“Here’s the thing, Rosie. You don’t need anyone to sit at the table with you. You need to be happy sitting there with yourself. That’s the only way you’ll ever understand and treasure your own worth.”
I catch the tear as soon as it sneaks out of my eye. My gaze falls to the little boy in my arms, the only person who thinks the world of me. But maybe he’s the only one that matters.
“Well…” Eva walks around her desk, sinking down to the chair behind it. “I’m glad to hear you have all your materials together. I’d hate to have you scrambling just four days before classes start.”
“Pardon?”
“And I do hope you’ll find your worth this year. I’m sure you will, at the very least here in the classroom.”
My pulse thunders in my ears. “I’m confused and emotional because, quite frankly, this has been a shit week. So I’m going to need you to put me out of my misery and tell me what you’re speaking in code about.”
She chuckles softly. “A gentleman stopped by my office yesterday, wanting to set up a new annual scholarship fund for our veterinarian students. Outlined all the qualities he’d like to see in the recipients, not just as students but as real people. Someone dedicated to their family, someone who prioritizes the things that really matter, someone caring and compassionate who’s committed to helping animals. Someone who sounds a lot like you, Rosie.”
“Who?” I ask, the single word breathless as my chest heaves, my eyes prickling with tears. “Who’s the donor?”
“He wishes to remain anonymous.”
“Eva, I can’t—”
“You can, Rosie. You can accept this for exactly what it is: someone who wants to see you succeed in all your dreams, because you deserve it.”
My chin quivers. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying go home and get some rest this weekend, Rosie, because you’ve got a wild year ahead of you. You’re the first recipient of the Stardust Lane Scholarship.”
It’s hard enough to wrap my head around being gifted a scholarship at the last minute, allowing me to finish my schooling when I’d just about given up hope. But hearing the name of the scholarship is what brings the tears streaming down my face.
Because Stardust Lane? That’s the name of the street I grew up on.
The last time I was home with my parents.
“Gastric what?”
“Gastric dilatation and volvulus,” I repeat to the woman standing before me, one hand clutching her purse strap, the other laid protectively over her dog’s stomach. “It’s when a dog’s stomach fills with gas and bloats, or what we call gastric dilatation. It progresses into a volvulus when the bloated stomach twists, blocking the entrance and exit of the stomach.”
“And Pepper…she needs surgery? There’s no other way?”
“GDV requires surgery to correct.”
“And it will? The surgery will work, and Pepper will be okay?”
I look down at the beautiful, docile St. Bernard on the examination table, the pink bow she wears on her collar. Big brown eyes stare back at me, and I wish I could lie. “Surgery is not a guarantee.”
“What’s the mortality rate?”
“The survival rate—”
“I asked for the mortality rate, not the survival rate. I want to know what the chances are that my dog dies if I let you put her on that table.”
I clench my fists in an attempt to still the violent tremor in my hands. “In uncomplicated cases, the mortality rate is about fifteen to twenty percent. Depending on how long the stomach has been twisted and whether other issues are present during surgery, the mortality rate can jump as high as thirty-eight percent.”
She nods, staring at her dog. “I need some time to decide. Maybe I’ll bring Pepper home, and we’ll see how she does over the weekend.”
“Mrs. Greene, with all due respect, GDV is a life-threatening emergency and requires immediate intervention. It’s crucial we relieve the pressure on Pepper’s internal organs as soon as possible.”
Her eyes pool with tears, and she looks to Dr. Holmes at my side, like my professor might tell her I’m wrong.
“Rosie is correct,” she says simply. “And the longer a dog goes without treatment, the higher the mortality rates are. Untreated, a dog with GDV will die. Is surgery a guarantee? No. But we can guarantee we will do everything in our power to help your girl. Your other option is euthan—”
“No. I won’t consider that.” Tears slide down her cheeks, and I fight to keep myself in check, biting my tongue to draw the pain out of my chest as Mrs. Greene stares down at her best friend. “I don’t understand how this happened.”
“There isn’t any rhyme or reason,” I tell her gently. “It does tend to favor bigger dogs, like Pepper, but it can happen to any dog.”
She wipes at her tears. “Can I have a few minutes alone with her?”
“Of course. We’ll start prepping for surgery.”
Dr. Holmes follows me into the operating room, watching as I organize the required instruments. “Is this how you imagined finishing off your first week of fourth year?”
“Prepping for surgery? I’d hoped so, honestly. I’ve been so eager to be on this side of the glass. But for GDV?” I think about Pepper, unconscious in her mom’s SUV when she rolled up here, how Mrs. Greene said she was sick all morning. “No, this isn’t how I imagined finishing this week.”
But truthfully, it’s on par with how it’s been going. There was no easing into the year. We jumped right into the emergency setting at the campus clinic, and there hasn’t been a quiet moment since. I’m exhausted, barely keeping my emotions in check, and last night I passed out on my bed with my shoes still on and my dinner—an apple—half-eaten in my hand. I’m beyond grateful to be here, but I can’t wait for a break.
Dr. Holmes hands me Pepper’s chart as she’s rolled into the room. “Can you tell us about Pepper before we get started?”
I smile down at the sweet, gorgeous girl as she stares up at me. “Hi, sweetheart,” I murmur, stroking the brown spot between her eyes. “Pepper is a three-year-old, one-hundred-and-twenty-seven-pound St. Bernard. Her mom reported that she didn’t seem well earlier this morning. She didn’t eat breakfast, was quiet and lethargic, and was favoring her bed, all of which are unusual for Pepper. Mom brought her in when she collapsed trying to walk to her water dish.” I smooth my hand over her ears, giving her a scritch. “And she’s got the most gorgeous brown eyes.”
“She certainly does, doesn’t she?” Dr. Holmes fixes her mask over her mouth and pulls on her gloves. “All right, let’s make sure we keep Pepper comfortable, and let’s get started.”
I don’t release Pepper’s paw from my hand. Not when we put her under anesthesia, and not when I hand Dr. Holmes the scalpel so she can make the first cut into her abdomen. I don’t let go when her stomach suddenly ruptures before surgery can even really begin, and I don’t let go when the energy in the room becomes frantic as Dr. Holmes works as fast as she can, does everything in her power to save her.