Mojo and the Mess

Hi, it’s me. Mojo.

I can always tell when it’s one of those nights. She doesn’t have to say anything—she gets real quiet, her shoulders slump, and her eyes go somewhere far away. She’s here, but she’s not. And I know what that means: she’s thinking about quitting.

I don’t know much about cancer. I just know that it’s the thing that makes her cry when no one’s looking. It’s the thing that makes her tired all the time and smell like strange places (the hospital) and need help doing stuff she used to do on her own. It’s the thing that makes her hurt.

And I hate it.

When I feel her slip into that place, I press against her side. I’ll climb into her lap if I have to. I don’t care if I’m heavy or if it’s awkward; I just want her to feel that I’m still here. I’ll lick her hand when she’s holding those pills a little too long, like she’s thinking about not taking them at all. I’ll wedge myself between her and the bathroom door when she tries to be alone after her husband gives her those shots that make her cry out in pain.

And when I see him—the one who loves her as much as I do—wipe his eyes when he thinks she’s not looking, I go to him, too. I nudge his hand, lick his face, sit at his feet until he lets me climb into his lap. Because I know he’s fighting his own battle. He’s holding everything together, and I’m scared he’ll break if she does.

I’m not leaving either of them. Not now. Not ever.

She doesn’t see how strong she is. She doesn’t see that even on the days she feels like she’s losing, she’s still fighting. She takes the medicine that makes her sick. She shows up to the appointments she dreads. She lets the strangers in scrubs poke and prod and hurt her because deep down, she’s hoping it buys her more time.

I wish I could talk. I wish I could tell her what I see: the courage it takes to get out of bed when her whole body is screaming at her not to. The way her husband looks at her like she’s the whole world, even when she feels like a ghost of herself. The fact that every single breath she takes means I get another day with my person.

So I don’t let her out of my sight on those days. I curl up next to her and make sure she knows she’s not alone. I follow her from room to room, even if she tells me to stay. I make it impossible for her to forget that someone still needs her here.

Because she’s my person. And I’ll fight with her for as long as she’ll fight for herself.

Even when she thinks she’s out of strength, I know she’s not. I can feel it in her heartbeat. And I’ll be right here, reminding her: Don’t quit. I need you.

-Mojo