I like that people have service dogs, who support them during times of need. Here at Tweddley Manor, we tend to think of Arthur as a disservice dog, because his method of support is uhm… interesting:
Carrying something ballbustingly heavy? Here, let me skip around under your feet to remind you it is better to be nimble.
Something stressful, happening at the front door? Why, let me bark incessantly so it’s impossible to hear a word of this potentially unsettling information.
Or, say, for example, you’ve fallen and broken your wrist, why don’t I run around you, while you try to get back on your feet, wagging my tail, and doing all my cutest moves to try and cheer you up?
And yet, though he is not at all practically empathetic, he is surprisingly sensitive.
I don't know what woke him the other night - it could have been the overnight rain, it could have been helicopters. It could have been any of a gazillion sounds that affect LA at night. Either way, when you find yourself awake because of the sound of your dog’s bones rattling against the floor, clearly something has to be done.
And it's not like you can just talk it through. Though Arthur responds eagerly to words like ‘snack’ or ‘breakfast’ or ‘walk’, should you try asking, “Honey, is something bothering you?” even when terrified, he’ll stare at you like you’ve completely lost your mind.
So, after a couple of attempts to soothe my small, bone-rattling pal, we opted for a thunder jacket and a wee bit of Gabapentin wrapped in chicken.
(BTW, “A thunder jacket and a wee bit of Gabapentin wrapped in chicken,” should be the name of Arthur's first album, should he ever get the opportunity to record one - don’t worry, he won’t.)
Anyway, I don't enjoy a 3 am task. It requires extra focus - especially when that task involves drugging another creature - so half an hour later, when Arthur is snoozing happily in his bed, I am lying in mine, fully awake.
There is something about that hour - between 3am and 4am - when whatever thoughts that might wander through your mind, ought to be accompanied by scary music. Each thought at that time of the night feels like a regret, a resentment, an obsessive thought, a warning, or a terrifying realisation. You might try counting sheep, but before long, you’ll find they’re being chased by bloodthirsty wolves.
Mostly what was going through my mind was resentment at the apparent en-shittification of anything technological. I resent that my phone, and my computer, relentlessly fucking auto-suggest what words I might be considering writing. “How about I focus on the words and sentences, buddy, and you keep your system focused on remembering how to talk to the printer, or not losing your wifi?”
And, I am still miffed that all of our websites went down last week because of malware that came from the site that we pay to support the websites.
That cycle of resentment kept me going for a good ten minutes. Because there's nothing like having circling thoughts about something you have absolutely no control over, to help aid restful sleep.
I considered distracting myself with bigger picture fear about what's going on in the world, and instantly rejected it. Even during the witching hour, there's no making sense of that one.
So, lying in the dark, while Arthur snored peacefully in his bed on one side of me, and Mark snored more enthusiastically on the other side of me, I tried to clear my mind and let myself recognize how I was feeling.
Unsurprisingly, what I recognized was that I was afraid. I say ‘unsurprisingly’ because I reckon, like most sane creatures, I've been running a constant low-grade fear since around 2016. But this fear was more localized, and firmly health based.
I have spent most of this year in some process of physical repair. But now, I really am feeling so much better - so much so, I'm thinking of painting the dining room. My middle-of-the-night-you’re-not-getting-any-sleep thoughts considered swirling into the possibility of new dining room decor. The colors, the costings, the practicalities. But no, determined to get to the grips of this, I corralled my thoughts into working out what exactly I’m afraid of.
The answer was complicated. Everything and nothing. From the prospective destruction of the largest thing in the world, to the potential loss of the tiniest moment. But the conclusion came into my head like the ringing of a tiny - and very fucking annoying- bell. “I'm afraid what they'll say tomorrow.”
The next morning, I was sluggish. And I wasn’t the only one. Arthur looked particularly crumpled, like he'd been up all night smoking a bong.
