Warm Companion

"Warm Companion," by Meaghann Weaver: a palliative care doctor shares her story of a gun-shy dog and a daring rescue.

TRANSCRIPT

Narrator: 'Warm Companion' by Meaghann S. Weaver, MD, MPH, Ph.D.

We were introduced at the front desk of a small town diner. By the time we reached the parking lot, we had committed to cohabitation.

I pulled over to a small town's sole restaurant. Standing at the long counter, I waited for a carry-out dinner for the long drive home from a rural hospice visit. As a closing weekend in hunting season, I was the only one in scrubs and a mask in a diner filled with camouflage and deer antler de´ cor. The guy next to me was loudly complaining to his hunting buddy how his new puppy was gun shy and let the birds go. "Good for nothing."

I mumbled that as a pediatrician familiar with gun violence and firearm accidents, I'm also gun shy. He pointed to his truck and jokingly suggested, "Welp, maybe you'd be a better pal for that whelp." One look at those puppy eyes from the cargo bed, and I emptied my wallet, handed him my uneaten to-go-boxed dinner, and carried his pup to my car. "No more guns," I whispered as we hit the highway.

She joined our little family at the onset of COVID-19, snuggling close to us in the midst of the pandemic's physical distancing. I had planned to name her Agape. Her first collar tag jingled with the idea of a universal, unconditional love that transcends and persists regardless of circumstances. My kindergarten-age daughter insisted on calling out "Lovey" as she followed the new pup, all paws, around the house. The name persisted until the puppy responded only to "Lovey." Her collar tag was soon replaced with the vernacular: Lovey. Lovey represents a bonded attachment, a security and safety, and a held comfort. She is Lovey.

Lovey nuzzled into our relationships and roles. My dad added milkbones to his right back pocket since his left back pocket was already filled with peppermints and lemon drops for my daughter. Lovey quickly tripled my pedometer footsteps. She motivated me back into early morning jogging. She introduced us to new parks. She taught us persistence with tennis ball retrievals and a dogged perseverance for finding frisbees. Lovey wagged her tail at kind strangers with sureness of future friendship and was on guard and protective when needed. She mastered the Labrador lean, offering my shins a counterpressure under the telehealth tabletop. She reminded us of the power of instinct and interaction. She represented goodness.

One chilly morning after a night shift, I took Lovey to visit a lake further than our usual landscape. Walking through tall grass with the harsh prairie winds whipping around us, Lovey suddenly started barking an unfamiliar howl. She wouldn't let me check her paws for nettles or fur for burrows as she frantically lunged toward the lake. Far off, I then saw what she witnessed. A lone ice fisher's dog had been walking on thin ice 60 feet from the edge, crashing through, while the angler stood sturdy. The ice fisher went to rescue his dog but instead also crashed through. They both thrashed and struggled in the freezing water. They gasped and clawed at the slippery, growing ice ring around them. Without a sense of locale or direction, I pinged 911 to my cell phone and tracked their 11-minute arrival. Racing to the lake edge, I yelled out that help was coming. I prayed for a protective bradycardia, fearing a hypothermic-induced arrythmia would kill sooner.

If I entered the broken ice waters to reach them, we'd all just freeze together. Helpless. I tried to throw Lovey's leash to them. Useless. Without a rope and without ability to reach out, I felt "Good for Nothing."

Except I was present. Fully present. I was bearing witness to suffering without shying away. I couldn't rescue. I could just remain. The presence of another human served as an antidote to aloneness. I instructed the fisherman to look at me. I asked him to trust me. I told him to protect his strength by stopping the struggle. Just be with me. Just hold on.

I assured him that his dog knows how much he is trying to help. "Tell me about your pup." Teeth chattering, he told me about how they met. Then, a sacred silence. I asked if he wanted to keep talking. He told me about how he named her. Silence. He told me he rescued her, but he's pretty sure she rescued him. We talked about the reciprocity of such relationships.

