she explained. “We hosted Gabriel’s Angels first fundraiser a few months ago. They’re a new therapy dog group that works with abused kids.”
Volunteers spent all morning filling up kiddie pools and opening beach umbrellas. Real sand scattered around the parking lot hinted at an ocean feeling. “You should talk to Pam, the founder.”
Pam Gaber has since left the organization but was instrumental in its growth.
I grabbed her business card. Over coffee, Pam sold me on Gabriel’s Angels. Luke and I would spread gifts such as kindness and compassion to heal abused, neglected, and at-risk children. My schedule allowed another weekly visit, and Luke was perky enough to handle additional visits.
Children gathered around me and Luke shortly after we arrived at the homeless family shelter on our first day. A former motel, the shelter was temporary home to about fifty homeless families.
“What’s your dog’s name?” a 7-year-old boy asked.
“Can I feed him?” a girl with pigtails asked as she giggled when Luke tried to kiss her cheek.
“Does Luke watch the Animal Planet?” another boy asked.
That began my seven-year journey with Gabriel’s Angels. My life was never the same.
A wheelchair bound boy named Kevin, perhaps 9 years old, grabbed my attention. What a place for a disabled kid to end up. Kevin wasn’t there on a subsequent visit. I asked Vaughn, the staff worker, about his absence.
“Where’s the boy with CP?”
Vaughn frowned. “Kevin doesn’t have CP. His mother’s boyfriend beat him up when he was a baby.”
Tears swelled in my eyes. “How could he?”
“The man got enraged when Kevin cried and kicked him around. Kevin will be in this chair for life. Not sure where he is today.”
Memory loss is one of the residual effects from my brain injury, but I’ll never forget Kevin, the affable, sandy haired boy in the wheelchair who smiled every time he saw Luke.
Gabriel’s Angels handed out stethoscopes to volunteers, gifts from a generous donor. We invited children to listen to the dog’s beating heart.
“He feels pain like you do,” I said, watching children line up for a chance to listen. “If someone hits Luke he hurts. Just like you if you’re beaten.”
“Hitting a dog is bad,” a boy said.
“All violence is bad,” I said.
I brought the stethoscope every now and then. Some children lived at the shelter for the maximum four month stay so I didn’t want to lose their attention with the same lesson. I mixed up activities that taught empathy and kindness. The stethoscope, however, was always popular.
On December 26, 2004, tragedy struck half-way around the world. A giant tsunami nearly swallowed up Asian countries like Thailand, Sri Lanka, and Indonesia. Thousands of people died while the monster storm left millions without homes. Wrecked commerce caused massive unemployment. Moved by the frightful situation I shared my thoughts with the children. Despite being homeless, their hearts were full of empathy for the lives shattered by the tsunami. With little help from me, they wrote letters to ambassadors of the most severely impacted countries. Iadded cover letters explaining who we were and mailed them to the United Nations. A few weeks later, my phone rang. I almost didn’t answer. The ambassador’s office from Sri Lanka called to thank me for the kind and thoughtful note the children sent. As soon as the country recovered from the massive devastation, she’d read our letters to schools across the country. I felt so honored. I returned the next week with the good news. Their letters were an unexpected gift to people halfway around the world.
In addition to my work as a pet therapist, I had other volunteer commitments such as answering the phone once a week in former AZ Gov. Janet Napolitano’s office. I had once mentioned this to the children. Lacy, about twelve years old, told me how fond she was of the governor. During my tenure with the state, we handed up kid packages upon request that contained facts and figures about Arizona, our government, and the current governor. Upon my next trip to the state house, I asked our supervisor to send a kid package to Lacy, care of the shelter. Apparently, the governor’s office had called the shelter to find out the spelling of Lacey’s last name. I returned the next week, and Lacy was so excited to see me. She said that the governor had called her, but she missed the call. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it wasn’t really Janet Napolitano who called but rather someone in her office. Lacy was thrilled to receive the kid pack. And that was my little secret.
