Surgery Day
I woke at 5 a.m. and lay in bed with Lola, inhaling her familiar scent, the quiet weight of her body anchored to my chest. I rose, showered swiftly, and dressed. As I made breakfast, I read the Post-its I stuck last night in the cabinets: “Don’t Feed Lola” and “Bring Her Blanket.” My mind ticked through the checklist. The squirrel between my breasts woke up and threw itself into a spinning class.
I dressed Lola in her onesie, cocooned her in the blanket, and tucked her into the bag. I loaded her into a Miles and drove—Emily D. Baker’s velvet voice grounding me as I crossed the lights at Potsdamer Platz. The squirrel in my chest darted aimlessly, frantic.
At Dr. König’s Veterinary Clinic, I kissed Lola goodbye. Her fur was soft against my cracked lips. "I love you," I whispered and reminded myself: I'm the adult.
I cornered in the waiting room, opened the MacBook and logged into the B2 class. I didn’t need to participate; I only needed to hear words that weren’t my own. All I could do was wait, hoping the squirrel might finally rest.
Six hours later, Dr. Martin Deutschland, Lola’s surgeon, had cut away most of the hernia. A small piece clung to her spinal cord—too risky to touch. He handed me my tiny, groggy, freshly repaired dachshund and sent us on our way.
For the first time in five years, I wanted a partner—just another human next to me. But at that moment, the longing didn't matter. The surgery went well, and that was the gift of the day. I was thankful for that.
Back home, Lola finally got to eat. After twenty hours without food, she devoured her meal—zero hesitation and maximum enthusiasm. If she had the words, she'd have told me it was the best thing she had ever tasted and demanded seconds.
I had carefully prepared a cosy, zen-like recovery space on the floor, imagining she would settle in with gratitude. Instead, she made her preference painfully clear—through increasingly dramatic protest cries—that the only acceptable place to sleep was in bed with me. When I cuddled her beside me, she sighed and drifted off instantly.
The squirrel rested at last.
I got up to make myself a cup of tea. Three minutes later, I was back—and Lola was on the floor. Did she use the ramp? Did she fall? I had no idea. I panicked, called Dr. Hans Georg König, and braced for the worst. He told me not to worry too much as long as she seemed okay, which she did.
And then I cried. A lot. The kind of crying that wells up from fear and the crushing weight of responsibility. Meanwhile, Lola stared at me, utterly unimpressed, as if to say, "Bitch, I'm the one who fell—pull yourself together."
So, I dismantled the sofa, set up a proper campsite in the corner by the heating, and resigned myself to this new arrangement. Just me, Lola, and the wilderness of my bedroom—tragically, no s’mores.
I still feel guilty and incredibly frustrated with myself, but I'm sharing this so no one else makes the same mistake. I've been honestly trying to do my best, but I messed up.
Lola's post-IVDD Surgery campsite.
Post-Op Day 1
First thing in the morning, we visited Dr Ellen Laskawy, our veterinarian in Friedrichshain. By then, Lola had pooped but hadn't peed. Dr Laskawy checked her, and she was well. Then, she expressed Lola's bladder and showed me how to do it. I knew I could do it—I just needed practice.
That evening, I managed to get her to pee! I'm not sure if I fully emptied her bladder, but it was something. Her movement is incredibly limited, but she has not lost her will—if she hears me in the kitchen, she drags herself forward like a determined little lizard. It is both heartbreaking and ridiculous.
Post-Op Day 2
Another vet check-in. She pooed (victory!), but expressing her bladder was still a bit of a mystery to me. The vet showed me again, and I'm learning. Slowly. Imperfectly. But with love. She's extra cuddly—more than usual. I think she knows I need it, too.
Post-Op Day 3
Bladder expression? Managed it three times. Poo? None today, and I am resisting the urge to spiral into worry.
Her crate finally arrived—so no more lizard escapes. The playpen is big enough for me to curl up in with her. If I must be exhausted, at least I can be exhausted comfortably.
The Journey Ahead
I know these are only the first three days, and the journey will be of love, patience, and surrender. She teaches me what truly matters: being present, right here, next to her. Maybe that's all any of us need.
Her insurance covers only a tiny part of her needs; the rest is beyond what I can afford. So, with a deep breath and an open heart, I've started a GoFundMe for Lola. If someone can help, Lola and I would be profoundly grateful. If donating isn't possible, simply sharing the link is a gift. Every small act of compassion ripples outward, and I have already felt so much kindness.