Back to Issue 16.

Operation Dog

Elizabeth Jannuzzi

In the early spring of 1997, Chester, Lucy, and I all lived at my parents’ home in the suburbs of central New Jersey. We were displaced, living in a state of limbo. Or at least I was. Twenty-four years old, about a year out of college, I was living in my childhood bedroom working a temp job doing data entry at a lawyer’s office. It was not a long-term plan. Chester and Lucy were dogs.

Chester, a two-year-old golden retriever, belonged to my older sister Julia. Dumb as a box of rocks but adorable and loyal as most golden retrievers are. Julia doted over him, brushing his fluffy yellow fur and tying a red bandana around his neck so that he looked like he belonged in an L.L. Bean catalog. Chester moved in with my parents last October after Julia was hospitalized from a failed suicide attempt.

Technically Lucy was my dog. A small black and white mixed breed with the sweetest disposition. But she never truly felt like mine. When I moved back home after college, Julia showed up one day unannounced and presented me with Lucy as a graduation gift. She had adopted her from the North Shore Animal League. Julia was like that, generous and full of mischievous surprises. She hadn’t asked my mother’s permission to bring a dog home.

Julia smiled at my mom and me while sitting on the living room floor, holding a trembling Lucy in her lap. My mother shook her head and went back to the kitchen. Her lack of objection was the approval we needed. We could keep Lucy. 

“We are bringing Chester to visit Julia tomorrow," my mother announced one morning. I knew without asking that "we" included me. 

Sitting at our round kitchen table, I was reading the Ann Landers column and drinking coffee. Chester was asleep on the kitchen floor in a patch of sunlight streaming through the window. Having heard his name, he lifted his huge yellow head and looked at us with those soulful black eyes. When we didn’t make a move to feed him or let him outside, he put his head back down, his dog license clinking against the floor.

“Not Lucy?” I asked. Lucy was curled up in the U formed by Chester’s legs. 

“No,” my mother dismissed the idea with a wave of her arthritic hand. “Just Chester.”

My mother stubbed out her cigarette and grabbed one of my father’s yellow legal pads.

“You’ll drop me off at the Madison Avenue entrance and then drive to Fifth. You’ll have to park illegally in the bus lane here,” she said, marking an X on the pad like our parking spot was a treasure. “I’ll bring Julia outside to the landing and you’ll bring Chester over. We can only stay a few minutes because of the parking.” Her voice was high-pitched, her eyes glistened.

I pulled the legal pad across the table to examine the sketch. With lines and arrows, my mother detailed the plan to bring Chester to visit Julia in a New York City hospital.

“It’s like a mission,” I said, getting caught up in my mother’s enthusiasm. “We should call it ‘Operation Dog.’”

My mother smiled, a rare occurrence these days, and then turned to the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs for my father’s breakfast. The morning light gave the kitchen a hazy glow and outside a mourning dove cooed. Spring was in the air.

***

My mother and I were the first ones to arrive at the hospital five months earlier when my 29-year-old sister Julia was rushed by an ambulance to the ER. Julia’s roommate called 911 when she found her unresponsive in her apartment’s bedroom, surrounded by empty bottles of psychotropic drugs. The doctor emerged from behind the curtain, her gown stained with charcoal.

“Why did she do this?”

My mother was silent.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, staring at the floor. Later, we learned that Julia left a note. In shaky handwriting, on a message pad, the kind you get from a hotel, she wrote only “I’m sorry.”

At first, Julia was in a coma from her intentional overdose. When she awoke a few days later, she aspirated on the first meal she ate. Then, she needed surgery to repair intestinal damage and clean up the sepsis caused by the physical trauma of the intentional overdose or the aspiration, I was never sure. They put her in a medically induced coma to recover from the surgery. Her stomach was so swollen with infection they couldn’t stitch it shut. Wet gauze covered a gaping hole. Then she needed another surgery. And another. How many surgeries were there in total? Five, maybe, I lost track. I can’t remember what the surgeons said as they pulled off their blue caps and gave their post-operation reports to my family in hushed tones. My vivid memories from that time are sensory. The rhythmic whooshing sound of the ventilator machine pumping oxygen into her lungs. Her tangy body odor after weeks of only sponge baths. The contrast between the gray waiting room walls and the magnificent red and yellow autumnal display outside its windows.

