Morning: Fog and Fur
The day usually starts before I’m ready. My body wakes up before my mind does — stiff, sore, a little nauseous, a little “what day is it again?”
But Mojo always knows.
Even if I haven’t made a sound, he stirs. He gets up from wherever he’s snoring and pads over to me like some squishy-faced little nurse. He doesn’t fetch slippers. He doesn’t bark. He just knows. And follows me, step for step, room to room — like a fuzzy shadow who refuses to let me be alone with the hard parts.
Midday: Meds, Mess, and Mojo
I usually lose count of the meds before lunch.
There’s the anti-nausea stuff. The pain stuff. The keep-my-blood-alive stuff. The just-in-case stuff. And a little Emetrol, because that sweet pink syrup is basically a member of my family at this point.
Mojo? Still with me.
He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t need a symptom update or a lab report. He just stays close — occasionally climbing halfway onto my lap even though we both know he’s built like a loaf of sourdough.
Afternoon: The Dip
Around 2pm, the exhaustion hits.
It’s not sleepy tired. It’s body-to-the-bone tired. Like gravity’s stronger in my house than anywhere else.
Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I sleep.
Sometimes I scroll and compare myself to people who still have eyebrows and energy and lives that aren’t built around blood counts.
And Mojo? He adjusts. He moves from the foot of the bed to my side. Or puts his head on my knee. He snores like an old man, and it’s honestly the most comforting soundtrack in the world.
Evening: Gratitude in the Grime
Dinner is usually bland. My body has trust issues.
But sometimes I rally enough to sit outside for a bit. Or to watch something trashy and wonderful on TV.
And there’s Mojo. Always Mojo.
Still following, still watching, still being the emotional support loaf he was born to be.
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