I am running on nothing.
Last week’s conference was a huge success. I need to write about it, about the people, especially, but I can’t even get my head around how to do that right now.
There’s always this crash that happens after. It usually takes me about a week to recover from Blogfest, but this year has been extra special.
We went straight to Tahoe (so long, steamy Austin!), and the adjustment has been rough.
I am wiped out. Mackenzie is wiped out.
It’s the HAF. The dreaded, cacophonous HAF (high altitude flatulence), which strains and contorts Mac’s little body, and keeps us bicycling and bouncing through the night.
It’s the dark moments pre-dawn, when despair gives way to melodrama.
I’ll never sleep again.
I am sure of it, each time I start a new set of bicycles on her squishy little thighs.
It’s the pediatrician’s raised eyebrow as he says, your 6 month old is physiologically capable of sleeping through the night.
It’s the moment when I look at my to-do list, rich with exciting projects I’m so inspired to charge into, especially after the heady dose of energy the conference always injects me with.
But I look at that list, and I just want to crawl away and hide.
It’s that Tigger died last week, and I pretended it didn’t happen so I could get through the conference without making everyone listen to me talk about my dog. Oh, and so I wouldn’t spend all weekend bawling my eyes out.
Post-conference, I’m flirting with the denial phase of grief and also, occasionally, bawling my eyes out.
Every time I walk into a room, I miss his outsized ears swiveling around to meet me, hopeful with the promise of playtime.
Every time I crawl into bed and have enough space and somewhere to actually put my feet, I miss the warm heft of his always-in-the-way body.
Every time I look at the lake, I miss him.
Every time I spot a pinecone, I miss him.
Every time a toilet paper roll needs changing, I miss him. Every time I finish a plate or bowl that could be licked clean, I miss him.
I know it was his time. He made cancer his bitch and lived 3 times longer than any of the professionals projected. More than once, they told us they were astonished he was still alive.
Nothing we can do. We’re not even sure how he’s still walking.
I’m sure that in just this one week he’s spent in doggy heaven, he’s already blown past his personal best of 3 tennis balls in his mouth at once.
This feeling will pass, I know. I will sleep and we will get another dog and Mac will delight in her ability to fart independently.
In this moment, I’m sad. Tired. Stuck.