No Return Tickets
On lifeblood, Big Girl Pants, and the necessity of care.
Dear reader,
I have a new morning routine. First, I wake up in my friend Bri’s king-sized bed and pat the pillows twice with the palm of my hand. This signals to her border collie, Rico, that he is now welcome to join me for a cuddle. Without hesitation, he catapults onto the bed, and we lay together for a few minutes. Sometimes, I am the big spoon; other times Rico lays on top of me, nuzzling the nook of my neck with his snout. When he’s had enough, he hops off the bed and waits, rather impatiently, by the French doors that lead out to the backyard. I barely crack the door and he’s gone in a flash, chasing the four-point buck that grazes here most days.
While Rico does his rounds, a mandatory perimeter sweep each morning, I creep upstairs to the living room and quietly peer over the back of the sofa to see if T. is awake yet. He usually is. I then refill his water supply. I empty and rinse the container of urine that accumulated overnight. I ask him about his pain level.
“Are you ready for some food, or coffee?” He is, so I make him breakfast. Lately it’s been oatmeal loaded with seeds, nuts, and berries. It’s not T.’s favorite, but I know the grains help ease the side effects from taking so many opioids.
If I find T.’s still asleep, I let him rest and return to the downstairs level to meditate, jump on my trampoline, and read in the infrared sauna. Right now I am rereading Braiding Sweetgrass, because I know it already.
After I take care of myself, I return to the main floor and work from my computer at the kitchen counter, just a holler away from the sofa where T. now lives. I take breaks to stretch my legs, to refill his water supply again, to help him sit upright for a change in perspective, and to put fresh cold packs on his knee.
It’s been a few days, but I think it’s hitting both of us just now — the fact that T. cannot walk, cannot even stand up, and it’ll be like this for a while.
Two weeks ago, my mother fell while walking and hit the pavement so hard that she was hospitalized and scheduled for an emergency surgery. T. and I were on the other side of the country, at ROCK SHOP, when it happened. I was packing orders with earmuffs on while T. ran a router along the edges of the last two cabinets. My phone buzzed with a text from my brother: “911, for real this time. Call me.”