7:20am
I have been sitting here at the laptop at my kitchen table, reading the New York Times online and drinking coffee for the last hour and fifteen minutes. When I sat down, it was still pitch dark outside, the full moon shining like a spotlight in the western sky. I have been sitting here, the daylight slowly rolling in, the sound of Simon's sleeping breath as rhythmic as little waves quietly lapping the bottom of an anchored boat.
The lighter it gets, the farther away a long restless night becomes. A night illuminated by the cold beam of an LED flashlight, then a dim yellow moon of a halogen reading lamp beside my bed, on very low, at 1:30, 2:45, 3:30am. A little light in what feels a cavern of a dark bedroom in a disjointed, timeless, unsettled night.
Why Simon was so restless last night is still a mystery. He has been getting up once, at most twice in the night and settling back down. But not last night. He would not be comforted, but did not seem uncomfortable, just pacing, restless. His eye looked OK, but I still did the massage to bring the pressure down. Went out to pee, came back in. Out, in, again, times two. Finally, without any clue as to why, he curled up on his bed and promptly went to sleep. I immediately followed suit. Until a dark and cold 6am. Time to get up and start the cycle of his meds again.
Why am I writing this? To vent about a bad night's sleep? A sick pet? (both of which fall under the heading of bourgeois suffering.) Well, Ok, yes. But really it is to share one of my many ah-ha moments that have been popping up through this "practice" of Simon's glaucoma.
Everything is Better In the Daylight.
There is such an immersion in 'being in the moment' with this whole experience. It is a full-out crash course intensive retreat. What else can you be but minutely observant in the moment with a creature who cannot articulate his needs, but can only communicate subtle critical changes in his condition with subtle behavioral and physical clues? If I try to anticipate or expect him to play along a scenario I will be flummoxed every time. Every. Time. So the only way to get through this is to just be in the NOW and take clues from him. Needless to say, this is much easier when I am rested, warm and not wondering if I am going to have to rush him to Gaithersburg in the middle of a cold, dark night. So I do my best. Which often falls short of good. But I keep at it, getting back on task, back to the 'breath' of right here now. Sensing what the moment requires, and while I am doing that, the sun is coming up...
And everything is better in the daylight.
We'll make it through another day.
Naps may be required.
I have been sitting here at the laptop at my kitchen table, reading the New York Times online and drinking coffee for the last hour and fifteen minutes. When I sat down, it was still pitch dark outside, the full moon shining like a spotlight in the western sky. I have been sitting here, the daylight slowly rolling in, the sound of Simon's sleeping breath as rhythmic as little waves quietly lapping the bottom of an anchored boat.
The lighter it gets, the farther away a long restless night becomes. A night illuminated by the cold beam of an LED flashlight, then a dim yellow moon of a halogen reading lamp beside my bed, on very low, at 1:30, 2:45, 3:30am. A little light in what feels a cavern of a dark bedroom in a disjointed, timeless, unsettled night.
Why Simon was so restless last night is still a mystery. He has been getting up once, at most twice in the night and settling back down. But not last night. He would not be comforted, but did not seem uncomfortable, just pacing, restless. His eye looked OK, but I still did the massage to bring the pressure down. Went out to pee, came back in. Out, in, again, times two. Finally, without any clue as to why, he curled up on his bed and promptly went to sleep. I immediately followed suit. Until a dark and cold 6am. Time to get up and start the cycle of his meds again.
Why am I writing this? To vent about a bad night's sleep? A sick pet? (both of which fall under the heading of bourgeois suffering.) Well, Ok, yes. But really it is to share one of my many ah-ha moments that have been popping up through this "practice" of Simon's glaucoma.
Everything is Better In the Daylight.
There is such an immersion in 'being in the moment' with this whole experience. It is a full-out crash course intensive retreat. What else can you be but minutely observant in the moment with a creature who cannot articulate his needs, but can only communicate subtle critical changes in his condition with subtle behavioral and physical clues? If I try to anticipate or expect him to play along a scenario I will be flummoxed every time. Every. Time. So the only way to get through this is to just be in the NOW and take clues from him. Needless to say, this is much easier when I am rested, warm and not wondering if I am going to have to rush him to Gaithersburg in the middle of a cold, dark night. So I do my best. Which often falls short of good. But I keep at it, getting back on task, back to the 'breath' of right here now. Sensing what the moment requires, and while I am doing that, the sun is coming up...
And everything is better in the daylight.
We'll make it through another day.
Naps may be required.
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