Hi and welcome back to the first official installment of so many words: reloaded (final name pending).
Hilariously, not even twelve hours after I sent out my little announcement about how my life was different now and I was finally financially and emotionally stable enough to start writing for myself again, my dog got into and ate much of the contents of the bathroom garbage while I was sleeping, resulting in a life-threatening stomach obstruction that required a several-thousand dollar surgery to address. You know what they say about making plans! (God is laughing and laughing and laughing.)
The good news is that Gilda is okay now, though rest assured that she’s absolutely furious with me for making her do her least favourite thing—receive attention from strangers—for 24 hours. She of course can’t tell me anything about her experience there, but two different employees at the animal hospital referred to her as “spicy”, which they were both using as a euphemism for “tried to bite me.” You can say many things about Gilda but you cannot say the girl doesn’t have a firm set of boundaries intact.
Everything went as well as it could have, though, and my dog is still alive, which is very good. I reminded myself how lucky I was for this outcome as I sat in the waiting room to pick her up after the surgery and listened to a receptionist calmly instruct someone on the other end of the line to send a video over, “So we can see what you mean when you say, ‘pouring blood.’”
I did notice on the day this all went down that I’ve developed a sort of Bad Thing Checklist that I continue to build out as inevitable traumas, big and small, accumulate the way they tend to over the course of a long enough life. As I drove Gilda to her surgery, for example, I turned on some music, then quickly turned it off, remembering that if this day was going to end in a worst-case outcome, I wouldn’t want to ruin any good songs for myself with the memory of it.
Similarly, after admitting her, I drove myself to the nearest diner and ordered a beer and some fries, knowing that the fist my stomach curls itself into when I’m very stressed would only unclench enough to let any food in if I had a drink first (I didn’t say any of these checklist items were healthy).
When I got home to wait for news from the surgeon on how everything went, I didn’t even have to think about what to do. I walked straight into my living room, put on my favourite album to emote to (Oh My God by Kevin Morby—the only safe music to listen to in times of tumult), and laid down on the floor for a good hour or two. It was exactly what I needed.
I derive a strange comfort from having built this unofficial set of crisis guidelines for myself. Having it is proof that I’ve gotten through bad experiences in the past, and also that I am at least partially equipped to go through the ones that still await me.
For now, things are calm. Gilda is home, seems to be healing well, and still insists on shimmying entirely underneath the covers to go to sleep, which is a truly impressive feat to witness while she has a giant cone around her neck. It seems we got through the worst of it just fine. And, god forbid, if things did somehow take a turn for the worse from here, at least I would know I have a protocol to follow.
That’s all for this week’s edition of so many words! Remember, some future installments will be based on reader prompts, which you can submit here. Also, if you enjoyed this newsletter, please share it with someone else you think might also like it!
Sweet Gillen! Am glad you are BOTH okay and love your little protocol.
so glad she's okay <3 and it's real smart to have a Bad Thing Checklist. I need to develop one for myself. sending Gilda a big pet and you a big hug!!