One morning, when Julia was in a coma, I took Chester to the beach. He needed some attention, and I felt the urge to walk in the sand and watch the waves crash on the shore. I needed the salt air to blow away the hospital smell that clung to my clothes and hair. When I opened the car’s back door in the parking lot, Chester lunged forward, so fast and powerful that he knocked me off my feet. My hip landed on the pavement, resulting in a nasty bruise.

At some point during Julia’s hospital stay, it became clear that our local hospital couldn’t provide the care Julia needed. In fact, a friend of my father’s warned him, “That hospital is going to kill her.” So my father transferred Julia to Mount Sinai in New York City in the hopes of saving her.

And with the new year, Julia was improving. She was off the ventilator and the tracheostomy tube was removed from her neck. Her skin stopped peeling off, and her hair started to grow back. She couldn’t walk, but she could be placed in a wheelchair and pushed around the hospital floor, a definite improvement from being comatose, getting flipped every couple of hours to prevent bedsores. The doctors were talking about moving her to a rehabilitation center.

***

The next morning, the day of Operation Dog, my mother and I met in the kitchen again. With a clipped voice, she called the dogs in from outside. I refilled my coffee while my mother lit a cigarette. Our unspoken worries swirled with the smoke. Would the doctor change his mind about letting Julia go outside? Would I get a ticket for illegally parking the car? What if it started to rain? Would Chester cooperate? Plus, it was a considerable effort for a short visit. We couldn’t leave Chester in the car in the hospital’s parking garage, so as soon as my mother brought Julia back to her room, we’d head back to New Jersey. It’d be three hours of driving for a 20-minute visit. But it would be worth it to reunite Julia with her dog. I gave Chester a rough pet while I imagined the joy on Julia’s face when she saw Chester.

***

I went along for the ride two years ago when Julia picked out Chester from a litter at a breeder in South Jersey. We sat in a newspaper-lined pen on the owner’s screened-in porch as rolly polly puppies climbed into our laps. Five years older than me, Julia seemed like an adult that day. With a full-time job as an administrative assistant and an apartment, she could support herself and a dog. At the time, I was struggling to maintain a passing GPA in college. I can still recall the pungent odor of the puppies and their tiny wriggling butts.

As Chester grew into a large full-grown dog, Julia attempted to train him, but he got kicked out of obedience school.

“He wouldn’t come when I called,” Julia explained with a shrug. Despite his failings, it was impossible not to love Chester. When playing fetch, he’d pick up four tennis balls in his mouth all at once, giving himself a goofy yellow grin. Of course, Julia loved Chester the most of all. She’d eat ice cream straight out of the carton, giving a spoonful to Chester and then a spoonful to herself. After watching Disney’s Beauty & the Beast, Julia hugged Chester and whispered to him, “If only you would turn into my prince.”

***

A 60-mile trip, the drive to New York City would take us at least an hour and a half, maybe more depending on traffic. As we drove from the Garden State Parkway to I-95, the radiotherapist Dr. Joy Brown came on the radio. For years, our family had been listening to Dr. Joy. We could predict what she’d say to the callers. For someone who wanted dating advice, she’d say, “Don’t date for a year after a break up.” For someone who complained about a negative family member, Dr. Joy would say, “Act stupid and cheerful.” Too bad Julia didn’t call Dr. Joy before she tried to end her life by overdosing on medication. Although I doubt Dr. Joy’s quick soundbites would’ve cured Julia’s depression and anxiety. At the very least, Dr. Joy could have advised Julia that swallowing the pills might not kill her.

I knew Julia saw a psychiatrist and took medication for panic attacks. I knew vaguely that years ago when she first went away to college she had some sort of breakdown. She dropped out before the end of the first semester and moved home to attend Katherine Gibbs Secretarial School. But that’s all I knew. Julia was not one to discuss her mental health and I didn’t ask.