As the minutes dragged on, his breathing changed. I suggested, as I have done time and time and time again between covering COVID-19 comfort care night calls in New York during the pandemic surge to rural home visits during relentless variants, that we breathe together. As in palliative clinical practice, I heard myself telling him to trust his strength. I suggested he curl to protect his core. I found myself instructing him to protect his heart. Then, true to medicine's focus on what matters most in life, I reminded him to remember love, forgiveness, and peace and to truly trust his body. He rallied. He lifted his dog's back legs. The dog slippery-sprinted over to join Lovey in a victory jig. Downward dogs bowed. Paws pranced. Collars jingled.

We heard the sirens. Rope and rescue floaties reached him. The Sherriff turned his back while I switched his bib overalls for my sweats and fleece. Without guidance or prompting, Lovey and her new-found canine friend covered the fisherman with their bodies. They covered his core and licked his face. Our faithful companions warmed him. They remained silent and still as he started to stir. Their patient presence and warmth brought healing. After a prolonged silence filled with just gentle presence, his chattering teeth started to form words. His dog barked in recognition of a familiar, favorite voice.

Companioning represents sacred stillness, not frantic fixing. Companioning means being present to another's grief, pain, or suffering. Companioning represents profound presence rather than rescuing. A primary tenet of companioning is bearing witness to the struggles of others without shying away.

As I tried to add warmth to the pile of pups, I thought about how we've all been walking on thin ice in medicine, especially during the pandemic.

Companioning applies to contingency or crisis phase. Companioning has meant holding up the iPad for telehealth hospice goodbyes during visitor restrictions. Companioning has meant tirelessly advocating for vaccinations and masks without judgment or unkindness. Companioning has meant pivoting to telehealth to continue to caringly check in on patients with immune system vulnerabilities while protecting them from clinic exposures. Companioning has meant wiping the brow of a colleague when they can't reach past their protective layers. We haven't been able to rescue the curve or fix the surges. Still, companioning means being present for each other and our communities to offer healing warmth in a cold world.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: Welcome to JCO's Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology, brought to you by the ASCO Podcast Network. A collection of nine programs covering a range of educational and scientific content and offering enriching insight into the world of cancer care. You can find all of the shows, including this one at podcast.asco.org.

I'm your host, Lidia Schapira, Associate Editor for Art of Oncology, and Professor of Medicine at Stanford University. And with me today is Dr. Meaghann Weaver, a lead regional ethicist at the National Center for Ethics in Health Care, and an adjunct associate professor at the University of Nebraska. We'll be discussing her Art of Oncology article, 'Warm Companion'.

The views expressed in this podcast are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position or policy of the US Department of Veterans Affairs, the US government, or the National Center for Ethics in Health Care. Meaghann, welcome to our podcast.

Dr. Meaghann Weaver: Thank you. It's a joy and privilege to be with you this morning.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: So, tell me first a little bit about your writing process. How does a story present itself to you? When do you know that it's time to put it on paper or on screen?

Dr. Meaghann Weaver: It's interesting the way that narrative medicine evolves in a really different way than research and summarizing data in written form. In many ways, I think of that as a cognitive process, where you can be planful and structured. Whereas narrative medicine, it occurs as a story that just has to be told. It's beating so profoundly in your heart, that even if you want to contain it, and hold it as personal, I think for me, it's really an uninhibited moment.

So, funny enough, I tend to do research during day hours or very structured hours, whereas narrative medicine is very much waking up in the middle of the night saying, 'This has to pour out. I can't continue to contain the truths from this narrative.'

Dr. Lidia Schapira: It's a lovely description. Tell me a little bit about how you decided to share with others? I totally understand the need to reflect and tell a story, but how do you decide what is private in what you want to share?

Dr. Meaghann Weaver: I would say that in clinical experience, and even in ethics consults, there are so many stories that are quite profound, but are so intimate, are so personal, even if you de-identified them, they border on sacred and so those for me remain really untold. Those are held by the participants of the story.

For me, it's this particular narrative in one of our staff meetings, we had a couple of extra minutes. And so, I just shared, you know, what had happened over the weekend. And my colleagues said, 'You have to write that.' And a number of them followed up and said, 'Have you written that? You need to write that.'

