Enforced Stillness

Sitting here this morning, I must be quite a sight, with a gigantic patch taped over my left eye and glasses slung catywhompus across that, so my right eye can read the fine print on my small screen. My partner snuck out with the girls, the human boys are still asleep, and Nicholai and I have some quiet time to hang out together in the early morning, before I head back to the eye doctor.

Mr. Pickle's breathing is becoming more labored and he pants much of the time. I feel a swelling in his abdomen (spleen enlarging?) that hasn't been there before. We sleep under a down comforter and keep the air conditioner running; though I am aware of its energy sucking power, Nicholai relaxes, breathes easily, and sleeps well only when it's nice and cool.

The two of us will have plenty of time for chilling over the next couple of weeks. On Monday I noticed a small cloud in part of the visual field of my left eye, like the moon rising slowly from the inner corner and I could not see past it. After a strenuous bike ride home, I called an ophthalmologist (who immediately advised no strenuous activity), but more strikingly, got me in right away. Soon, I was swept off in appointments to a specialist and whisked to surgery under anesthesia. While it was fortunate that I caught it right away, it was unfortunate that the retina of my left eye sustained a horseshoe shaped tear at the edge. Left alone, the retina would surely detach as I ran, bounced, jumped, and generally did not sit still through my life. Detached retinas do not send visual images to the brain, hence the unusual doctor-office urgency.

So, now I sit here, confined to sitting and lying on one side for a couple of days. The list of don'ts for the next couple of weeks is long and daunting – no seeing clients, no walking the dogs, no jogging or running, no bicycle riding, no exercise, no bending over, no yard or garden work, no strenuous housework, no lifting, no driving. I can't fly on a plane, which means I'll miss our family's once-every-three-years reunion next week. "Can I do anything?" I asked the doc in a whiney voice. "Can I walk?" "Can you just mosey?" the doctor asked me. "I mean, stop and smell the roses, not get your heart rate up, kind of mosey?" I chuckled, not my style. "Well, I guess I have to, don't I?"

This afternoon, a friend will drive me with Nicholai to a scheduled veterinary appointment; I know he needs it; it may even be time to pull out some of the bigger guns we've been saving for "when the time comes."

Next week is the anniversary of the passing of Nicholai's best friend-dog, Maya. Last summer I held my breath all week, hoping against hope that he would not follow her path. This year, I just hope that Nicholai does what is best for him. Over the past week as I've noticed his breathing becoming raspy, I've whispered in his ear "Go find Maya! Go find Molly and Kali! Find them!" I want him to know he owes me nothing, can go whenever he needs, doesn't have to take care of me. He looks at me and cocks his head – possibly thinking, what are you talking about, they're not here, dingbat." It's true, I don't know where any of us go when we die, or if he'll actually find Kali and Molly and Maya (and Dempsey and Tierney, et al) somewhere in a heavenly field of grass and squirrels and bones to chew, but what the hell – I like to envision it. I like to think that Nicholai will go on somehow, that his spirit will endure, that all my former dog friends are happy somewhere.

These next few days, I hope to take some moseying walks with Mr. Pickle around the neighborhood, smellin' the roses and taking it easy like the gimped up pair we are.