Hi, it’s me. Mojo.
Yes, the Mojo. The blog is named after me, so technically I’m the CEO here. (Mom writes the serious stuff, but I provide the branding, so you’re welcome.)
Today I thought I’d give you a peek into what my mom’s sick days look like — from my perspective. Because trust me, I see everything.
Step 1: Morning Rounds
Before Mom even opens her eyes, I know what kind of day it’s going to be. Frenchies have superpowers — one of mine is detecting when she doesn’t feel good.
If she groans the moment she wakes up, I know it’s a “no energy” day. If she scratches my head before groaning, it’s a “really bad, don’t leave her side” kind of day.
So I start my shift by climbing on top of her chest. This serves two purposes:
- I get kisses.
- I confirm she’s alive.
Is this medically approved? Probably not. But I’m not just a dog — I’m Nurse Mojo, and this is my hospital.
Step 2: Hydration Watch
Apparently, humans need water to live. (Weird, right? Nuggets are far superior.) Mom forgets sometimes, so I sit by her water bottle and stare at it. Then I stare at her. Then I stare back at the water.
This method works 9 times out of 10. My eyes are basically lasers of guilt. If that fails, Dad brings her water — but let’s be clear, I’m the one who reminds everyone she needs it.
Step 3: Snack Enforcement
Mom doesn’t always want to eat, but eating is important. That’s where I come in. If she eats crackers, I demand half. If she eats toast, I demand half. If she even looks at chicken nuggets, I demand all of them.
Some people might call this selfishness. I call it “shared accountability.” If she eats, I eat. If she starves, I starve. (Okay, I wouldn’t actually starve, but the drama helps make my point.)
Step 4: Couch Command Center
The couch is our sick day headquarters. Mom lays down, and I immediately climb on top of her legs like a warm, snoring weighted blanket. Weighted blankets are expensive. I’m free. (Well… technically not free. My fee is chicken nuggets. Still cheaper than Target.)
If she tries to move, I apply more weight. Sorry, Mom — doctor’s orders.
Step 5: Emotional Support Snorts™
Sometimes, Mom cries. Those days are the hardest. I can’t take away the cancer. I can’t fix the pain. But I can deploy my most powerful weapon: snorts.
I snort, I honk, I squeak in my sleep, I sigh dramatically until she laughs through her tears. It works every time. Laughter doesn’t cure everything, but it’s pretty close.
Step 6: Guard Dog Mode
On sick days, I don’t let Mom out of my sight. Bathroom? I’m there. Kitchen? I’m there. Rolling over in bed? Yep, I’m there too.
She says it’s annoying, but how else am I supposed to make sure she’s safe? What if cancer tries something sneaky while she’s alone? No sir. Not on my watch. Delivery guys get barked at. Shadows get investigated. Every sound is suspicious until cleared.
Step 7: The End of Shift Snuggle
At the end of the day, when she’s finally lying still and the world is quiet, I curl up right against her chest. That’s my way of saying, I know you hurt, but I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re not alone.
She always kisses my head and whispers, “Thank you, Mojo.” That’s my paycheck. (Well, that and nuggets. Let’s not forget the nuggets.)
Final Notes From Nurse Mojo
My mom’s sick days are tough. They’re long and heavy and unfair. But that’s why I take my job so seriously. I can’t take the cancer away, but I can sit with her in it. I can make her laugh, I can keep her company, and I can love her so hard that maybe, just maybe, she feels a little lighter.
Signed,
🐾 Nurse Mojo
PS (From Mom 💙)
If you’re new here — welcome. This blog is where I share the raw, honest truths of living with cancer. Some days it’s heartbreaking. Some days it’s messy. And some days, Mojo takes over and brings the laughter we both need.
If this made you smile (or cry, or both), check out the Homepage for resources, and the Blog tab for dozens more posts. And if you have a furry nurse of your own — hug them tight. They’re the best medicine in the world.
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