For the many years I was at the Cancer Center, pet visitation of any kind was forbidden. I begged, pleaded, cajoled, and offered to fund it personally; always with the same answer. So, I resorted to sneaking the tiny furry ones for patients who were never coming out, so that they and their beloved dog could see each other one more time.

One morning the Head Nurse on one of the units paged me to complain that the parents of a 28 year old man (only child) were insistent that they HAD to bring his 14 year old Yorkshire Terrier to visit him, as he was dying. She wanted to give me a heads up that they may complain about her to me and she wanted me to explain the policy to them, as she had.

They did, indeed, come to my office. They were not angry. Their grief had taken them past that. They were at the point of accepting what they could see so clearly was happening, although they were deeply sad. They explained that their son and this dog had been inseparable since he was 14 years old and they brought her home as a puppy. The dog was back at the motel, where they had been living for the past 2 months while their only child was receiving experimental treatment for stage 4 Lymphoma. The dog was grieving as deeply as they were, and was not in good health herself. They didn't raise voices, or threaten; they stated their case with their hearts, which were breaking.

Before they finished I asked them how big she was, and if she were noisy. She weighed 4 pounds and never barked. Soon, Dad had returned to the motel, and brought her to me outside the hospital at the agreed spot. I quickly explained to the little dog that she would need to hide under my jacket and be very quiet. She looked up at me with big brown eyes that blinked with great wisdom and understanding. Tucked away from sight, we hurried through the halls and up the elevators to the young man’s room. I instructed the parents to stand with their backs to the door of the room, blocking the natural view of those entering, and to say to anyone who saw the little dog, “Leslie Bean brought the dog and says for you to call her.”

The patient was very, very weak. His bed elevated his upper body at 45 degrees. IV tubes and an infusion pump dominated his left arm. When we entered the room I placed the Yorkie on the bed on his left side. Her whole body trembled with happiness and she made tiny cries of joy as she quickly moved up to his neck and buried her nose under his chin. Her little tail was wagging so hard.

Then this young man, who had been semi-comatose for days, very, very slowly and laboriously, lifted his right arm from beside him on the bed, and moved it painfully across his chest to rest on his dog, as he just as slowly turned his head to her. A tear trickled down his cheek. My composure was gone. It is a scene I will never forget. The sight of absolute love, reunited. There was nothing else in the world that mattered to them, or, frankly, to me, at that moment. The faces of he and his parents and that amazing little dog are forever burned into my heart.

Before I left I told them to call me immediately if anyone challenged them and that when they were going to take the dog back to the hotel, to call me and I'd walk her out myself to prevent them from breaking any rules. Before leaving the unit I dropped by to visit the nurse and reminded her of a few things she "owed me" and told her I was cashing in. Then I paged his physician, who also owed me some ‘favors,’ and made certain he was aware and free of blame.

The patient rallied the next day, after having spent several hours with his best friend the day before. He and his parents were able to talk for the first time in days. The dog rallied, too. They said it was the first she'd eaten in 3 days. When I visited he was alert, the dog was sleeping peacefully, curled between his shoulder and chin. There was a peace in that room that had not been there before.

The next day, in the wee hours of the morning, before the sun, the young man breathed his last breath before his dad brought the dog. Before his parents left, they hugged me until I was certain my ribs would break, and we all cried together. They told me that for as long as they lived I would be in their prayers - those couple of days were the best hours they had with him in weeks. They said their goodbyes. Later, I learned that little Yorkie, too, died on that very same day. Like her beloved master, she slipped away. I know they went together. Several days later my boss called and asked me about something he needed and before he hung up he said, “Leslie, I know about the dog."

"What dog?” I replied.

“Leslie, I know about the dogs .... Could you just let me know first when you do these things, so that I'll be expecting the calls, OK?"

With a huge smile on my face, I said, “I can do that!” It was as much a sanction as I'd ever get, and I was grateful for it.

Leslie Bean retired from the University of Texas M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in 1999 where she was the founding Director of Patient Advocacy. She spends her time assisting others with nutritional approaches to kidney diseases in dogs, and teaching animal communication classes. Her love of animals led to the development of a unique diet that saved the lives of her own dogs, and which continues to help countless others.

A Better Goodbye is part of Leslie's upcoming book.

Copyright 2004 by Leslie Bean. Used with permission. May not be copied or reproduced without permission.