It's been a month since our little Bob was diagnosed with an untreatable cancerous tumor. We thought we'd lose him in those first few days, but he's soldiering on. Check out his daily #boblives photos on Instagram and feel free to stop in and give him a cuddle.
The news from Bob's vet is bad. It reminds me of that scene in St. Elmo's fire where Mare Winningham takes Rob Lowe to her parent's house for dinner and her mother whispers the words she finds too terrible to say aloud.
And so we're losing him – the tiniest thing I ever saw – my bestest puppy ever and an emissary for his breed. And I know, he's just a dog, but he's my dog and so this fucked up world has found another way to break my heart.
Posted in Being
Tagged beasties, grief, pups
Especially in light of the anxiety I mentioned yesterday, I'm the kind of person who finds it hard to relax. So when I do, outside of my normal routine (on the couch with Bob, Ollie and a glass of something anesthetizing) it is a small miracle. Friday evening found us in the garden at Heritage Oak Winery, with friends, food, music and of course, wine. The winery is on the outskirts of Acampo in what has become the valley's "wine country".It's an hour north of MoTown and was definitely worth the trip.
Heritage Oak Winery is one of those ridiculously charming vineyards, with the family farm house, ancient trees and bird-watching tours. Their summer Stress Therapy sessions are an invitation to enjoy the sunset and sample their wines. We brought our own picnic and paired the wines with Manchego, Soppressatta and a hunk of roasted garlic bread that our friend Kimmie brought along.
If you're in the area, pick up a bottle of their Zinfidelity, a happy mistake of Zinfandel and Cabernet Sauvignon.
And if sunset is impending, give me a holler. I'll scare up some fancy Spanish cheese and share a bottle with you.
I’ve been trying for weeks to string a few sentences together, but I can’t. The focus isn’t there. The words are a jumble in my head, and then on the page and erased moments later. Yet again, I'm trying to write about the anxiety, not the social bitch I grew up with but the one that results in visions of calamity on a daily basis.
Like the Australian public service announcement that became the game Dumb Ways to Die, I envision thoughtless mishaps with devastating results. Stepping on wet tile in the bathroom, I see myself falling backward, smashing my head on the tub. Reaching for the switch on the garbage disposal, I cringe, imagining fingers and hands mutilated by its blades. On the road, an infinite number of scenarios present themselves. And it’s not like the I-might-drive-into-this-wall days. No, this is more like I'm the man in the street, about to be blindsided by the bus.
I get what the root of the problem is. The links between anxiety and bereavement have been well-documented, but knowing where it comes from and fixing it are vastly different things.
In the phobic realm, the excessive fear of accidents is called Dystychiphobia. For me though, it doesn't feel excessive. It mostly just feels like knowing, we are never as safe as we think we are.
Posted in Being
Tagged anxiety, fear, grief