Sleepless in Missoula

No specific thoughts plagued me during the late hours of night and the wee hours of the morning, still I tossed and turned with endless restlessness. No position felt comfortable, I could not let myself drift off to sleep. It was as if the community of trillions of cells that make up "me," swirled in a general anxious response to the big "C," expressing the vulnerability I feel about cancer in my dog, cancer in my sister. I control what I can – good food, few chemicals in the house or the grounds, filtered water, the best attitude I can muster. Still …

Nicholai is not a bed-sleeping kind of guy. He likes to stretch out at night, and doesn't want to be kicked or nudged, or overly snuggled, so he finds his comfort on the cool floor or a comfy large dog bed. However, when I rose at one a. m. to chase down a warm glass of milk, he padded behind me to the kitchen, hoping I know, for a swig of milk for him. Whatever his motivation, I found his presence a comfort. Returning to the bedroom, he hopped onto the tall bed, and snuggled there until my restless movements shooed him off to find his own space again.

Today, tired muscles, droopy eyes, and a quiet affect are remnant of my sleepless night. I plod slowly through coffee, breakfast, reading, and shower. Mr. Pickle follows me everywhere; he is my shadow, my bodyguard. As I stand precisely folding clean clothes and making neat piles on the bed – pants, shirts, undies, socks – he lies quiet on his bolster bed, regarding me. After a few moments, he rolls to his side, lifts his back leg, paws the air with his front foot and whines at me. I know this invitation/command. "Stop what you are doing, come and be with me, pet my belly." With a small chuckle, I leave the laundry behind and join my guy on the floor.

I know the drill and so I stroke his chest and belly. He pushes against me – not away, but into – with his front leg, and then relaxes on his side. I think we're finished and start to get up and my good buddy pulls at my arm with his "arm." "Okay," I say out loud, and stretch out on the floor with my head on the bolster, my hands curled in front of my face. Nicholai lets out a big sigh, plops back onto his side, places his front paw precisely in my outstretched palm, and begins to snore. For the first time in a week, I begin to let go of planning, helping, supporting, cooking; give big sisterhood a rest. For the first time since I heard the news "invasive ductal cancer," I stop a moment and tears fill my eyes while my great friend holds my hand.

How did he know and whatever will I do without him?