Page 45 of Hello Stranger

“Fourteen,” I said—then added, “A very youthful fourteen,” like that might matter.

Dr. Addison reached for Peanut, and I handed him over like a swaddled babe. Then he unwrapped him, saying, “Hey, buddy. Let’s get a look at you.”

Peanut must have really been feeling bad, because even though he didn’t like men in general, he tolerated Dr. Addison—holding still and crouching on the stainless-steel exam table.

Dr. Addison ran his hands all around, feeling for lumps and bumps. Palpating things. Checking his gums, which were, apparently, too white.

“That’s bad?” I asked.

“They should be pinker,” Dr. Addison answered, but he was already on to checking other things.

When the rest of the staff arrived, they gently led me back out to the waiting area, saying they could work faster that way. The faceless tech I’d met the first day said they’d be running blood work and chemistries,checking red and white cells and platelets and kidney and liver function. “We’ll know a lot more in a few hours,” she said. “You can go home. We’ll call you when we get the results.”

“I’ll stay here, if that’s all right.”

The faceless tech nodded. “Sure.” Then she held out a folded lab coat to me. “Dr. Addison said you might say that. And he thought you might be… cold.”

And so I put it on and stayed. I think I was hungry, but I didn’t notice. I hadn’t had any coffee that morning, and I did notice the caffeine headache creeping up the back of my neck. I didn’t have anything to do—hadn’t even brought my phone—so I just squeezed over and over on that little spot between your thumb and forefinger that’s supposed to be a pressure point for relieving tension. Pressing on one hand, then the other… waiting for it to work.

It didn’t really work.

I kept expecting—any minute—for Dr. Addison to come striding out like a TV doctor and tell me that everything was fixed.

Instead, at noon, he came out and told me they wanted to give Peanut a blood transfusion.

That didn’t sound good.

I worked my pressure points even harder.

“The labs came back,” he said, “and we’ve diagnosed him with IMHA, which stands for immune-mediated hemolytic anemia.”

Oh god. More medical terms. I shook my head. “What is that?”

“His immune system is attacking his own red blood cells. His hematocrit was at twelve when it should be closer to fifty. That’s why he’s panting. He can’t get enough oxygen.”

All I could ask was, “Why is this happening?”

It was probably more of a rhetorical, big-picture, why-is-my-whole-life-falling-apart-all-at-once question than a medical one. But Dr. Addison answered it anyway, all earnest: “We don’t know what causes it,” he said. “It’s idiopathic. All of a sudden, the immune system just goes haywire and starts attacking itself.”

“Is it curable?” I asked.

“It’s life-threatening,” he said, “but it can be cured. The survival rate is thirty to seventy percent.”

Thirty to seventy percent?What a useless piece of information. “I really was hoping for just a flat yes.”

“We’re going to give him everything we’ve got,” Dr. Addison promised. “He looks like a fighter.”

At that, I felt tears flooding up in my chest. “The thing is…” I said then, trying to push my voice to sound normal through the tightness in my throat. “The thing is… I can’t lose him. Do you know what I mean? Ican’t.”

Dr. Addison nodded, and I could sense a new tenderness about him. “The blood transfusion should help a lot,” he said next. “Give him the energy he needs to fight.”

I nodded, my face wet again. “I know everybody thinks their dog is the best dog, but the thing is my dog really is actually, literally, the best.” What was I saying?

“Later today,” Dr. Addison went on, staying focused, “we’ll want to get him eating. Can you tell me his favorite foods?”

I sat up straighter and pawed at my eyes, determined to pull it together. “Yes. He loves tortillas, doughnuts, and rigatoni Bolognese. He’s a big fan of saag paneer. He goes crazy for California rolls. He also loves crepes—but only like the kind you get in Paris. If they’re too pancakey, that’s a no.”

Dr. Addison tilted his head. “I was thinking more like… dog food.”

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