The day began with Baby Love throwing up at 5am and ended with me preparing dinner alone while he threw up blood and a clear thick mess. It almost looked liked he ate tomatoes. But that would be impossible. He hasn’t been able to keep anything down since 6 am. Then 10 am when we tried to give him something bland like rice and broth… then at 10:45 he threw up the rest of the rice and what ever god forsaken livestock protien we’ve fed him. Since then he’s rested. Then I let him have some water since he was licking his paws constantly and at 7pm water gushed out of him like the Dancing Waters from Europe. Then finally at 9pm …
I cry.. I cry.. because I feel responsible… I say such horrible things about myself and then I have to realize that it’s not about me. It doesn’t matter what happened in the past. Blame be damed. Take care of the dog… You do what you can.
But at 60 I still feel limited, stupid and responsible for all the ills of the world or just my world. My anxiety breeds forgetfulness, attention deficit disorder and finally breaking things… live things, dead things, old things, new pants, peoples hearts, so much to be responsible for… so lacking is the theme of my devil who whispers in my ear. He yells… He sings actually a tune that I love… probably while tap dancing wearing top hat and tails… and I follow along until the tears flow and my eyes are as red as the exhausted dog at the foot of our bed.
Tomorrow we go to the Vet. I’ve called this evening and will beg for an opening.
Both of us didn’t sleep last night. My husband with his demons and I tossing in their tide being woke up by the wrenching of our dog… our Baby Love.
When does the booze stop dampening the spirit and throwing open the doors of old woes and loves.
I am no longer the Dan of 13 molested and played with by my parish priest…No longer the 18 who fell apart and quickly changed directions from Chicago to Denver… No longer 28 hating my father for not being able to cure my mother’s cancer Not 29 – 40 watching my friends die a quick death – purple blotches on their limbs and face, morphine the sail of their soul keeping their humor alive… No longer the man who sold his body for cheap – cheaper then an hourly wage when you figure in the months of soul sucking it ….
Stop… why even write this… it’s in journals up in the attic — why repeat.
Be here now… stop editing and story telling… fear will take you now where but where you have been before… so many times… Leave fear in the keys of the computer and face what you must and breathe…