Lemon Sunshine

            I picked up a pen to write what I was thankful for on a paper leaf.  It was the first Thanksgiving that my adopted daughters were there with me, instead of sitting in a foster home in Congo.  I no longer felt that old ache of absence as I quickly wrote down “My family”, but there was a new hurt.  My mom had left us earlier that year, just six weeks shy of meeting her granddaughters.  My youngest brother, the red-headed caboose of eight children, had also knelt across the altar from his strawberry-blonde bride two days ago, with his seven siblings and teary-eyed dad watching. 2016 had worn itself out with milestones.  None of us desired to make any more, so this was a happy but subdued day.

            After the turkey was eaten, we sat in the back yard on hammocks and lawn chairs enjoying the crisp North Carolina air.  We had brought our white husky-lab puppy, Lemon, because she was the great unifier in our still somewhat shaky family circle.   She chased Ava, her doggy cousin, and both children and adults stopped to watch how their first meeting would develop.  Lemon’s puppy enthusiasm was always two degrees too much. She lunged at Ava’s face, her head tucked slightly, her mouth open and then shut, her paws bouncing.  When Ava tired of running back and forth, Lemon plopped on her belly, her legs splayed to each side like a roasting turkey.  With her head tilted back and her eyes squinting, we all recognized her smiling and smiled in return.  She was adored and knew it.

            Lemon started to throw up the next day.  Then came the diarrhea and with it that smell. It had filled my nose as a ten-year-old and had taken my dog.  A trip to the vet confirmed what my nose knew.  Lemon had Parvo.  She might die. 

            My mom-guilt was overwhelming.  I had forced my four biological children to wait to get a dog until their adopted sisters came home, never knowing that a one-year pause would turn into three torturous years.  Now, just a few months in, the baby we had attached our aching hearts to might not make it because I had procrastinated getting her booster shot.  I had taken her on a walk that had exposed her to this treacherous disease.  I had let danger back into our lives when we thought we had finally escaped it.  Wrapped up in the knot in my chest was a fear that this was just one more thing in my life that wasn’t going to go how I hoped it would go.  This was one more thing that was supposed to serve as some sort of lesson to make us stronger.

            I didn’t want to be stronger.  I just wanted a break.

            We clung to each other and whispered about the very real possibility that the pet hospital might call each evening with an update that would throw our family back into turmoil.  My son walked into my room four days in, shaking and crying, saying, “What if she dies? What if Lemon DIES?” 

            I took him in my arms and guided him back to bed.  As I laid my face down next to his wet freckled cheek, I uttered the strongest prayer I could.  I knew though, from the past few years, that sometimes prayers weren’t answered the way you wanted.  Sometimes the answer was simply an admonition to stay strong.  Sometimes you asked the same question over and over again until you wondered if you would recognize an answer even if you got one. With all of these thoughts loaded onto my prayer, I squeezed him tight and told him to try to sleep.

            Back in my dark bedroom, my husband’s phone rang.  The vet gently told him that Lemon’s fever was dangerously high and there was a good chance she wouldn’t make it through the night.  I fell to my knees once more, bawling and begging.  This time, an answer came clearly.

            “Lemon will live.  Tell your kids.”

            My body relaxed. My mind became clear.  I walked back to my son, took his quaking body in my arms, and spoke confidently,

            “I prayed.  The Spirit told me that she is going to live. She is going to be okay.  She is going to be okay.”

            “Are you sure?” he asked, looking straight into my eyes.
            “Completely.” I was able to answer back. I visited each child, relaying the same message and where it came from.

            I felt relief, but not surprise, when the vet called in the morning and said in a shocked voice that Lemon had turned around.  Two days later when we went to bring Lemon home, her whimpering cries of relief and delight sounded through the hospital.

            Now Lemon crawls up onto the bed next to me every night, stretching her long legs, eyes locked onto mine as she asks for some goodnight snuggles.  As I fold my body next to hers, her satisfied sighs match my feelings of comfort. She is Noah’s rainbow – a reminder that sunshine does come after the rain.