This is Nibbles. He was lost yesterday, sometime between daycare and Nonna’s house, somewhere between backpacks and car seats and playrooms.
I found him late at night, just in time to take bedtime from tears to tucks.
And that’s about the only thing I managed to feel good about this week. I’m feeling defeated. I’m in the last long stretch of active treatment, or so we presume, until the next scan reveals my future, if I have one. The chemolite™️ side effects are accumulating, making my energy sputter out by 2pm, and introducing a new hell of intense joint and muscle pain. Work is no longer the reliable escape it once was; as people leave for better jobs and the economy has fits and starts, it feels too precarious. And Covid is roaring back, making the recent brief joys once again scary and risky for me with my damaged immune system, and of course my kids are still vulnerable.
Most distressing, Paul’s Dad, Rocky, my children’s stalwart grandfather, died two weeks ago after suffering a year of congestive heart failure. I will write a tribute to Rocky another day, and it may be private. It’s not entirely my place. But I do want to share that we are grieving, and I’m struggling to help my kids understand.
Sometimes it’s all overwhelming, and I just can’t do much more than scroll, or sleep, or cry.
Some nights, you are just inconsolable until Nibbles is back where he belongs.