Another blink
I hit a key and it deleted everything I had written. This should be a sign to give up, that what I had before wasn't quite ready to make it onto this digital page, but in any case, here I go, foolishly, hopefully, somewhat sadly, again.
2023 came and went, as most years and I find myself at the beginning of trying to explain myself, when really all I've done most of the year was shackle myself to a backlit screen communicating endlessly through Slacks with coworkers about whatever the work crisis of the moment happens to be. So much of my job, in the interest of getting things done, is convincing people they need to work on the things I ask for versus other things that may be vying for their attention. I'm not really sure what I do anymore except type a lot.
At the start of the year, we adopted Zag, the dog equivalent to a homecoming king. He is by far the most joyful, carefree, and goofy dog to ever join my family; he demands affection and I'm obsessed with the freckles on his feet and nose.
Counter to Zag, Toby continues to be grumpy. It was in 2023 that we finally reconciled the fact that he will never be a social dog and is not meant for dog parks. He lives with great anxiety and he is the Loki to Zag's Thor. Last year we tried a course of Prozac which did nothing. Lately he's been on CBD oil and while it isn't a miracle cure, it seems to have dulled the edges of his panic and fear a tiny bit so that life isn't so uncomfortable.
Remy tiptoed into 2023, as I held my breath waiting for the shoe to drop on the liver cancer. Most of the year was actually pretty good though the later months proved to be more challenging as her muscles started to waste away, causing the loss of mobility. Watching her try to get up, or trip and fall was a struggle. In November, her appetite started to wan again and we took her for a vet visit before Thanksgiving where she was diagnosed with a fast-growing lymphoma. Her thyroid had already grown to the size of golf balls and the prognosis was a few weeks at best, with the doctor indicating it would likely become more uncomfortable for her.
On Monday, November 27, a kind vet visited the house and we let her go. I fed Remy fries and nuggets as she got sleepy, and she laid in my arms as she took her last breath. It's been about three months now and I am still crying over her absence. Grief casts a funny shadow and there are days when everything I do is shaded by my sadness. I wrote elsewhere about how I don't mind it so much because it reminds me of how much of an impact she made in my life. 15 years of good company.
So here I am now, writing this all down (again), and wondering what's so really different now? I'm still stuck trying to accept myself where I happen to be: tired, a little worse for the wear, and constantly balancing my anxiety by learning to breathe better. Apparently I've been breathing wrong, or inefficiently, or something. I do notice that I hold my breath a lot.
It's past midnight and I need to get to sleep. I'm not sure when next I'll stumble upon this page again, but cheers to future me. I hope wherever you are, and whatever version of me you become is what you need at that time.
2023 came and went, as most years and I find myself at the beginning of trying to explain myself, when really all I've done most of the year was shackle myself to a backlit screen communicating endlessly through Slacks with coworkers about whatever the work crisis of the moment happens to be. So much of my job, in the interest of getting things done, is convincing people they need to work on the things I ask for versus other things that may be vying for their attention. I'm not really sure what I do anymore except type a lot.
At the start of the year, we adopted Zag, the dog equivalent to a homecoming king. He is by far the most joyful, carefree, and goofy dog to ever join my family; he demands affection and I'm obsessed with the freckles on his feet and nose.
Counter to Zag, Toby continues to be grumpy. It was in 2023 that we finally reconciled the fact that he will never be a social dog and is not meant for dog parks. He lives with great anxiety and he is the Loki to Zag's Thor. Last year we tried a course of Prozac which did nothing. Lately he's been on CBD oil and while it isn't a miracle cure, it seems to have dulled the edges of his panic and fear a tiny bit so that life isn't so uncomfortable.
Remy tiptoed into 2023, as I held my breath waiting for the shoe to drop on the liver cancer. Most of the year was actually pretty good though the later months proved to be more challenging as her muscles started to waste away, causing the loss of mobility. Watching her try to get up, or trip and fall was a struggle. In November, her appetite started to wan again and we took her for a vet visit before Thanksgiving where she was diagnosed with a fast-growing lymphoma. Her thyroid had already grown to the size of golf balls and the prognosis was a few weeks at best, with the doctor indicating it would likely become more uncomfortable for her.
On Monday, November 27, a kind vet visited the house and we let her go. I fed Remy fries and nuggets as she got sleepy, and she laid in my arms as she took her last breath. It's been about three months now and I am still crying over her absence. Grief casts a funny shadow and there are days when everything I do is shaded by my sadness. I wrote elsewhere about how I don't mind it so much because it reminds me of how much of an impact she made in my life. 15 years of good company.
So here I am now, writing this all down (again), and wondering what's so really different now? I'm still stuck trying to accept myself where I happen to be: tired, a little worse for the wear, and constantly balancing my anxiety by learning to breathe better. Apparently I've been breathing wrong, or inefficiently, or something. I do notice that I hold my breath a lot.
It's past midnight and I need to get to sleep. I'm not sure when next I'll stumble upon this page again, but cheers to future me. I hope wherever you are, and whatever version of me you become is what you need at that time.