8:02am
Mom’s asleep. Again. I think this is what humans call a “chemo hangover.” I call it “quiet time with guilt snacks.”
9:17am
I licked her face to check for signs of life. She swatted me. Alive. Grumpy. Moving on.
10:01am
She’s breathing weird and smells like medicated sadness. I’m concerned but also kind of hungry.
10:46am
She moaned in pain, so I sat on her. Healing energy: activated. Pressure points: flattened.
11:34am
I sniffed her meds. They smell like betrayal and side effects.
12:12pm
She tried to get up. Immediately regretted it. I watched from the corner like a Victorian ghost.
12:50pm
Stared at her for 45 minutes straight. No reaction. Zero appreciation for my emotional support artistry.
1:23pm
She’s finally awake enough to pet me. The hand is weak. The effort? Honorable. The scratches? Subpar.
1:51pm
She looked at the food in front of her and whispered, “Not today.”
I feel that. Spiritually.
2:08pm
She tried to sit up. Gravity laughed. She gave up. I respect the hustle.
2:47pm
She’s watching a comfort show she’s seen 94 times. I also watch it. For the emotional continuity.
3:13pm
A heating pad is her new soulmate. I’ve been replaced. Again.
3:56pm
She rolled over and whispered, “You’re such a good boy.”
I am. I know. But go ahead, say it again.
4:42pm
She flinched when Dad opened a pill bottle. The trauma is stored in the childproof cap.
5:32pm
Dad came home and asked, “How is she?”
I sighed dramatically and walked away. He got the message.
6:02pm
She hasn’t moved in hours. I haven’t left her side. If she’s in this mess, so am I. That’s the deal.
6:26pm
She whispered, “Sorry buddy, Mommy’s tired.”
I curled up beside her and pretended I didn’t hear the guilt in her voice. She doesn’t owe me an apology. I already forgave her when she shared her cracker.
7:15pm
Chemo sucks. But being her dog doesn’t. 🐾
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