So, in many ways, it's if the narrative resonates with others, in many ways, they think sharing can be selfless. It can be hard to share. But my colleagues really said, 'You might have a duty to share this one because it resonated with our experience and COVID.'

Dr. Lidia Schapira: It's a lovely story. So, tell us the story of how you met Lovey? How does the pup become your family's own? And how Lovey led you to this moment that is so amazing that you describe so beautifully in your story? Your story, unlike many other narratives in the Art of Oncology, has so much suspense to it. I mean, the reader will hold their breath, to try to see how the story ends.

Dr. Meaghann Weaver: Thank you. Well, I met Lovey in really spontaneous circumstances. I, as many during the pandemic, anticipated adding a family pet to our family, was starting to prepare, but Lovey in many ways was a little bit impulsive, because I met her where she seemed particularly vulnerable. And I just experienced a time of seeing her, seeing that she might have been in an environment that wasn't actually drawing out her strength. So, she wasn't living up to the hunting dog persona.

And so, in her community, she was maybe perceived as not useful or not productive, that I was encountered her at the end of a hospice visit, and we know from oncology, we know from hospice, from palliative care, presence and being and really living into your strengths, like your core identity.

So, I encountered her and noted that she's really gentle, and she might not be a hunting dog, but she would have such joy and contribution to the right community in the right setting. And so, in many ways, it was an impulsive attachment. And then she so quickly nuzzled right into our family and brought so much comfort and truly brought companionship, and she helped us to re-engage and live life with a deeper level of fullness. That's Lovey.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: Sounds absolutely wonderful. How old is Lovey, now?

Dr. Meaghann Weaver: She just turned two.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: In your essay, you talk a lot about companionship. You also mentioned the concept of bearing witness to another's suffering or crisis. And you talk about presence. Can you tell us a little bit about these three concepts and how they came to you so clearly, as you reflected on this incident, and perhaps you should tell our listeners also, what actually happened, and what the story is about?

Dr. Meaghann Weaver: So, the story is about after a particularly challenging night shift, I took Lovey for a walk at a lake which is of further distance from our usual geography, and it was deep winter, there was an ice fisherman out about 60 feet from the lake edge. And it's very common in our community for ice fishers and hunters to bring their dogs with them. It's just a partnership.

This particular pup fell through the ice. Lovey and I were walking quite a distance from the lake and she just had this really impulsive shrieking. I thought she was wounded. She had this really strong instinct of another animal's injury or needing rescue. So, she was really pulling and lunging me.

So, I followed her, actually pretty nervous because she was acting so out of character. I followed her and she brought me to the lake's edge, and then I saw the fisherman had also fallen through in his attempt to rescue his dog. They were too far out. I tried to throw her leash, but there was no way for me to rescue, which as you can relate in our calling in medicine, we're trained to rescue, we're trained to fix, to intervene, it felt so counter natural. It felt so counter to training. And so, just calling out connecting with him, trying to let him feel that I was really close, even though I was at quite a distance. I called for help. I pinged 911 to my phone. I had no idea really where I was other than somewhere very rural area like a frozen lake.

So, I pinged them to my phone. I just continued to reassure him that help was coming. And I just asked him to stay connected with me. It was clear that his dog gave him such meaning, you know, the fact that he would sacrifice his safety to rescue his animal. So, I tried to engage him in narrative. And it seems what was most helpful for him was less when I asked about him as the fisherman or as a human and more when I asked about his dog, and how he was connecting him back to what mattered to him.

And so, very long story short, he was able to rally just like we see at the end of life for many of our patients, this final rally, so he rallied, and lifted his dog who came to us, and then we had a really sweet reunion with his pup.

So, the sheriff arrived, it took about 11 minutes, and I was quite concerned physiologically, whether we would sustain life in that time gap. So, the sheriff arrived; he was able to throw ropes and rescue floaties, and that patient was able to then be retrieved.

