Frothy ocean, reading poolside, lime juice in the hot tub, chatting with a window, pastry pile every morning, Christmas Eve nachos and then Christmas nachos, humid salt air, smoke in the palm forest, beach massage, Diet Cokes on the patio, dumb little holiday tree, sunglasses gone, tips counted, bright stars, sandcastle lump, iguanas and hawks, biking around the bend, red lipstick, time moving on.
I've been running for over fifteen years. I generally like it. Good for my heart. A time to push, to think.
When I decide on a distance, I don't like to stop until I finish. It's more than a preference. I feel starting up after I'm stalled at a light is much harder than jogging in place. But it's more than that too. It's my compulsion to complete my goals.
Come cramps, come fatigue, come anything short of blood, I feel unsettled if I break. And I don't like running less than two miles either. It's a nice even number.
But this month I've been pausing to walk. I know I could power through, but it doesn't seem so important. I can't muster as much. I'm just going slower.
And going slower is hard for me. I like getting everything done. I like being reliable. Things are falling through the cracks. I don't answer emails as quickly and sloth around plans.Things I typically look forward to are shrouded in quicksand.
I've always loved the fullness of the summer solstice, but maybe it's time to appreciate the winter solstice. A day to do the most vs. a day to do the least. What a stupid loser holiday. But here it is anyway. The sun setting so early, me mixing drinking chocolate, watching light fade from the patio, the pink palm tree skyline in the distance.
Those last days at home are so crystalized. A week before she left, Puhg was at a concert, so we had a girls' night in. I made popcorn and watched _______ with her snuggled on my chest. I thought the movie was terrible and this bothers me, that the last film we ever watched together was so stupid. Even though she wouldn't know that. When it ended I played our song in the living room.
I don't remember how it became our song. I think I happened to be holding her while some 90s Spotify playlist looped. I danced with her fuzzy self and sang along "I'll never let you go, I'll never let you go." I found myself humming it all the time to her. A calming lullaby before she was comfortable with us. Hard to believe she came so frightened and jumpy, eventually a puddle in our hands. It was past midnight when Puhg's keys jangled in the door. Her ears perked as they always did.
5 AM Sunday I shuffled out to the living room as I often do when I can't sleep. She curled up into my lap as I read for two hours. I cried--unsure if I was imagining something was off or not. Puhg and I went on a long walk. We finally got a vet appointment, days away. At night she was eating apples again. In the morning we woke up our favorite way--hearing the water bottle click. But just a few hours later everything changed.
She was Sick. I called all over LA for help. She was manic then tired, climbing upside down then unable to hold her head up. Chewing then tossing her pellets around. We found a hamster ER, and flew there, her in a shoebox despising every bump and turn. A team whisked her away for urgent care.
We sat for hours watching dogs, cats, and one wheezing hedgehog come in. A guinea pig didn't make it. I didn't notice the time pass even though I had nothing to do but wonder if I'd ever see my dear one again. We were relieved she made it. The doctor recommended an overnight stay for pneumonia, antibiotics, oxygen. We were led to the back, tapped on her glass, told her it would be okay. Would it?
Days of waiting for "the call" gave me a permanent stomachache. I typically have healthy boundaries with my phone. I often leave it for short errands or keep it face down with friends. But not last week. I had it on full volume next to me 24/7. The doctor would call in the morning, then in the evening. They were kind, bright professionals who referred to my beloved with a chuckle: she is quite round or the little lady. We feared for a buzz off-schedule, meaning the worst. I made my ringtone "Bette Davis Eyes" last year. I thought it was funny. It was no longer funny.
When we visited two days later she was different. Exhausted and white. We held her and hoped. We gave her her ham house and a blueberry, which she ate slowly. I willed her to be better. We agreed to a bill for more everything. We took photos. I look horrible or maybe just like the saddest I've ever been. We cancelled Thanksgiving travel and spent the day quietly, vaguely tossing around the idea of a movie we wouldn't see. At 6 the call came: she improved! She ate some, seemed a little more energized, dialed down the oxygen! Her team would continue this plan. Oh, the hope. The puffing rising hope. She'll be home tomorrow.
But tomorrow her situation worsened. And would we like to come by, sooner than expected. I sobbed and put together a respectable outfit. Black pants, the sweater she chewed through the day she came home, my hamster headband. Filled my purse with seeds and fruit and cheese.
I hate life going on. I've become small. I hate how the days build on themselves. I held her yesterday two days ago three days ago four days ago a week ago. She was carried away in a daze, going to the big wheel in the sky. And I also hate the big wheel in the sky.
She bit me one time, a year ago. It was so unexpected I yelped and plopped her back in her cage. After I washed the blood down the drain I realized she was limping. Poor thing had sprained her foot, lashed out in fear. We took away her toys to heal, I bandaged my finger. After a week she was scampering again. All that remained was a mark on my nail. A crack from her sharp teeth. I watched that crack move up and up over the months. A kind of calendar. Until one day I didn't notice it had left me at all.
It was a bright afternoon. Should we do anything? Puhg asked. I had put on extra sunscreen that morning. I didn't know why. He suggested the beach and I said, yeah, sure, why not? We never go to the beach, but we were 20 minutes away. We walked to the sparkling ocean. I drew her name in the sand. It would be washed away but not that I'd see. When it was time to go, we got back in the car and the wind knocked out of me. Blaring over the radio--that obscure 90s hit. I'll never let you go. I'll never let you go.
I have 300 videos of her because how could I not? They help. She was a true individual--so chonky and bossy but ultimately sweet. Unlike every other hamster I've had (angels to be sure), she loved to be pet and held and snooze on us. She communicated with nips and sounds. She brusked when happy and purred when alert and had trained us to give her a treat when she squeaked. She and I would have long long talks at night. Some of the videos are short--a few seconds of her running or cleaning. Others are long, a whole grooming session, minutes of her cozying into my shoulder, but they always end before I want them to.