When Julia was first hospitalized, I took a leave of absence from my job as a beat reporter at a small-town paper. My first real job out of college. I stopped going to work and camped out at the hospital, sleeping on the waiting room couch so I could be with Julia first thing in the morning. I rubbed lotion on her hands and feet. I wiped the beige slime out of her mouth with a sponge soaked in mouthwash. I studied the machines she was hooked up to and knew what each blinking number meant. I got comfortable turning off alarms, knowing the nurse would be in soon. But then days turned into weeks and nothing much changed with my sister’s condition. The newspaper’s editor-in-chief called me and said it was time to come back to work. My parents agreed. On the day I was to return, I showered, got dressed, and drove to the office. I got halfway there before I turned the car around and headed back to the hospital. The newspaper fired me. But then Julia was moved to the New York City hospital, and I could no longer visit her on a daily basis. I needed something to fill my days, so I signed up at a temp agency. I sat in a windowless closet-size office, updating a law firm’s client list. No one spoke to me at the office and the data entry was mind-numbing. It was perfect. 

***

New York City came into view as the car curved around the 495 helix that leads into the Lincoln Tunnel. I always loved this view. From across the Hudson, the bustling city looks enticing and full of possibilities. But this morning, the looming buildings and chaotic streets caused a flutter of worry. An unruly large dog in a hectic city could be a disaster. Traffic was light at that time of day, and we easily maneuvered through the city and arrived at the Madison Avenue entrance to Mount Sinai Hospital. Operation Dog was on schedule and running smoothly. 

“If a bus comes up behind you, circle the block.” My mother grabbed her purse and opened her door.

“I’ll be fine, Mom. I can handle it.” She was overthinking the parking situation, and I was getting annoyed. I scooted across the car’s bench seat to get behind the wheel. I gave her a wave as I proceeded on with the mission. It took only a few minutes to drive around the block. Despite our fears, I was able to pull up in front of the hospital entrance. I put the car in park and waited.

From the car’s window, I watched New Yorkers walk with purpose up and down the cobblestone sidewalk of Fifth Avenue. Beyond the brown brick wall that borders Central Park, trees were beginning to bud. Although only a block away, this area felt like a different part of the city than the hospital entrance on the Madison Avenue side. Here it was quaint and quiet. Like you’d be at Mount Sinai for a stay to rejuvenate from stress, not to recover from a suicide attempt. 

I glanced at the clock, thinking ten minutes had passed, but it had only been two. Hearing the distinct sound of air brakes, I looked in the rearview mirror to see a bus barreling toward me down Fifth Avenue. I shifted the car into drive and got ready to move out of the bus lane. A drop of sweat trickled down between my breasts. Chester stood up in the back and started to pant. But the bus cruised past me and pulled over in front of the station wagon. I didn’t have to circle the block. I put the car back in park and continued to wait. I stretched out my right leg, which had been shaking when I pressed on the brake. Chester sat down on his haunches. I met his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Just a few more minutes, big guy.” I wondered what Chester would think of his owner when he saw her. He’d notice the hospital smell, of course. Would he be confused? Would he whine? Would he try to jump on her? I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans.  

I saw my mother on the landing, waving her arms like she was directing an airplane. I could see Julia in the wheelchair through the glass doors. It was go time for Operation Dog. I scanned the streets for any buses or police. There were none. I hopped out of the car and hurried to the back of the station wagon. Then, I slowly lifted the rear door. Thankfully, Chester didn’t lunge out. I grabbed his leash and motioned for him to jump down. 

“Good dog,” I whispered. Closing the back, I wrapped the leash tightly around my hand and walked toward the hospital. Meanwhile, my mother went back into the lobby to get Julia. She wheeled her through the side door and out onto the landing. Upon seeing Julia, I gasped, the nervous shake returning to my right leg.

