The four-footed one is a fan of plush green eggs that squeak with the slightest touch. She will ignore all of her other toys for one of these eggs. I believe half the appeal of these toys are that they fit under chairs and such. She likes to hide her eggs under the chairs and then demand that someone (human) find them for her. Once they have been uncovered she wants to run around the house with an egg in her mouth while said human chases her. She will happily squeak the egg the whole time.
The thing is, this human is not a fan of the plush green eggs. I was at first because they bring her such joy. Alas the whole hunting and chasing not to mention the non-stop squeaking has taken all the fun out of the egg thing for me. I guess this is why we do Easter Egg hunts only once a year!
Perhaps though what is the biggest turn off my four-footed one’s fanaticism when it comes to her egg. The obsession of her’s for all things plush green egg is too much to handle at times. She has, dear finds, crossed the line from fan to that crazed fanatic that we typically see in the sporting world.
To help her overcome this obsession we take the eggs away now and then. (For the record if we don’t take them and put them up high she will spend hours squeaking the, with no regard to human ears.) But the fanatic in her is not so easily subdued. A compulsion, unyielding, sets in and she just continues to seek out her precious eggs.
I suppose there are far worse things for her to be fanatical about. Perhaps if the eggs weren’t so noisy… But the lesson is that anything can become too much, too-consuming so it is important to step back from it now and then.
She said she was tired of pretending that her life could carry-on as normal without him. She said it was too much to try to smile when she was crying on the inside and no one seemed to measure up to him. She said her heart still belonged to him and always would.
I know she cried a river of tears which had flowed into an ocean when they first decided to just get on with their lives. I didn’t think much of more of it over the months since they separated, she seemed to be doing fine. She is one of the strongest women I know and does not give an inch. She is one of the most unyielding women I know when it comes to making a decision and yet here she was telling me that she could no longer pretend that her life was okay and that she had moved on from him.
A part of me wanted to remind her how he had left her hanging while he was out in the wind. I wanted to point out how many times he went to chase something that caught his eye while she waited for him. I wanted to remind her that saying no was best thing should could have done where he was concerned, but I remember the way she always looked at him. The way she looked now when she talked about him.
So when she told me what she wanted, that she was going to track him down again, I told her that I that if it made her happy or provided her with some sort of resolution than it was surely the right decision.
I couldn’t answer her question years ago about why she was attracted to a man who was no good for her. I still can’t answer it, nor can I answer why he is the one who makes her smile and makes her look a certain way. I don’t think love is a rational thing and therefore I have no logic to explain it. But I do know what it is to find that person who makes you smile and steals all the space in your heart. Sometimes you can’t explain things, it simply is what it is.
Those of us who can pretend that we don’t love someone or need that someone in our lives are cheating ourselves in some way, but by the same token we have to protect ourselves. Do you take the short whirlwind romance and perhaps the loneliness in the winter nights or do you look for a logical choice?
The four-footed one decided today was a good day for Beloved to take her on an adventure. Just after the sun was up despite the fact he worked late into the night. She isn’t interested in how much sleep he gets, perhaps be uses she thinks he naps like she does.
With a bit of grumbling Beloved got on with getting ready for his early adventure while I rested in bed. In fairness the four-footed one and I normally partake of these journeys, except when I do not feel well. And I only stayed in bed for half an hour before I got out of bed to see to their breakfasts.
Typically these adventures are an hour to an hour and a half, which is why I figured after a half hour I’d be able to get out of bed and slowly make their breakfasts. That way when they came home they’d have freshly prepared food. Except as slow as my stiff fingers were, I still had the food ready long before they came home.
Beloved phoned to say they were just about home and needed towels and water. When I asked him why since it wasn’t wet when they left, he said one word “mud”. Now the four-footed one loves mud, first thing in the morning when it’s cool and smushy she loves to coat her paws in it. Normally I just hose her feet off once we are home since I’ve got towels nearby to wipe the water up.
This morning she decided to give Beloved a real treat by forcing him to join her in the mud. Because she evidently did her best to impersonate a pig wallowing in the mud. So she needed a bath before breakfast and I’m fairly certain that is not something my doctor would consider resting. Beloved was too busy tending to his clean-up to bathe the dog, so I did it. It’s just easier than having to clean the carpets and such.
Over his no longer fresh breakfast Beloved told me that these adventures need to be less adventuresome going forward. He said he cannot handle this much adventure before breakfast. He simply isn’t that adventuresome of a man.
The soundtrack to the days of my misspent youth filled the air as I sliced and measured. The four-footed one danced back and forth near my feet. It wasn’t so much the music that had her dancing as the hope of something good falling down to her level. We had spent a few hours enjoying the music, the weather and creating in the kitchen when Beloved came in.
He wrinkled his brow at my taste in music and politely asked that I turn it down. He mumbled something about aliens from the next galaxy being able to hear the music, but I promise you it really wasn’t that loud. It’s more a case of Beloved and I enjoying different things including the type of music we enjoy.
