Saving Bill

Bill, my son's gecko, had been acting strangely all week.  First it was little things, like lying in the middle of the terrarium carpet when he would usually be tucked away in his rocky "hide".  Then I found him sitting in his water bowl in the middle of the day.  One time he was submerged in the water, seemingly drowned, until I reached in and grabbed him, my lifeguard training kicking in, prompting him to open one black, clear eye and peer at me with what seemed annoyance for disturbing him.  In the back of my mind I wondered if he was ok, but it was a fleeting question instantly lost to the chaos of a normal week in our house; a bright red sock you catch a glimpse of in the dryer window before it disappears into the tumble.

I had much to distract me from Bill.  Recently back from vacation I was picking up the pieces at work, trying to reclaim at least the appearance of control.  The kids were in typical mid-August mode, enjoying the quasi-structure of camp mixed with days of electing to do nothing, knowing that before too long the choice was no longer theirs to make.  I had been "preparing" to run the Falmouth Road Race on August 17 (and by "preparing" I mean every now and again trying to get out for a run and telling myself each day that I should cut back on my summertime wine and ice cream consumption, usually as I was serving myself both).  I had never run Falmouth before; a 7.1 mile hilly ocean-front course that I heard was simply beautiful.  My client, the New England Organ Bank, had asked me to run on its team.  I have worked with the Organ Bank for almost 15 years as outside legal counsel, and their General Counsel is a dear friend and one of my first and most enduring professional mentors.  I would have said yes for those reasons alone, but the Organ Bank is also personally meaningful to me and my family, as it was through it that my brother-in-law Pete, a firefighter and hilariously funny guy, became a donor back in 2005 when he died tragically in a motorcycle accident at the age of 33.  By coincidence or fate, the weekend of the race had been moved this year and, as such, fell on the same weekend as the 9 year anniversary of Pete's death.  I hadn't run a real race since the Boston Marathon in 2013, when I was stopped short due to the attacks at the finish line, so this seemed like the perfect way for me to take that step forward in honor of Pete on a weekend that is otherwise melancholy at best.

The week leading up to the race I noticed that Bill seemed even thinner than usual.  He had always been small; the most delicate of the geckos and, likely for that reason, the one my son selected.  The guy at the pet store had tried to steer my son away from Bill, educating him that you really want your baby gecko to be hearty, the tail plump.  My son was undeterred; "that's Bill", he told me, having already picked out the name and now certain that the fledgling gecko he saw was the one to fill it.  Bill never had a plump tail; even worse, in a moment of terror the first time we tried to handle him at home he "dropped his tail", as geckos sometimes do, leaving him with a small, skinny stump that never fully grew back.  I mentioned to my son that I was worried about Bill's behavior, but he felt certain that it was a good sign he was out so much.  That he was finally getting comfortable in his surroundings.  But the day I was scheduled to drive down to the Cape for the race I found Bill upside down against his water bowl; his head thrown back, appearing to gulp for air.  Panicked, I searched out a local exotic pet specialist, racing Bill there while my son was at camp.  A team of vets gave him fluids and electrolytes, and told me it would be touch-and-go for the next 24 hours, but if he survived the night he should come back for more treatments the next day.  Seeing Bill lying there weak and deflated before the veterinarians I felt like I had failed him in the most fundamental of ways.

I spent the night before the race with my very good friend, the woman with whom I had run Boston the year of the bombs.  Although it was technically out of the way to drive to her house on the Cape and then to the location of the race, there was nowhere else I wanted to be before running.  We caught up after our respective busy summers, cooked dinner and enjoyed some wine and lots of water.  Such a rare treat, a night away with a friend and no responsibilities but to relax, stretch, sleep and get up and run a beautiful course for a great cause.  When I received a text from my husband I thought nothing of it, until I read it, and then re-read it, and then re-read it.  I read it again one more time before the words, each faintly recognizable on their own, made any sense to my brain strung together in that order.  Not possible, I thought.  Not today.  In his message my husband let me know of another young life lost way too soon; a friend tragically gone in a horrible accident.  A young man who had done so much already, but who the world rightfully expected to do so much more in years to come.  Powerless to do anything, I tried to sleep; but not before one more message back, exhorting my husband to bring Bill to the vet the next day, even if he looked dead.  He looked dead the day I brought him in, I said, but he wasn't.  If they can give him more fluids, perhaps he stands a chance.

I confess I didn't think much of Bill during my race.  It was indeed hilly, and it was indeed beautiful.  I had a great time with my friend, and in melodramatic fashion that we both embraced without irony we clasped hands and raised them triumphantly to cross the finish, a plan for the marathon that had been taken from us.  I did, however, think of our friend and his family; of what this day felt like for them, waking to that moment when the unreality rises to the surface of consciousness.  I was brought back too easily to our own August 16th, as if through a portal in time, amazed at how instantaneously I could access it.  The disorientation of the phone in the middle of the night.  Hunched on the stairs straining to understand one side of an already incomprehensible conversation.  The truths, impossible to accept.  The nausea.  The pitch black road as we drove, newborn in a bucket-seat, to the hospital.  The surreal timelessness of the days that followed.  The plate of cold cuts and breads that sat untouched on our dining room table.  The logistics and mechanics of it all, allowing a little bit of distraction from the purpose driving their need.

I wish I could say that the end of this story is Bill's miraculous recovery.  If I were writing a piece of fiction it might end with the previously listless gecko opening one clear, bright, black eye to signify, without further detail, hope.  Recovery.  A turning point filled with peace.  Sadly that was not to be.  We discussed arrangements with my son (a plan to bury Bill at the base of his favorite tree) and told him repeatedly that he had taken such good care of him.  That Bill likely wouldn't have lasted even this long had he not come to live with us.  That he gave him the best summer a gecko could ever wish for; months of comfortable living, fresh crickets, and love he would not otherwise have had.  Our son mentioned that Bill would help his tree grow; and in my mind I saw my son, swinging from branches infused with strength beyond Bill's grasp in life, now plentiful.