I will start this blog by saying that I’ve probably had a bit too much to drink, and am a little oversensitive.

The morning didn’t start off well. When I woke up from what little sleep I got, I had a bad headache and was sick to my stomach, but I shook that off in time to give Tony his medicine at noontime. The medicine comes in one of those glass vials with the rubber top that they put injectable medicine in, so I have to draw it out with a needle, then remove the needle and squirt the medicine into his mouth. It’s been a long time since my EMT days and my hands were shaking, and I managed to drive the needle fully into my finger trying to uncap it, so I had to open another one. Tony was great about taking the medicine though, he seems to know I’m trying to help.

Then I had a little more to drink, which was probably a bad idea but was the only way I could think of to calm down and stop the tears. As some of you know, I’m kind of alone these days, so I ventured into the chatroom looking for some conversation to distract me and cheer me up. I honestly have no idea what I said but it must have been something crude, because the next thing I knew someone who thought I was nice thought I wasn’t nice anymore, and it went downhill from there.

Then I looked at my blog and discovered several really nice comments — one that made me cry buckets, but helped me at the same time, that talked about a place called the Rainbow Bridge, where our old friends who’ve passed on are waiting for us, waiting to cross over with us. Thoughts like that make this time more bearable.

Then I discovered another comment. Now, I’ve got good anti-spam stuff in place, so it seems clear that this one was entered by hand, by someone who actually took the time to do it. Worse, the IP address is on a British ISP. Someone actually took the time to read one of my old blogs and then pronounce me a “Boring Sod”. I can’t really disagree. I know most of what I write is boring, but it hurts that someone wanted to kick me when I’m down by telling me the obvious.

Tony is being so good. He lies in his favorite spot in the sunbeam from the window and purrs, not having much energy to do much else, but enjoying what he’s always enjoyed in life, his quiet time. He’s still right beside me at night, and during the day he rests, still eating and drinking now and then, and it could be my imagination, but his eyes look a bit brighter today and he seems a little more comfortable. That’s all I can really hope for this medicine to do, make him feel better in his last days.

How I’m going to survive this I have no idea. I know the answers to my problems aren’t in these bottles I’m emptying, but I don’t know where else to turn.