Pits moments like these, when he comes home from something very serious and formal that I am reminded of the gap in our age as well as the different childhoods we had. Where I associate the music of my misspent youth to innocence and fun, Beloved associates the same type of music to a more serious time in his life. His early teenage years were jot spent visiting amusement parks, beaches and such. Instead he worked to help bring home money or so he could eat more than one meal a day.
His memories, associated with this soundtrack are so different from mine, so filled with more serious and real issues. Alas the music of his early years is stuff I have only ever heard on the radio that played “easy listening” stuff. In other words the stuff my parent so out do site now on even though Beloved is nowhere near their age.
When he came back into the kitchen, looking less formal and adult, I turned off the music while he put on some swing music. That way we could dance, sort of, together in the tiny kitchen while we finished pulling the meal together. It’s our compromise, he that we do a million times over in the small space. We turn off our individual soundtracks and found one that pleases both of us!
Sometimes, when he is concentrating on something, the scar that Beloved has just there seems more prominent and I want to run my finger across it, not to erase it because I rather like it, but to soothe it.
Beloved would tell you if it didn’t involve a great deal of needles, he’d have the scar removed, which would be a shame because then it would leave me with one less thing to day-dream about when he is a thousand miles a way. I used to wonder exactly how he got that scar, just there above the eyebrow like that. It took a lifetime before he’d even tell me what had happened so I used to dream up ways for it to have occurred.
He got it when he was under the age of ten. He and a group of friends climbed up to a roof of an old building and as the adage goes, what goes up must come down and so he did, falling all the way to the stone floor below. The fall resulted broken bones, open wounds and what a river of tears. It also meant ages in the hospital recovering and more than a few permanent reminders that he cannot fly.
Over the course of his life, Beloved has acquired additional memories in the form of scars and such. When he is in a good mood, he is more likely to tell the story behind those scars; some of the incidents are more incredible than I could ever come up with and others are far more mundane. He has a small, almost perfect circular scar on one of his feet and a huge jagged scar that reminds me of a lightening bolt on one of his upper arms. I’ve traced each one of them at some time or another as he told me how they came to be.
Perhaps it isn’t the scar so much as the memory it ties him to that makes him want to have it removed. Beloved doesn’t talk much about his childhood and I suspect he has decided it neatly into the “good” things and the “bad” things that happened as he was growing up. A sister once told me that after the accident there seemed to be more “bad” tBhangra “good” in the family household.
I know that even if he were to have the scar removed, the memory all the baggage that comes with it, would still be there. And that’s a pain that time cannot fully erase, just as my finger cannot fully soothe the scar.
When I first got diagnosed with lupus, one of the doctors strongly suggested I get a dog if I didn’t already have one. At the time I did not have a dog and I didn’t think it was such a great idea. Not after being told I had a serious illness that could kill me if I didn’t get help to manage it properly.
When I saw the same Doctor a few months later, he asked me if I had a gotten the dog yet. He explained that dogs are wonderful for helping to relax people, reduce stress and make sure that people stay in a routine of getting out and such. What he couldn’t possibly know is that I tend to like my dogs a little on the unusual side. Rarely are these dogs relaxed and sedate. By the same token, these dogs insist on attention and quality time.
What this doctor and several others failed to recognize is that there is something healing about the unconditional love you get from a four-footed friend. If you have an off day, feel like rubbish or what have you, well they still love you and accommodate as best they can. If that means that you can only curl up and rest, you get a short demand for a walk and then they get in resting right near you. Sometimes that’s the best kind of medicine you can get because it does so much for your soul that it helps heal you a little.
I share a bit about my life with lupus, how it impacts me and a bit about the other folks in my life. The thing is, with May being Lupus Awareness month, what I want to do is shed some awareness on how my lupus isn’t just mine to cope with.
When I was diagnosed with lupus I made some rash assumptions about life based on some out-of-date opinions I had been given. What I had heard made me decide I would probably have a short life, no long-term relationships or such. Of course that was a number of years ago.
When Beloved and I met, I inelegantly announced I had lupus as though it was the elephant in the room. Beloved simply raised an eyebrow and carried on as though I had said I had a hangnail. What I didn’t know was that after we met he went home and did what he does best, lots of research.
He didn’t come into this relationship with his eyes closed. But he also didn’t count on becoming acquainted with so many specialists and hospitals. He certainly didn’t count on a crash course in biology, medical terminology and injections. Yet these are all things he has mastered, as well as reading my moods and movements to predict flares.
Beloved has mastered the art of making my apologies for absenteeism. He has become a professional at making small talk about my health without giving away a lot of information.
Regardless of all the research and such Beloved has completed, he has to learn to adapt every day to zigs and zags of lupus. When my body is in a flare, Beloved must take care of everything he does plus what I normally do and manage the four-footed one. Sometimes, when he drops his guard, I see the worry and the pain in his eyes. I notice the way he has aged and wonder about the weight he must carry because he loves me, despite lupus. How many people would be willing to love not just a person, but also an unpredictable illness that seems to take and take without ever letting up?
The thing with loving someone who has a chronic illness is that you must take it n both regardless of how draining it can be, how it can take over your healthy life entirely. It takes a special person, in my eyes, to look beyond and accept the flaws and damage of the illness as well.