Due to the vagaries of shelter life, homeless children often lagged in school. Large families may be cramped into one or two small rooms, depriving children of quiet time for studies. With Luke as the focus, I often brought flash cards to bolster their learning. No sooner had I whipped out the math cards when Stevie, a twelve-year-old, started to cry. Surely, it couldn’t be the math, so I asked, “What’s wrong?”
In between sniffles, Stevie said, “My brother and I got beat up on the school bus today.”
Down with the flash cards, math would wait. “What happened?”
A group of poorly behaved girls picked on the brothers on because they lived at a homeless shelter. Stevie and his freckle-face brother John were both shy, slightly built boys. So, when the female warriors pounced on them, the boys didn’t fight back. None of the other students intervened either. The bus driver, according to the boys, said nothing.
Vaughn called the school principal to discuss the pressing matter. I led a discussion among the children present about bullying. Why it happened? How it can be prevented? What to do if you are a victim?
On my way out, Luke sidled up next to puffy-eyed Stevie. He rested his paw in the boy’s lap. I hugged him and said I was sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.
Every Christmas, a friend volunteered with an organization that collected toys for needy children. Another friend bought toys for the children on her own. I wrapped each child’s gift in holiday paper and a bow. Their excitement was priceless as they ripped open the presents and treated them as if they were gold. As a bonus, I borrowed Christmas music CDs from the library. We sang along to tunes such as Jingle Bells, Silent Night, and Hark the Herald Angels Sing. Luke added his own canine crooning by howling at various parts of the songs. That made the children crack up. Christmas at a homeless shelter instead of your own home was a sobering experience. Shelter staff and volunteers pitched in to make their holiday as warm and comforting as possible.
At times, I felt so inadequate. So many troubled children passed through with emotional anguish that stretched beyond my position as a pet therapist. Even my training as a social workerdidn’t always give me an advantage. I relied on Luke’s gifts to soothe their wounded souls. But there were times even my dog couldn’t help.
A single mother, Linda, and her eight children arrived after an eviction. Rage and bitterness swirled around Linda nearly every time she opened her mouth. She didn’t speak; she bellowed. The oldest, Angela who was about twelve, served as a surrogate parent to her large brood. Nearly all her children acted out by fighting with others, refusing to obey rules. Children related to Luke but whenever I was around, I spent most of my time breaking up spats. Talks about non-violence and harmony sailed over their heads. The staff worker shared tidbits about Linda. At 12, she gave birth to Angela. Since then, she’s been pregnant nearly every other year. Few, if any, of the children’s fathers were in their lives. She had trouble holding a job. In fact, the day we spoke, the shelter delivered another blow. In 10 days, Linda had to be out for failure to comply with the rules. Despite the odds against finding a place for her large brood, Linda pulled off a miracle. I never saw the family again.
At the end of 2008, Luke and I retired as a therapy team. During sessions kids would ask me, “Why does Luke sleep so much?” One boy laughed at Luke’s snoring.
Age had crept up on Luke. My dog had to be at least twelve years old, although he could have been older. His spirits were as sunny as ever, but he had slowed down. He showed more interest in curling up for a good snooze than interacting with the kids.
Seven years as a pet therapist changed my life. I experienced the hardships of old age as well as homelessness. I experienced the rupture of family ties. I sensed the children’s pain as they talked of loss. Homelessness involves leaving behind good friends, familiar neighborhoods, beloved pets, and comfortable schools. Living in shelters and nursing homes among strangers can be scary. Talk of family violence unsettled me. I taught children negotiating skills to get along in the world without whacking someone. I hope they listened. Luke cuddled with them. He kissed cheeks. He rested his paw on kids and elders who sat alone. We cared, we loved, and we extended ourselves to make a difference to children who needed us. I also felt the sadness in seniors confined to a congregate care facility. Losing their independence as well as their homes was a heavy burden. Residents reported they lost pets too. I hope their world is better because we were there.
Luke died from massive seizures in January 2010. I’ll always miss the dog nobody wanted. He was truly the best. To protect privacy names are changed but the stories are true.
© Debra J. White
I was so moved by this story. Thanks for publishing it!
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