Did I tell you that my dog inspired the series?
For those of you who don't know, Haruki is my kid with fur and I love him more than my own well-being. I woke up one morning to find Haruki, normally the picture of health, coughing blood. It was terrifying and totally unexpected. I rushed him to an animal hospital, and discovered that Haruki had aspiration pneumonia, which is when one's lungs get burned by aspirating one's own vomit or other foreign material. Haruki was struggling to breathe.
I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me, more so by the fact that the animal hospital turned out to be the encapsulation of scumbaggery. They denied Haruki first-line medical defenses in such a case—antibiotics—and, as I eventually learned from several patients, the institution was known for poor medical treatment. I made the difficult decision to bring Haruki home.
As Haruki's breaths per minute (which measure the health of his breathing) hit 100 (they should be between 10-30 sleeping or relaxed), I could feel every worry around me blur and fade away. The only thing that mattered to me was that we fight. I found a different animal hospital and rushed Haruki there in the dead of night. There, I met a vet who I will always think of warmly. He was a person who had changed careers late in life because he truly loves animals, and he wanted to do more to help. We connected immediately, and I knew that Haruki was in good hands.
Under the guidance of his new vet, Haruki spent several days in an oxygen tank, and received intravenous fluids and antibiotics. His chances were 50/50. He could live or he could die. With one's lungs, even for humans, aspiration pneumonia is a waiting game. I asked the hospital if I could sleep near Haruki or in the waiting area, but that was not allowed, so I woke up early every morning and brought Haruki certified humane chicken, fresh-cleaned blankets and toys. For days, Haruki did not respond to anything, but he would look at me and ask me what this godforsaken bubble was. I spoke with Haruki through a small submarine window, and I told him I was there, that I would always be there. Leaving him was heart-wrenching, every time—the word never felt more real, for it was indeed like my heart was being wrenched, all the way from where Haruki was to my house, many miles away.
One night, as I closed my eyes to try and sleep, a thunderstorm came over the house. I ached in a way that feels like your cells are trembling. The rain was torrential, like thousands of tiny whispers were pouring into the rooms. As I drifted into sleep, I dreamt of Haruki talking to me in a different dimension. In this mysterious place, Haruki and I spoke. The rain still surrounded us, like a kind of ambient translator to Haruki's barks. Haruki told me that he was fighting and that he would not stop fighting. That's when I woke up. It was morning, the sun was rising.
I dressed quickly and drove over to the animal hospital. I brought chicken with a little bit of butter. I walked over to the tank. There Haruki was, sleeping and breathing. I opened the submarine window and spoke to Haruki. He opened his eyes, and inched closer. I told Haruki that I loved him more than my own heart and that I was fighting too. I offered him his chicken and butter. That's when it happened—Haruki ate. And so began his ascent from a haze where it feels like you're breathing through water.
Each new day that I came to see Haruki, something got better - he would eat a little more, he would sniff AbominaBo, his favorite toy at the time. And then something happened that made my heart somersault. As I was leaving one day, Haruki barked. He barked in a way that was like a loved one finding you by chance in a random nook of Central Park—it was magic. Haruki barked and barked and I ran back to him, and it felt like we were dancing together in our minds' eye.
Haruki's recovery after that wasn't easy. My family and I found an oxygen tank and concentrator and had them delivered from a different state. I installed them near my bed. I learned how to change the tubes that would adjust the oxygen flow level, and I consulted a veterinarian to learn about what oxygen saturation levels I should work with. As I tested the tank, I thought a lot about how delicate breathing really is, and how this tank was creating an oxygen-rich environment that Haruki would fill with carbon dioxide once he was inside. As Haruki's lungs breathed in oxygen-rich air, he would breathe out carbon dioxide. I thought about our world and how perfect and yet delicate it is, how perfect and yet delicate the life inside of it is. My Haruki's tiny lungs had the ability to manage the exchange of gases, and it was my job to create a tiny ecosystem where oxygen could easily enter into the alveoli of his sensational lungs. It was my job to help a fantastical contraption restore to its clockwork magic. It felt daunting, but I could not fail Haruki.
We thought about placing a plant inside of the tank (to remove carbon dioxide), and eventually reasoned that it would be better to simply leave a slight opening in the tank so that Haruki could have more space to sleep and stretch. Haruki would spend some time inside of the tank and some time outside of it, as his lungs could become "lazy" if they relied too heavily on oxygen-rich air. I placed a fluffy blanket inside of the tank. And then, I brought Haruki home.
And so, while I slept in my bed, Haruki slept in the oxygen tank next to me. I fed him fresh vegetables and chicken, like we always did. I made sweet potato cookies, an original recipe that he couldn't get enough of. I obsessed over Haruki's bpms, documenting them in a journal sometimes every other minute. And one day, as the light poured in through my bedroom window, it happened. Haruki's bpms stabilized. They hovered near 30 consistently. His belly rose at a nice, natural pace.
As I watched Haruki sleep on my bed and breathe in the oxygen of our world, I let the sun warm my skin. I pulled out my laptop and I began to write, in a way that was autonomic, like breathing. I wrote about the mysterious place where Haruki and I spoke. I wrote about what it looks like, where the angormuffs live, how their ogis are made, how they are the inheritors of the Black Rock. I wrote about the groppets, the azerans, and the crunks, and I wrote about Drezg and the pogs. In two weeks, I wrote about 200 pages. This was a world that took me by storm, literally, in a storm. And from this atlas about Pumbria, as I refer to this living document, three books blossomed—the prelude series, the Tales of Pumbria.
Haruki's lungs healed splendidly, to the astonishment of many doctors he visited. He is as sporty as ever, and he still loves the cookies I made for him during his convalescence, as does his baby brother Teddy. I filed a complaint with the State about the initial animal hospital that we visited, and shared about the need for transparency and oversight in dog and animal healthcare. After all of the pain and terror, maybe even because of it, magic has never felt more real to me.
And so, I wanted to share this feeling, I wanted to share Pumbria, so that we can all remember what it feels like to be swept away by magic. This series, although it is geared toward middle grade (ages 8-12), is for everyone, because magic is for everyone.