I beamed at the morning even as I immediately began to sweat, feeling as though I'd stepped into a steam room rather than out my garage door. There were an army of ants in my recycling tub that I'd left at the curb yesterday. My lawn looked scraggly, weeds growing at different heights and in various clusters. But my pretty girl could see! So I wandered after her as she trotted down the street, feeling blessed to have one more day of the ordinary.
In the hour that we spent between waking and departing for the vet yesterday I said, "I'm right here," more than any other phrase.
"I'm right here," I'd offer gently when she turned her head in a sightless search for me as I frantically threw clutter on tables and off floors.
"I'm right here. Almost done," I called as I watched her pace while I was in the basement shower, wincing when she'd bump her nose on something and deciding not to condition my hair or shave my legs.
"I'm right here," I'd say when she stumbled over a step or hesitated before moving forward in the garage, knowing the gap between the Jeep and lawnmower was narrow and being unable to judge without the use of either eye.
I rested my hand on her back while I drove, reaching to rub her favorite spot - right above her tail - in hopes that it would comfort her. We stayed tethered together by her leash while at the vet - I'd tug when she'd venture too far and risk smacking her sniffer on something. And I sat with her on the elegant tiles that line the floor of the vet's office, petting and talking and wiping away tears.
"You need to instill confidence," Adam said to me upwards of a week ago. And though I've not mentioned it here, he's correct. I'm settled and productive and comfortable and talented, but unreliable. I get headaches, battle depression, worry over my dog. I have uterine fibroids, an aging pair of parents and a roof that leaked one time. I've been locked out of my car, jetlagged after travel and just plain didn't want to see people.
So there are times I work from home. Times I put in ridiculous hours at the office. Instances where I don't answer my phone or respond to email promptly. And while I'm good at my job - and I really am - if Adam wants someone solid and predictable and stable, that's probably not me. Which is not to say that I shouldn't work at it.
"I can over-communicate," I offered. "I'd promise to always show up and be nice and not snap at people, but that's not realistic. But I can promise to let you know if something happens or I don't feel well or I won't be immediately available."
So I have been. And it's helping, at least a little.
"So you asked me over email if we were done," John said when he called last night. "And the answer is yes - we're over before we ever really started."
And I nodded, admittedly hurt over the rejection but finally understanding why I couldn't properly predict him. He'd not been interested but trying to find a way to force it - I get that. Hell, I've done that. So I thanked him for letting me know, smiled sadly over how he didn't want to say 'it's not you - it's me' but managed to do it anyway and sighed a little when gently replacing the receiver.
I wanted him because he was solid and stable and predictable. And I'm not. But perhaps his presence would have soothed me - made me a bit less dramatic and less eager for sleep so the business in my brain can stop for a while. So I was more disappointed than heartbroken, twisting my mouth into a grimace and standing to throw out the flowers he'd given me.
"Done with that," I murmured as I rinsed the vase, upending it in the dish drainer and grabbing a bottle of water (which is so much less poetic than a glass of wine, but I'm being honest in this one). And after a moment's (or more) self-pity that nobody wanted to be 'right here' with me, I shrugged and flipped the cover open on my iPad and began to read a book.
"Hey, you," I said to Chienne when she curled up next to me. "It's eye drop time." And it takes us 30 minutes now to administer her medicine. We do the yellow bottle first, then wait the recommended 10 minutes before fetching the orange - 10 minutes - green - 10 minutes and white. I find it soothing somehow - the feeling of doing something aggressive to delay the stumbling blindness that will eventually find us.
So while blogging has been sporadic and of lower interest and quality of late (definition of 'of late' up to you), there's also comfort in knowing you're 'right there' so thank you for the comments and emails. Kisses and cuddles from Chienne and me.