By this point, I was accustomed to Julia’s appearance. Her short brown hair growing back in clumps. Her face yellow and gaunt. Loose skin hanging off her stick-thin arms that jutted out of her hospital gown. A colostomy bag attached to her side. Hands crimped into claws. Her unshaven bare legs. Her feet in thick hospital socks with the non-skid padding on the bottom. But I never saw this Julia, the Julia who attempted suicide and failed, outside of the hospital. The hospital serves as an alternate universe, a strange reality that revolves around blood oxygen counts and body temperature. You could convince yourself that none of what was happening inside the hospital was real if you never had to deal with it in the outside world. Seeing my 29-year-old sister in her frail state outside in the open city air, as people walked quickly to their jobs and taxi cabs honked, the reality of how sick Julia was became strikingly apparent. Gone was my older mischievous fun-loving sister. In her place was a crippled, brain-damaged, broken woman. Although my mom stood next to her, Julia seemed so alone.

I paused for a minute at the bottom of the steps, still gripping the leash tightly. Chester and I climbed the stairs and walked slowly over to Julia’s wheelchair. Sensing the need for caution, Chester didn’t pull on his leash but walked in a crouch over to her.

“Here’s Chester, Julia,” I said. “We brought Chester to visit you.” Never knowing what to say to my mute sister during our visits, I often stated the obvious.

Chester placed his head on Julia’s emaciated thigh. She maneuvered her crimped hand out from under the blanket and let it drop down on his head, dragging it back and forth across his fur. His tail wagged slowly. This was it. Operation Dog complete.

Julia stopped moving her hand and let it rest on Chester’s head. My stomach dropped when I noticed a tear on her pale sunken cheek. We were hurting her. My mother and I thought bringing Chester to visit Julia would make her happy. We assumed she’d see her beloved Chester and smile and laugh. But instead, we showed her a glimpse of the consequences of her actions. You left your dog behind when you swallowed those pills, we inadvertently scolded her. A knot formed in my stomach and moved up to my chest. Chester’s leash felt heavy in my hand. I knew at that moment, as Julia cried with her hand on Chester’s head and Chester stopped wagging his tail, my sister was not going to recover from the injuries she sustained after her intentional overdose. And with that revelation, I began hoping for Julia’s death, an end to this tortured state she was in. An end to this tortured state my family was in. 

Time slowed to a halt and the previous spring-like air turned cold. I shivered and longed for my jacket that I had left in the car. The crew of Operation Dog stood together on the cement landing of Mount Sinai Hospital, unsure of what to do next. I looked at my mom. It’s over, my eyes conveyed. 

“Okay, time to say goodbye to Chester,” I said too loudly.  

***

Three months after Operation Dog, a doctor told my parents that Julia needed another surgery to live, but if she had another surgery, she would die. My family stood together around Julia’s hospital bed as they increased her morphine, and she passed.

Chester and Lucy continued to live at my parents’ house but I moved out, first to an apartment in Hoboken and then New York City. I secured a full-time position as a content provider at a non-profit company where I met my husband Chris.

Grief has a funny way of warping time. In my recollection, I met Chris years after my sister Julia died. But in reality, it was less than a year. And soon after, I started a family. When my oldest son Michael was a toddler, he’d sit on the kitchen floor of my parents’ house next to Chester. With a sippy cup in one hand, his other chubby hand would rest on Chester’s big fluffy yellow head the same way Julia’s did during Operation Dog. 

Writer’s Notebook

My sister Julia's suicide is obviously a difficult subject for me to write about. However, I feel strongly that it’s important to share these stories to remove the stigma surrounding suicide. Losing my sister was difficult enough, adding guilt and shame to my grief led me down a dark path. But how to tell such a heartbreaking story? Even 26 years later, I struggle with it. I needed to find a way into the story. Enter Chester, Julia's big goofy Golden Retriever. This is why I love the personal essay. The format allows writers to find a narrative “side door” into a difficult subject. Anyway, I wish you all could have known Chester, he was an adorable fluffy beast. I wish you all could have known Julia. She was my sister and gone too soon. If you are struggling with depression, help is available. Please call 988.

About the writer