It’s been so long that I’ve been sick that I’m beginning to feel like my dog: I lie around, rouse myself up to eat something occasionally, and sometimes in my sleep, my feet start moving like I’m chasing something. It brings new meaning to the phrase “sick as a dog” and shows me that living at the dog level (e.g. mostly horizontal) isn’t so bad, especially since my actual dog sleeps on the floor beside my bed most of the time.
I’ve had some kind of virus that has outsmarted two antibiotics and now is facing down a third one, plus the usual troops of cold/sinus ooh-ah remedies. Turns out that pushing through the last week without enough sleep, 1,000 miles of driving, lots of turns lost in the Twin cities or bumping into little floods of traffic — not to mention going through a bit of life change by no longer living in the same house (most of the year) as my daughter may not have been the best combination for healing.
On the other hand, maybe it’s all a larger kind of healing, a way to slow down, spend hours dozing in mild hallucinations while holding the cat, and appreciating the miracle of soup and cold water. Life changes, our bodies do what they do, and this body may be living through some dog days but even these days have their slow, pulsing beauty. (Pictures are of our dog, Mariah Lily Karumba Lassman.)