Teddy

Before I started my cardiology fellowship, I was warned that the training, while rewarding, would also be tough, demanding and intense. That was true: Learning to read the four different cardiac-imaging modalities, trying to master the art of right-and left-heart catheterization, and juggling the cardiac-care unit, clinic and consults was arduous. Yet, for me, the most challenging part of my fellowship took place in the third month of my first year, when my geriatric pup of eleven years died.

Teddy had been an impulsive addition to my life, during the lowest point of my twenties. A chance visit to a shelter brought me face to face with a scruffy little black dog with crooked lower teeth, passed over by other would-be adopters.

Thrilled to be freed from his cage and placed in a playpen, he threw a little squeaky toy up in the air and hopped around like a bunny, as if he were having the time of his life. Then he nestled in my lap and clung to me, refusing to let go when I tried to hand him back to the volunteer. So naturally I took him home.

Little did I know that he had issues. Deeply insecure and feisty, and traumatized by his lengthy shelter stay, he didn’t get along with other dogs, or with most humans, despite numerous training sessions and dog-park visits. A bundle of nerves, he barked constantly. He gobbled up his food as if it might be snatched away, baring his teeth when I came too close while he was eating.

Ours was a slow journey, marked by misunderstandings and accidental breaches of trust. But over time, we found our way together. I learned what it meant to care for a hurt, traumatized little dog and help him to become secure and confident. It wasn’t just providing necessities; it also required taking daily walks and showering him with enormous amounts of love, consistency and firm guidance.

Eventually, he shed his fearfulness. He growled less and less and no longer guarded his food. His  confidence soared during our walks and interactions with other dogs and humans. A bright-eyed, mischievous, tail-wagging ball of energy, he loved to hop all the way to the park—and as we grew together, such moments became the norm.

Teddy was with me through everything imaginable. I cried into his fur during my tumultuous post-college years, as I struggled in my first real job. Leaving those troubles behind, we braved the East Coast for three years, immersing ourselves in the hustle and bustle of New York City while I pursued my master’s and later worked for a nonprofit. Then our journey took us to Milwaukee and Boston for my years in medical school and residency. Despite their rigorous demands, I rarely felt depressed or alone: Teddy’s unwavering zest for life and his insistence on daily walks—rain, shine or snow—brought a sense of routine and comfort to my life.

When the COVID pandemic hit, several family members in California fell ill, prompting my return to the West Coast for a cardiology fellowship. During one particularly overwhelming month, my time with Teddy dwindled, and I relied on my family for his care.

During this time, to my distress and alarm, Teddy’s health began to decline. He developed bloody stools and stopped eating, despite my efforts to coax him with his favorite snacks. Then he began struggling to breathe, and he also suffered a seizure. After a series of emergency vet visits, he was diagnosed with metastatic lung cancer.

I desperately wanted to keep him with me longer, but the cruel reality of his condition led me to the heart-wrenching decision that it was time to say our goodbyes. He hated going to the vet, so I arranged for home euthanasia to spare him that stress. In the moments after he’d passed, I felt a sense of relief because he was no longer in pain. Even though I knew he was gone, it still felt as if he would wake up from his sleep and lick my face to comfort me.

Adjusting to life without Teddy, who’d been a part of me for so long, was indescribably difficult. Every corner of my world reminded me of him—especially the nearby park, fragrant with the smell of pine needles, which he loved to sniff. Yet, out of necessity, I managed to navigate through my grief for the rest of the year.

Writing about Teddy, I realize, may not mark the end of my grieving, but might instead be the start of an important new stage in the process. I believe that he has made me a better human being, and that being a better human has made me a better physician as well. So I would like to share some humble life lessons inspired by my smart, sensitive rescue dog Teddy—lessons that will stay with me forever.

Embrace change and growth, as they are inevitable parts of life.

Amid the hectic hustle and bustle of life, don’t forget to stop and smell the pine needles.

When you’re dealing with patients, colleagues or personal relationships, and things get difficult, it’s wise to be gentle and to give everyone some grace. You never know what someone else might be going through.

Taking care of a wounded creature or a wounded person is a journey; it requires understanding and patience. Full healing might not be attainable, but you can decide to love them regardless.

Cherish the moments with your loved ones. Love, given consistently over time, is never wasted.