He was pretty obtunded when he came out of the water, but was able to hold on to the rescue equipment and to just be then pulled to safety, then warmed really with our two dogs just laying on him licking him, very instinctually, they just covered him, and it was just their warmth and being present.

I think that's what we see in medicine often when disease has progressed, and we are sort of past our biomedical ability to intervene. In many ways, there is still profound healing. And for me, in this narrative, the healing was human warmth and the presence of living beings, and companioning, remaining present, bearing witness to someone who is really struggling, bearing witness without thrashing around, feeling like the only help you could offer is fixing.

I think that the story would have been more exciting if it were a palliative care doctor ethicist dives into freezing water, but we wouldn't have helped him. So, it's really saying, 'I'm gonna bear witness, stay with you, companion with you as part of your healing.' I think there's a message in there for medicine, too, staying with our patients.

There's actually a narrative there too, because of course, in hypothermia, you need to change the person's clothing. And so, probably the humorous part of the story is the sheriff turning around and me putting the fisherman in my fleece and my scrubs, and me putting on his bib overalls. I think that's probably quite the visual.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: I must say, I saw that. I didn't know what you looked like, but I could just imagine the scene. Tell me a little bit about that moment, when you have to do this cognitive switch from, 'I'm diving and I'm rescuing to I'm bearing witness and I'm present?'

Dr. Meaghann Weaver: That's such a powerful cognitive switch because, in many ways, it's instinctual to fix and to rescue. So, I almost would say that is a practice that has to be in some ways predetermined.

And so, I think it's a commitment and it takes practice outside of the clinic space to really say, 'My role in this patient's life is to help them ask the questions they need to ask, help them explore the answers without me forcing the answers upon them', and help them in some ways you could think establish the safety net that they need.

So, foster that, without forcing it, without thinking my sense of rescue would be the same that would be most beneficial to them. So, I think that is really a practice that requires contemplation and commitment because the impulse is to rescue. The impulse is to fix, and so, it really takes strategizing.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: Meaghann, I'm sure you've given this some thought, how would you have felt if the story had a different ending? If the sheriff didn't arrive in time?

Dr. Meaghann Weaver: I tried to protect myself from thinking in that way. I think I would have experienced immense guilt, and I perceive it would be natural to feel that I then should have gone into the water even if I couldn't have made a difference. I anticipate that there would have been a significant weight.

And so, it takes thinking in a logical way because my heart would have said, 'Well, just dive in and be with him.' And also, I think the emotive experience of guilt would have been really heavy. I thank you for asking. I think that's a courageous question and one that I've have to reflect on.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: You've written about guilt before, so I know that you are certainly not shy in thinking about the emotional landscape of our work. But let me end this with a little bit more of a playful question. And that is about the pups here, the role that the dogs played because the dogs are all about instinct and impulse. We can't ask the dogs about their cognitive experience, but we can watch their behavior.

And I was certainly moved, I laughed and felt this incredible energy and warmth when you describe both pups were on the body of the fisherman, warming him up. So, tell me a little bit about this bonding with dogs and using dogs both for therapy for oneself and therapy for others.

Dr. Meaghann Weaver: Yes, it's amazing to me the way that our pups have a way of connecting with us and with our core self… Oops, my pup is participating. Connecting us with our core selves.

I noticed even in my work, that the respite and the sense of connection that we have, with our animals, with our pups, there's something so instinctual and uninhibited about it. And I also think much of our work is so serious, but their playfulness, and then their unconditional and really uninhibited celebration, when we're sort of reunited after a long day or there's something, it's really hard to describe it just this profound feeling of warmth and of belonging, and companionship.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: Well, thank you so much for the conversation today for this absolutely beautiful essay, for sending us your work, and for sharing this experience with the broader community of readers. Thank you, Meaghann!

Dr. Meaghann Weaver: Thank you! I'm grateful and I do turn quickly when I receive the journal to this section. So, thank you, I find that it resonates with my head, my heart, and my spirit. So, thank you for fostering that.

Dr. Lidia Schapira: You're very welcome!

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