It's been a long day. Busy at work, but topped and tailed with something else tough but necessary, which once again centres on my dog Oliver. And once again, it's Oliver who inspires some thoughts.
Ollie has had an operation today, to fix a hernia. I guess this type of thing should be expected. After all, he’s not a young dog any more and little physical glitches are bound to begin to occur at his age. Still, it’s not easy to leave someone of whom you’re very fond in the hands of an almost total stranger, knowing that they will experience some pain afterwards, even if the net result is beneficial.
He looked a little bewildered as I handed him over to the vet this morning. He has deep big bulgy brown eyes, and there was a sense of uncertainty and fear in them as I said goodbye. That said, to be honest, I don’t know who felt worse. I didn’t want to leave him behind at all, but needs must. Sometimes you have to bite the bullet and do the tough thing for the greater good. There’s lesson one. To save my own feelings, I could have turned around with Ollie and walked away, avoiding the surgery, yes, but prolonging his discomfort. So, for the both of us, it was time to “man up” and deal with the situation.
It wasn’t easy to concentrate all day. In the back of my mind were concerns that there would be complications, or just that Ollie would be very distressed. The worst of it is that the situation is totally out of your hands. In fact, loathed as I am to admit it, work saved my (kosher) bacon today, because otherwise it would have been an interminable wait. Just dead time.
In April I experienced a similar feeling, though even worse. I flew back to London from Tel Aviv in an emergency, as Dad needed a procedure on his heart. It was supposed to be routine, but nonetheless, I wanted to be there for him and for Mum. On the day I landed, a Thursday I think, we took him to hospital, where it transpired that he needed a much bigger operation, a triple heart by-pass.
None of us were prepared for this news, and we dealt with it as best we could, but weirdly, the worst thing wasn’t the prospect of the operation itself, but the necessary wait for things to happen. The hospital couldn’t get a slot in the operating theatre for Dad until Monday, but they wanted him to stay in for observation until then.
So all the three of us could do was wait, and distract ourselves from our thoughts and our fears as best we could. Not so bad for Mum and I. We could try and busy ourselves with errands, taking phone calls from concerned friends and relatives, and returning calls to those we had missed. But poor Dad was just sat there in a hospital bed with the TV and his newspaper, waiting for hour upon hour to roll by until it was time for his operation.
Dad was bound to be scared. It’s a big operation, and as it drew nearer, his apprehension grew. He was entitled to this, and to focus on himself and his concerns. In this respect, Mum and I had the harder job. We are both emotional people. When we’re feeling happy, or silly, you know it. When we’re feeling loving, it’s unignorable. Some would say it’s overwhelming the way we pour it on. And when we scared and anxious, stressed, uncertain and angry, it’s nigh on impossible for us to dampen down the fires of doubt and fear and vexation. Normally, we try, but it seeps from every pore. We seethe.
But for Dad, we couldn’t. We had to hold it together. We had to keep each other from melting down, from raising Dad’s concern about us, when he had enough to deal with. And I’m proud to say, we managed it. We sucked it up. We fought our fear and we said “No” to it. For once, we were stoic, because that was the only way to be.
And so it was today, too. Not just for me, but for Ollie as well. Hospital treatment for human or beast is never nice, and is tough as well for those who care about the patient, but we all know that it’s the right thing to do. And now, as I write, Ollie is back home, snoozing on his cushion, with his rear flank roughly shaven and a nasty looking wound swollen, with fresh stitches looking raw and angry. It’s alarming to look at, and he can’t be entirely comfortable right now, but he’s dealing with it, manfully. He’s quiet and stoic. It is literally awesome.
And therein lies the second lesson: that stoicism is admirable. It is a quiet, disciplined virtue. It does not demand attention. In fact it exists to avoid attention. It is not flashy, or beautiful or brash or loud. It can’t be enjoyed or perhaps even appreciated very well by others. It is a different kind of virtue. In a modern world that seems to value so much qualities that are most obvious, visible and audible, those that are quiet, are patient, are modest and unassuming can be neglected, or worse, denigrated. However here, now, in my little home, I watch my friend Ollie who has had a very difficult day, and I remember how I felt seeing my Dad, post-op, after the most terrifying day of his life, with tubes in him, still managing a cheeky slurred remark to the nurses, in spite of his pain and discomfort – a true stoic.
And Dad was rewarded. He is recovering well. He is back to the normal routine, albeit with increased exercise and improved eating habits ! So I have faith it will be the same with Ollie.
This ability to tough it out is in all of us. We are made of sterner stuff than we sometimes give ourselves credit for. This stuff hides away but makes itself known only at important times. It is real virtue, dear readers. It is truly admirable. So, stoicism, whether you like it or not, I am turning the spotlight on you briefly for the world to see and admire. Stoicism, I salute you.
Love and respect.
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