Nevertheless, I went to physical therapy. Down to once a week now, my wrist is so much better. Soon I will have graduated, and the friends I have met there as therapists, will be just regular friends, who I'll meet for coffee now and again. Breakages do heal. Limbs do find their strength again. Even shitty unexpected stories do come to an end.
When I come home. Arthur is happy to see me. Not particularly ‘jumpy around happy’, more ‘very waggy tailed, big sparkly-eyed, happy’, like a little canine extra off the set of Cheech and Chong. I give him a small piece of leftover pizza, and afterwards, he observes me like I’m some kind of Deity.
I don't have much time to hang around though, before I'm off to the Oncologist. It’s been five years since the last tumor, and I've had all sorts of scans and tests to ‘celebrate’. There's not one part of my body that hasn't been X-rayed or prodded. If there's something to find, they're going to have found it.
I've been worried about this appointment for weeks, but today I'm too tired to be anything other than low-grade anxious. This is a good thing because when I’m sitting in the waiting room, I can’t be bothered to tell the obligatory two women, who are talking so loudly on their phones they don't need phones at all, to shut the fuck up. One lady is spouting Russian to her pal. Though I don’t know what they’re talking about, I do know they’re both fond of a chat because the Russian woman helpfully has her pal on speakerphone. Because nothing at all says ‘I care about those around me’ like yelling about trivial shite down your mobile.
I do wonder to myself if every medical waiting room has to have at least two people yelling on their phone. Maybe there’s an agency for them, assigning them to certain facilities and taking 10% cut. Just like Arthur is a disservice dog, maybe they're disservice people, here to distract us from our worries by being as fucking annoying as possible. Though the terribly skinny woman in the headscarf and the mask, leaning over her walker, trying to find her breath, doesn’t seem to be that entertained.
And later, when I move through to the examining room to get my results, I'm too tired to do much more than listen.
So when they tell me most effusively, how my scans and bloods are brilliant, and that really I have as much chance of getting breast cancer as anyone else now, I just nod. And when they congratulate me and enthusiastically advise me that, though I obviously have to check in every 6 months, their main recommendation is to go and enjoy my life, I smile.
And then maybe because I’m sleep deprived, but when I’m leaving, I can’t find anything to say other than thank you.
When I get home, Arthur is evidently of the opinion that there should be more pizza. Much to his disappointment, I disagree and take him for a walk instead.
It is hard when you’re in the middle of a story to believe that it will ever come to an end. And it is impossible when you’re in pain or fear to remember what it feels like to not be in pain or fear. But the only things that do stay circling into infinity are those thoughts that happen between 3am and 4am. Everything else, one day, comes to a conclusion, and prepared for or not, new stories just begin.
It’s been a foggy week here in Tweddley Manor, and I can’t entirely tell you what I’ve learned - apart from that Arthur, given the chance, would be a complete stoner. Also, that disservice animals and disservice people are a thing. And definitely that the plans you make in the middle of the night on how to redecorate the dining room are ridiculous.
Mostly though, the words you so want to hear, but are too afraid to believe could ever be said, may one day be spoken to you. And, when they are, you might not know how to feel.
xo
PS: If you post a wee click on the heart emoji to like it, Arthur may be fed a tiny bit of pizza - thats complete bulshit obviously, but it wont half do wonders for my algorithm.
P. P. S: If you enjoy talking/listening/stories/ random facts, come and join me and Mr Tweddle at Fish and Bear.
And because I am totally showing off - look, I have a book for sale.
Volume 2 is available now: US, UK, Can, Aus
Audiobook link https://amzn.to/3Dh0MVP
If you do buy a copy, please leave a review on the site as it helps people know that I write in proper sentences… erm sometimes xo
First of all, great news from your oncologist! Congrats!
With respect to thunderjackets, our late pooch, Jack, wore his during fireworks, Halloween, etc and it didn't do a damn bit of good. He was basically apopleptic. We always talked about medication but never got around to it. I'd just try to hold and hug him but the minute I let go, zooming and yelling.