The Weight of Magical Thinking

I continue as an NWB post-surgery old codger.

No. Weight. Bearing. For six weeks.

Two weeks after a procedure to repair torn tendons in my foot, I can haul my weight around on a knee scooter with reasonable mobility. This time has become a coda to one aspect of the Covid-19 pandemic, where many were confined to wherever they lived. With my “bad” leg propped on the scooter, I can maneuver through our single-story house with . . . ease? If not ease, at least I haven’t fallen off my ride. At least I don’t need a bright light in every room to see where I’m going. At least I know which areas require careful steering.

But I am bearing weight, even while my right foot never presses against the floor while I’m reading, napping, watching TV, or doomscrolling on social media.

I carry my wife.

I carry my doubts.

The heaviest weight is the recent death of my dog.

My wife lovingly says I’m not a burden. She’s okay doing extra chores and I shouldn’t worry about what does or doesn’t get done. There’s weight there, though. As an NWB fellow, isn’t our current situation more in the “worse” category of the “for better or worse” promise in the marriage vow? How can she not be burdened? How can I not feel that weight?

Everywhere I scoot, Mr. Doubt whispers warnings and taunts. He’s a never-visible and always present shadow in my life. Especially now. As a Christian, I don’t mind a measure of doubt. A favorite quote is Frederick Buechner’s, “. . . if you don't have any doubts, you are either kidding yourself or asleep. Doubts are the ants in the pants of faith. They keep it awake and moving.” But a darker side looms larger now. Mr. Doubt whispers: you’re weak, your days are meaningless, your aging, overweight body is falling apart.

Kynzi died on September 18. One day there, one day not.

I first saw Kynzi when she was one of seven ridiculously cute and helpless golden retrievers around four weeks old. We brought her home at eight weeks. We lived together for over eleven years, until a September day in a vet’s office. I carry the weight of missing her generous and funny ways. I miss her leaning into me. I miss her following me everywhere. Her life was never easy. She had problematic allergies that took time to manage. She had surgery for elbow dysplasia requiring months of recovery. There were eye problems and, in the final season of her life, cancer surgery that would remove a chunk of her right front paw.

As I approached my looming NWB status, we worried about Kynzi. My wife and I agreed we could manage. Truly, our dog had become the most dependable of companions. As I said to friends after a piece of Kynzi’s paw was snipped away, she handled her challenges far better than me. She would adapt after my surgery.

But she died four days before a surgeon snipped at my right foot. At the vet, we had to make those terrible decisions about what was best for her life when we learned of internal bleeding, a tumor wrecking her spleen, and the likelihood of more cancer. I saw her when she was the tiniest of puppies. I was beside her in her last, quiet breath.

My next thoughts about Kynzi are magical thinking, with a dash of sacred mystery.

She’d become older and slower; no surprise for a golden retriever approaching her twelfth year. My impending surgery and recovery would disrupt all our lives. From claiming nearly 100% of my attention—meals, walks, and a score of other daily routines—she’d have to share me with a leg and body that made most activities impossible. A family joke was that Kynzi would only take walks with me. Silly dog! The joke no longer seemed funny; for good and bad, we were that bonded.

My magical thinking is I believe Kynzi died for me. How childish. It’s also a thought that ignores or undermines my adult Christian beliefs.

Four days prior to my surgery, when the day before I’d walked and played with her, she was overwhelmed with serious complications. Suddenly unable to move, I carried my puppy to the car and to our veterinarian. Within the hour, we gave permission for Kynzi to be euthanized.

Her death was a final and sacred gift to me. Really, Larry? She was old. She’d had many physical ailments throughout her life. Magical thinking is little more than a personal fairy tale. But I’m only human, a guy who carries around rational and irrational weight. I’m just a boy with a dog who would do anything to make sure Kynzi had the best life.

She returned the favor. Every day, and on her last day.

Thanks for reading. More next week . . .

in Peace,

Larry Patten