Head and Feet

This last week was significant to me for two reasons.

The more basic, the more cyclical of the two is that I got older- at least by legal document standards. 51, and all I sort of hoped or imagined might come with it, for me is archived.

At this age, birthdays are more like speed limit signs than stop lights- you see them if you see them, and they are suggestions. You already know where you are at and about how fast you are going anyways. More than anything, they remind you to be aware of your velocity. Birthdays are more like that for me now. You are moving this fast, Bruce. You need to speed up. Or, you really ought to slow down.

I also, sadly, tend to view where I am at in my life in terms of major events- most of which I may have already missed, or those which are inevitably inevitable. I am trying not to live constantly bracing for those events, but they seem to be the major occupants of my future, and my mind keys off of them. And it shouldn’t. Life is not “X years until retirement”. But, here I am. And COVID-19 has drawn a blanket over any conjecture about any long term plans anyways. It instead smooths out the daily hills and troughs of life. And maybe it shouldn’t.

It certainly has put an ignition lock on the immediate future though, which is what lies ahead in 52. It certainly has put a freeze on most planning I might do for my life.

And that is probably wrong too.

The other significant event of last week, though, was triumphant.

Last weekend, Po, the once-starving Siamese cat, started to eat and drink on his own. Heartily. And because of that, the tube he relied on for his food and liquids and medicines for several weeks could be removed. And it was.

Last week, Po was officially declared back from the edge, and suddenly, I no longer have to visit him in his room 6 times a day to feed him. I no longer have to make food slurry for him, or measure out his liquid antibiotic in a syringe, or crush liver or nausea pills so they can be pushed into his through the line. I no longer have to watch him acutely after he eats to divine what his curious reaction to the meal means.

I don’t have to worry if he will eat on his own again.

I don’t have to worry about him.

And his recovery is tremendous relief.

And a great story my aunt would no doubt appreciate- for him, and about him. About anything that survives after going through such extreme duress.

His recovery is a tremendous relief, but now it means when I stop and see him, I will also think more about her, because he was hers- and she was also a survivor in her own right.

His story certainly reminds me of her story, which is colored by her own passing through some very dark seasons in her early years.

I am hoping Po can help me to understand a few more things about who she was and how she shaped her life as she lived out her life.