A confession

I’m contrite this morning, because I was really cranky last night. Just ask Jordan, who bears the brunt of it, simply because she’s here and handy. I know she wishes there were siblings close for her to consult with when I get this way, but Austin, Tomball, and Frisco are a ways distant.

I’m cranky because I’m frustrated by all the restrictions placed on me—physical and emotional. I can’t put full weight on my left foot, I can’t bend over, I can’t cross my legs, I can’t get my left leg at an angle less than 90 degrees. But I think it’s the emotional frustrations that bother me most. I can’t be left alone, although Jordan does leave me for short spells while she runs in the house—I have to promise to sit at my desk or stay in bed. Most of the time I have a caregiver. Now I ask you about the sense in this: today I had a lovely lady I liked a lot, but she’s 84 years old and half my size.

I lost my good disposition when Jordan announced I would have a caregiver on Sunday morning because Jacob is to be an acolyte, and she wants to go to church. I sort of look forward to weekends as a vacation from caregivers. Most of the ladies who have spent time with me are pleasant. I like them, genuinely. But in my small quarters, it’s annoying to have some always present, especially if they’re inclined to be talkative. I crave solitude.

For some reason, I decided in my fog of unhappiness to make my dog the focus of the issue. For almost three weeks, she lived in the main house with Jordan, Christian, Jacob, and their two dogs. She got treats, she slept on the bed, she had a generally good time. So when I came home to the cottage, she didn’t instantly transition back to thinking of this as home. And they all let her into the house any time she wanted to go.

Probably I was a little too firm in insisting they leave her outside, where she’ll default to me house. But daily, she has gotten more used to spending time with me. She sleeps on my bed intermittently during the night, and cuddles up to me as much as she can. I’m always having to warn her off my bad leg.

Jordan and Christian are cooperative in this effort—Jordan insists Sophie knows whose dog she is and where she lives, but Christian says he understands completely how I feel. Sophie isn’t talking about itA.