The five words I keep on repeat in my head

I’m having a terrible time.

Last week I learned my dog, Charlie, has cancer. Probably, anyway. That’s what the vet thinks with the mass in his throat “quacking like a duck, walking like a duck” and all. We’ll find out the test results this week.

He’s also not exactly my dog. Maybe spiritually he feels like my dog. See he was my parents’s dog, and I remember when they got him, all wild and full of life. My parents were in their 60s and I’m sure never considered that Charlie would outlive their ability to take care of him. But my mom died three years ago. And my dad has Alzheimer’s. So my in-laws adopted him as well as Sadie, who was my grandfather’s dog but he died in 2020. It was honestly heroic of them—giving a home to these two creatures I loved so dearly at a time when my caregiving was at an all-time high. Lucky for us and conveniently for all, when my in-laws travel (which they do a fair bit of in retirement) the dogs come stay with us, often for many weeks at a time.

So, you see, not only do I love these good, sweet, big-hearted dogs immensely, but they also represent for me my duty to my parents and grandparents—to do for the dogs what they can’t do themselves. They represent an era of my life that is, and has been, ending: that time when I had my parents, alive and well; when we were all together in what now feel like “the good old days.” They also represent allergies because in a very fucking rude twist of fate, my eyes go nuts whenever they’re here, and that’s not even because of the crying.

They say “the body keeps the score” but you know what else the body keeps? The instruction manual for crisis. Certainly a terminal diagnosis for your mother is different from a possible diagnosis for your dog, but nevertheless, my body said, IT’S GO TIME and I immediately went into triage mode: canceling plans, imagining different scenarios, securing resources, entering a state of hyper vigilance. For example, right now as I type this, I can’t help but glance up at the dogs every 10 seconds to make sure they’re breathing and okay. Is this necessary or helpful? No. Does my body think it is? 1000% and won’t let me get away without it.

And with all hard experiences, there’s the pain of living through it, and the extra helping of self-inflicted pain of wondering if you’re living through the pain properly or if you could be doing it better and WHY THE HELL AREN’T YOU.

For example, I actually had a good bit of time today while the dogs were sleeping, but instead of 1/ being so productive working or 2/ being so kind to myself curled up watching TV and enjoying a reprieve, I 3/ did ten little unimportant tasks nervously and looked for the next shoe to drop.

I think: Shouldn’t I be exercising more this week? The dogs don’t take up every minute. Arden’s friends’ families seem to be doing all these fun and enriching activities on the weekends, shouldn’t we? I should take advantage of these days and cook! And will we ever move abroad? At least write this week, Bree. I mean, I guess I’m here.

Is there a lesson in all of this? Other than death is inevitable and life is just managing decline?

Ugh, nobody take me to a party this week.

If there’s any wisdom I can pass along, any strategy of making it through the hard times (even if that hard time is just it being January), it’s that I say these five words to myself, on repeat: