Conscious Choice: My Guardian Squirrel

May 2006 | BackWords

My Guardian Squirrel

By Steve Cook (as told to his brother-in-law Craig Smith)

THE FIRST TIME I SAW THE INJURED SQUIRREL was during my second week of chemotherapy.

Sitting on our front porch, I noticed movement at the bottom of the steps. At first, I thought it was a rat, but then realized it was a squirrel, with a gaping wound and obviously broken foot on its left side. I thought that maybe a hawk had picked him up and dropped him. In any case, he looked every bit as bad as I felt.

“Hey little guy, you are in worse shape than I am,” I said. He placed his good leg on top of the bottom step and stared up at me, unblinkingly. Between the intense radiation treatments and chemo I was receiving, I was sleeping 20 hours a day and had very little energy. Still, I got up and went to the kitchen to get a bag of pecans.

When I returned to the porch, the squirrel was still there, looking up at me. I tossed him a pecan, which he quickly gobbled down, followed by several more. Once he had his fill, he went into the azalea bushes, slowly dragging his bum leg behind him.

Thinking he might also be thirsty, I returned to the house and brought out a small bowl of water that I placed in his spot. No sooner had I sat down than he came out and began drinking. After awhile, he returned to his spot under the azaleas, leaving me alone to think about what had just happened. I had to shake my head and smile, something I hadn’t done much of lately.

That night over dinner, I told my wife and son about my encounter with the squirrel, adding that with his injuries, I didn’t expect him to make it through the night.

Cancer Diagnosis

I was diagnosed with late stage-four cancer on April 20, 2001, when the doctor found a tumor at the base of my tongue. He announced his findings and suggested that I have it removed immediately.

When I asked him how that would affect my tongue, he looked startled, then realizing my confusion, said he meant it was my tongue that should be removed. The idea that I could never talk again was completely unacceptable, and I immediately decided to get a second opinion.

Several radiologists and oncologists I talked to agreed that although the cancer was late stage, a combination of aggressive radiation and chemotherapy might treat it successfully. Everyone said it would be rough going, and that at times, I might think the treatment was going to kill me. However, they told me I could keep my tongue, and I was sold.

The caseload at the hospital was heavy, and it was almost a month before treatments could begin. Doctors fitted me with a cardiac catheter for the chemo, and a custom mask to keep me from moving during radiation. When treatments did start, I had to go to the hospital at 7 a.m. Monday through Friday.

The chemo left me exhausted, with hundreds of open sores in my mouth and throat, and the radiation badly burned my skin. I could only handle liquids, and began losing weight rapidly. I was exhausted most of the time, and would come home from the hospital and go to bed, sleeping all day except for a few hours around dinner. Because of the treatments, I couldn’t go outside and expose myself to sunlight, but after a couple of weeks, I had to get some fresh air, and when I went out to the front porch, that was when I first saw the squirrel.

Day Two with the Squirrel

The next day began like others before it — 7 a.m. radiation at the hospital, back to the house and in bed. I had forgotten all about the squirrel when I went to the porch that afternoon, but no sooner had I sat down than he crawled out from under the azaleas and looked up at me.

“Hey, big guy,” his eyes seemed to plead, “Where are those pecans?” He looked thin and weak, but miraculously had survived the night. When I came back from the kitchen with the nuts, he was still in his spot, and began eagerly eating as soon as I tossed some to him.

As the days passed my treatments took their toll. At times, I had to be rushed to the emergency room and sometimes hospitalized. I had shaved off what little hair I had left and lost quite a bit of weight.

Throughout it all, the squirrel showed up every day. He had started to gain weight and was getting stronger. No longer leery, he had begun to sit on the top step with me and as I told him about my experiences in treatment, he would tip his head to look at me, as if to better focus on what I was saying.

Now, I am a realist and know that the squirrel was only there because I was feeding it, but we formed a bond. He couldn’t climb trees and needed the pecans I fed him, and I needed a diversion from the treatments.

The chemo ended, but the radiation went on. The burns were bad, and swallowing was difficult. It took eight hours to drink a single can of Ensure, and on week five the radiologist suggested we take a couple of weeks off. I was worried that if I stopped I wouldn’t want to start again, and so we continued.

One day, the pain was particularly agonizing, and I went to the porch and fed the squirrel a single nut. Normally, he would nudge my hand if pecans were slow in coming. That day, he seemed to know I was having a rough time.

He ate the nut, then nestled against my hip, looked up into my eyes, and just stared. I gave him a second pecan, which he finished, then he climbed into my lap, still looking at me. The wound on his side looked better, and his limp was no longer as pronounced. He was healing, and he seemed to be telling me that I would get better too.

The Long Healing Road

My radiation treatments ended July 5. Within a week, the scars on my neck, which had the texture of tree bark, began falling away, exposing bright, baby-pink skin. I had gone from 260 pounds to 189, was bald, had lost 100 percent of my ability to taste and had a constantly dry mouth because my saliva glands were fried.

But, thank God, I was alive, and I still had my tongue. I began to regain my strength and started working a few hours each day in my home office.

The squirrel was mending fast as well, and had begun to climb a little. He was starting to go from window to window, hanging on screens to see if I was inside. He would climb to the second story, where my office is located, and watch me work. While our family was eating breakfast, he would sit on the back porch, and if pecans weren’t coming fast enough, he would rap on the glass in the door to get our attention.

If I let him, he would come in the kitchen, but my wife thought that was going a little too far. When I went outside, he would follow me around the yard, hanging on to my pants leg as I walked.

By winter, I was feeling much better, and things were getting back to normal. My cancer was in remission, and I was working full time again. The squirrel was getting really big, and had actually become quite fat. One day, he disappeared, and didn’t return for weeks. When he did, he had his newly born offspring with him — turns out my friend was a girl, and a new mom to boot.

The last time I saw the squirrel was the day my wife, Lynda, and I left for the weekend to celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary. I fed her as usual that morning, but when we returned from our trip, she was gone. Her offspring would occasionally show up for pecans, but they never had the trusting nature of their mother. Of course, I hadn’t bonded with them the way I had with her a bond made strong by weeks of our supporting each other as we slowly healed together.

My experience with cancer made my faith much stronger. I can’t prove they exist, but I now believe in guardian angels. When I was at my lowest, I found an injured squirrel, or rather she found me, and things got better. It never occurred to me that a guardian angel could be a squirrel, but I know that’s what she was. I suppose I could have been her guardian angel as well. God, indeed, works in mysterious ways.

In November 2005, another tumor was diagnosed, this one considered life-threatening. Almost to the day of the diagnosis, a squirrel appeared and began showing up regularly for pecans. Steve had his third surgery on January 27, and is expected to make a full recovery. He keeps a full bag of pecans in the kitchen pantry for his regular visitors.

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