My dog tripped and fell on his head. I was walking three dogs at the time. One was being held by a curious passerby while one was tracking a black cat sauntering across a field. The third was standing on his hind legs holding my thigh with his front legs and urging me with pleading eyes and little yips to go home. He was hungry.
At the exact same moment, he let go of the grip on my leg as the tracker lunged towards the enticing cat who was now sunbathing fifty feet away. The chihuahua was quickly placed back in my hands. I set her down among the escaping leashes.
The biker who had stopped and asked to meet the chihuahua said something like, “I think that sound was his head hitting the ground,” but, I was too focused on re-grabbing the leashes and keeping my eye on a frisky lab who was straining at the end of a leash to our left.
I got the three reins sorted out and started around the north end of the lake and towards home. Only, the hungry dog wasn’t moving. I looked down at his skinny Italian greyhound body. His back was bowed and his tail was hard against his stomach. His eyes were dark and glazed pools unfocused in their sockets. He was trying to walk except one leg kept jerking up and across his body. He looked terrified.
The other two dogs were paying very close attention. I lifted him up and tried to hold his convulsing body. His head kept flinging back over my elbow. I tucked him into my jacket and started running for home. The other dogs fell into step. At one point the other Italian greyhound’s leash was dragging behind us. He was in lockstep with me. Not even a squirrel running across his path would have distracted him.
I was scared, sweating and breathing hard by the time I reached the front door. Stewie’s body had stopped trembling and he was heavy in my arms. I didn’t know if this was a good sign – whatever happened had passed - or a very bad sign.
I burst through the door and called out for my daughter.
“Come help me! Stewie hit his head and had a convulsion!”
She jumped down the stairs on her one good foot and placed her small strong hands along his back.
I felt relief; he was in good hands.
My daughter has always had confident strong hands. They hold her intention even when her mind is indecisive. They surprise me with their deliberateness and I love to watch them. They are small. She chews her nails so the tips of her fingers are rounded and tough. She gestures with them – not big and broad, but concise actions, with fingers open and her palms stopping and starting conversation.
When she disguises her hands with fake nails, I am disoriented. But, I like the colors she splashes across the nubs. Green, blue, silver. Her hands stopped growing years ago. I love to hold her hand; it is like holding a piece of child-sized serious life. They are strong and small, just like her.
Stewie was leaning into her and her bare fingernails were massaging from his neck to his tail. His lids were at half-mast. My daughter was cooing into his ear.
When the kids were little we began a practice of shedding painful emotions by literally putting our hearts together. It would start with a hug. Little kids’ hugs are the best; totally committed, full body smashes. When our bodies were organized, heart beating against heart, we flung out an arm and visualized whatever had ambushed him or her moving down past the elbow, shooting over the wrist and then, with a good jiggle of the fingers, and a final flick off the fingertips, it was gone.
The hug usually lasted until the tears were gone or their little hearts stopped racing. My son took full advantage of these heart-to-hearts. My daughter was more guarded. But, I could scoop her in for one when I saw that her face looked crumpled or confused.
From a young age, she needed help to manage her emotions. Our heart-to-heart maneuver helped her dodge some bombs. But, by the time she was eight, she abandoned the ritual. She pushed away quickly from family hugs and eventually chose to rarely be touched. When her guard is down, I can stroke her back, slip an arm around her, or wrap her in a hug. But, when she feels vulnerable, her defenses go up and the barricade she builds around herself is sky-high and impenetrable.
The power of touch. Once my daughter started building these walls, we began to loose her. Now, years later, we are trying to figure out how to get her back. I have been cautioned by years of being pushed away to read her before I gather her in for a hug. I can get behind her barriers other ways but I still have to be careful of touch.
My daughter is healing. She is tender and it often hurts to be her.
Yet, I trusted her to heal Stewie. No words, just contact. An exchange of energy. As real as any med but so much more powerful.
Stewie jumped up and demanded to be fed.
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