Ennui? Angst? Weightiness? I don’t have the word for this.
My dog has butt problems. Little dogs tend to; it’s just that his aren’t resolving. He’s a senior rescue – maybe around 12 years old – and his medical past is unknown.
It’s been eight vet visits now, three types of steroid and around $1000. I’m putting him back on the food he was on mid-summer. Yes, I know about canned pumpkin. Yes, he gets regular exercise and always has fresh water. Apart from the discomfort of basically walking around with two large pebbles up his butt, exhaustion from fighting infection, and personality changes from steroids, he seems to be OK.
It might be cancer. Or his anal glands might have simply given up due to age. The fact is they aren’t working right and without steroids, his butt gets infected and swollen and risks exploding, doing him terrible and possibly fatal harm.
On steroids he’s aggressive and not his bright, cuddly self most of the time.
So I’m googling and weighing options and attending appointments and basically suffering the weight of sole responsibility for another being’s life. It’s taking whatever wind I had managed to manufacture out of my sails.
I’m inescapably noting similarities to my last few years of being my mother’s decision maker. Not knowing what I’m dealing with, being unable to ascertain how serious the situation is. Weighing costs and benefits. Contingency planning.
The main difference isn’t really that this is a dog and my mother was human. It’s more that I chose to adopt a dog whereas the responsibility of my mother was put on me. The similarity is the despondent weariness in my core. That and the endlessly echoing sense of being alone. I have many good friends and a bit of family I can talk to and request support from. But like with my mother, it comes down to me, my choices and actions and beliefs and values and personal needs.
I know the calendar is simply a human construct to try to manage our concept of time, but I think I believed 2019 would contain only good news and successes. Maybe I should have crossed my fingers or wished on a star. Well, there’s plenty of stars – better late than never.