16
Feb
At least prednizone doesn’t make me grouchy or depressed. While it’s working on my lungs, it gives me some relief from other chronic pain for the eight days I’m on it, plus a few. And I have some extra energy. But therein lies, as they say, the rub. It keeps me awake! Once, when I was on massive doses, having had two consecutive pneumonias that raged on and on, I stayed awake, on two separate occasions for 36 hours straight. Now, that was something I could do in my youth. It was a survival skill. But that bag of tricks spilled out many years ago, and I need copious quantities of Morpheus’ arms encircling me.
But it ain’t happening tonight.
Last night, when I finally, fitfully plunged into darkness, I was soon awash in a dream about finding our dog, Margo, part of our trio for almost 15 years. Someone had found her, but she was emaciated and her flawless coat was torn on one side. I weeped at the though of her being back and she showed me she understood, licking my face, the love that saw me through countless crises, both physical and emotional. Like the night I stopped breathing at 3 am and collapsed in the hallway, with no way to call out. She came immediately, began making noises, and and soon as Dalia was there, she lightly rested her head on my lap and stayed there until the EMTs arrived. Then she moved quietly aside, with out her usual fuss over new friends in the house, and let them do their work and carry me off the the emergency room.
So, when I woke this morning, I was almost expecting her to be there, in my face, waiting for nothing but acknowledgment that I, and she, were okay.
Margo died quietly, over a year ago, still a puppy in her heart, but a pain-wracked old dog in body. Margo is dead. She won’t be coming back. No one will find her and bring her home. But I know, as it has been before, the dreams will come home instead.
She usually comes home with the predinzone.