Home from the hospital.
As I
write tonight, Jamie is sitting on the patio strumming his guitar to soothe
Sophie, and it works—she is sound asleep. I would love to have him inside, but
who would interrupt a man playing guitar for a sick and miserable dog. And for
me, it’s a joy just to know he’s right there—I can hear the guitar faintly, and
I can see him through the French doors.
Sophie
may be home, but the news is not good. She apparently has a mass in her
stomach. There is some chance that it is a foreign object she ate and has been
unable to pass, but it is more likely a tumor. Colin quickly reminded me not
all tumors are malignant. Sophie had the poor timing to get sick, twice now,
over a long holiday weekend, so it will be Tuesday before we know what’s next.
It will be a long weekend.
Meantime,
Jordan is taking extraordinary care of her, doing all the things I can’t get
down on the ground to do. The vet’s office gave her instructions on how to feed
with a syringe (Soph is not at all interested in food, this dog who used to
steal whatever she could off counters). Jordan also successfully gave an
insulin shot tonight—the only agonized reaction was from Jamie. Soph didn’t
seem to mind. She’s terribly lethargic, and I miss my wild, mischievous child,
but we can all tell she is glad to be home. And we are glad to have her. Jordan
plans to sleep on my couch tonight, so she can listen for her.
Junie among the flowers. |
Suppertime in the cottage. |
We’ve
talked of kids—my grandkids—and, with Christmas fresh in our minds, started
planning for Christmas 2023 which will be an Alter Family Christmas. We’ve
talked about food and fun times in the past, and Jamie’s disappointment that
the idea of taking me for a train trip won’t work—the bedrooms, he says, are
not what they appear in the pictures but are small with bunk beds. He keeps
saying, “But you love trains, and I like them too.” I told him it’s true, I do love
a train trip, but like many things, train trips are among the memories I
treasure. It’s hard to make someone fifty years of age understand that in my
eighties there are many things I know I can’t or won’t do again, but it’s okay
because I have the wonderful memories. Train trips among them—and my memories
start when I was a very young child, and my parents used to take me on Pullman
sleepers from Chicago to Toronto to see the Canadian relatives. But I am
touched by Jamie’s determination—he is now working on Plan B. He says he wants
to give an experience, not material goods.
Jamie and his fire
Jamie
lit a fire in the pit on my patio, and he, Jordan, and I sat out there. Jordan
provided me with my insulated jacket (some forty years old), a blanket for my
legs, and a heater. Jame built a fire that, as I told him, would have made Jack
Boyd, his old Boy Scout leader, proud. Sophie lay on the patio, the small
evergreen tree was festooned with Christmas lights, and that light system
Jordan put up sprayed tiny green lights on the trees, my children’s faces, and
the wall of the neighbor’s casita on the other side of my yard. It was an
absolutely idyllic moment, and I kept telling myself to relax and enjoy. It
doesn’t get much better. And I am still making memories.
Mellow
moods don’t come easily to me, but tonight has put me in a mellow mood,
grateful for the blessings of my life, for children who care so much about me
and my dog and who I love so much. I am optimistic about 2023.
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