Mojo and the Mess

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. 🐾