Friday, March 27, 2015

Eleven pounds on your chest

I am trying to read a book. Settled in, recumbent, on the couch, Tiny Dog tucked under my arm, George under the blanket by my knee. And Wren sitting on my chest. She’s a tad sigh-ish, not quite comfy but not sure what to do. Not enough room to lie down.

She’s about 11 pounds, all right on my sternum, and it’s a little hard to inhale. But the longer she sits, the more I give in, and let her weight pin me to the couch, the room, the ground, with each exhale. It’s unexpectedly grounding, after a long work week of being ground-down, long in relative rather than actual time. You know how certain days will stretch out, despite being very busy, and it almost physically hurts to make it through the hours.

Since her butt is in the big dog's direction, Wren can almost tolerate his proximity.

After a minute, Wrennie decides to go for it, and lie down. Her weight shifts off my sternum to across my right chest, and it’s not the same, the weighing down, the anchoring. But I need her there, like each day, and I am grateful. She’s soft and appreciative of petting, and she smells strangely, today, of rust and sweat. Her stitches are out from two weeks ago (not cancer!), and the shaved spots have new hair coming in.

Resting with the three littles always keeps me from floating off into fatigue or anxiety or general human-ness. They are necessary, and they are prescribed by me for my health, every day.

When I get home, I tend to put on Tiny Dog’s favorite down vest and tuck her in. She falls asleep and then it becomes my favorite vest too. She’s against my heart, the curlicue of wound-up churning in my chest slowly untangling itself once again.

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