Adaptive Curmudgeon

Grace is a powerful thing. The dog recovered. We all did.

It is now “day 41”. Elderdog is as chipper as a dog its age can be. This particular dog has never gotten many treats. Its stomach isn’t great and I’ve therefore kept it on a healthy regimen. However, I’ve declared it gets one nice treat per day (often a meatball). Forever. As long as possible. What began for medication delivery continues as a daily ritual. The dog deserves it.

When my times comes, I hope people care for me as well as I care for my dog.

Healthwise I’m probably running at 5/8^th power. (Mrs. Curmudgeon would laugh at such precise estimation. I’m such a nerd.) Whether it’s 5/8 or 100%, I appreciate anything better than “crushed”. I’m very glad to be up and about.

Mrs. Curmudgeon got much sicker than me and thus the trajectory of her recovery is slightly slower than mine. I’m relieved we didn’t bottom out in our respective illnesses at the same time!

I fret a little over the “lost month” but it is what it is. Perhaps the whole point was to “let go”. I’ll never completely know. Predictably, as soon as old issues were shifted from my shoulders, new ones started accumulating. For example; I have a memorial to attend for the man who died on “day 1”. But I have a better perspective.

Also, I need to go fishing. It seems important.

Of course “letting go” means things “go”. The homestead is a disaster. There are no chicks this year. No piglets. The lawn is feral. I’ve somehow accumulated a few broken home appliances and a leach field plumbing issue. In the grand scheme it doesn’t matter. It was a hard spring but it might be a good summer.

Good luck folks.

A.C.

P.S. I’d like to urge folks to click over to Chant du Depart who posted Requiem pour Ma Chienne. My little tribulations are tiny and insignificant compared to the story of Requiem pour Ma Chienne but it inspired me to share my lesser story. It was one more reminder to be thankful for the moment when things could have gotten worse but didn’t. I hope I’m not tarnishing his far more poignant experiences with my silly little concerns.

Grace (noun): (in Christian belief) the free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings.

My dog is old. Aside from its name (which I doubt I’ve blogged) it earned the nickname “Elderdog”.

It’s the best dog I’ve ever had. Not everyone gets a dog like this one. I’m lucky. Almost a year ago I wrote an essay about “Elderdog” and how its aging was leading me in my life as I age too. I never posted it. It was too personal. Too sad.

The morning of “day 21” Elderdog could not stand up. I’ve known this day was coming. I’ve been preparing for it. It is old. I’ve never sugar coated to myself what would happen when the time comes.

It couldn’t have happened when I was less prepared. Coughing and almost incoherently sad I fretted over the dog. It struggled to stand but couldn’t get up. I brought it snacks. Goldfish crackers. I put them near it’s mouth. It happily gobbled up whatever it could reach. It wasn’t in pain.

It was I that was in pain.

Beside myself with grief and very ill, I went outside. It has been a bad winter and a brutal spring. I leaned on my truck, which wasn’t going anywhere, and looked over my field. There were two wild turkeys. They weren’t spoked by my nearly spasmodic coughing. I hope they breed and multiply so I can go turkey hunting. I had the same hope for three rabbits; which I watched all winter and are all dead. (I monuitor my forest carefully and had found the carcasses several weeks ago.)

Then, the kid came out and grabbed me. “The dog is on its front feet!”

I ran, coughing all the way. Gently I lifted it’s back, and the dog was standing. It was shaky and obviously not well… but it was standing. It still wasn’t in pain.

Mrs. Curmudgeon and the kids went off to school and work. I took the dog for a walk.

“Keep standing. Keep moving.” I wasn’t sure if I was talking to myself or the dog. The dog didn’t notice the turkeys only a hundred yards away. It walked around, vaguely, smelling something in the air that I couldn’t see.

“Keep standing.”

The dog took me on a tour of our homestead. It walked to each place, paused, and looked at me significantly, as if to tell me something. Then it walked on.

“This is your truck, you go away in this and come back.”

“This is your workshop. You build things here.”

“This is your office. You work here and complain when the phone rings.”

For years, since it has become Elderdog, I’ve been taking it to the mailbox every day without fail. (Even Sundays when there is no mail.) The driveway is long. Not a suburban driveway. But it’s flat and easy walking. Plowed in the winter too. For both me and the dog, there will come a time when we cannot make it that far. And that will be the end. Keep moving.

I didn’t bother getting the mail. It didn’t matter. This was all to keep standing, keep moving. At the end of the driveway, where it meets the dirt road, Elderdog breathed deeply of the air. The first hints of spring were in the breeze. There have been many trips down this driveway where I’ve wondered if I would know, on the day of last walk, that the time was nigh.

It looked off at the horizon. There was nothing to see. Nothing to smell. It breathed deeply, as if scenting a place I cannot follow… yet.

We walked slowly back to the rest of the homestead. Another tour. “This is your truck. This is your office. This is your shop.”

I don’t usually let the dog in my shop. Everything not sharp is poisonous, or at least something that will get in its fur and make a mess. It usually doesn’t want to enter. It doesn’t like loud noises such as circular saws.

But today the shop was silent and recently cleaned. Today I’d take the dog anywhere it wanted to go.

We entered and it sniffed around looking satisfied, as if to say it was happy with this location. Then, it leaned against my beloved woodstove (which was stone cold) and sat down. Then it lay down. It was panting. It wasn’t in pain but it didn’t look like it would move again. It watched me contentedly but also distantly.

I slumped into an old chair by my workbench. This was it. The dog wasn’t in pain but it wasn’t going to get up again. I’ve always planned that I wouldn’t prolong this moment.

I thought of shovels. A gunshot. I’d always planned to handle this moment myself. As befits a man and his dog.

But it was too much. I tried to rally but… nothing.

“I can’t do it.” I mumbled. “I can’t dig a grave today.” I shuddered. Which led to another round of coughing. I was very ill. “I’m sorry but I can’t do it today.” I repeated.

When the coughing ended I felt a little better. I’d said it aloud. All my intended dignity and a proper passing for the best dog I’ve ever had… it was gone. I was beyond me. This problem was no longer mine. There was nothing I could do.

If the dog died and I spent the rest of the day sitting in this chair, coughing and wheezing, alone and beaten and unable to even dig a hole. So be it. This was God’s problem. I was out of it.

I sipped some week old cold coffee from a thermos I found on the workbench and waited. For the first time in weeks I felt at peace. The dog looked peaceful too. I used my camera to snap a blurry snapshot; a last image before it was over.

I looked over at some papers on my workbench. I’d listed prices for baby chicks. I’d planned two dozen Buff Orphingtons; half pullets and half straight run. You can’t order chicks just any old time. I’d need to get them from the feed store today or tomorrow. The season is fleeting. It was almost too late.

There was also a printout of a Craigslist ad for feeder piglets. I’d planned for two. Possibly three if I could negotiate a good price. Like the chicks, purchasing a piglet is a time dependent matter. The clock was ticking.

The clock is always ticking.

I deliberately cleared my mind and considered things. I was very sick. I have a day job. The zombie apocalypse hasn’t happened yet. I’ve got a freezer full of pork and venison. I can choose to buy food at the grocery store.

I slid the papers into the firewood bin. They’ll do a fine job as kindling.

I’m no longer a homesteader. Not this year.

That reduced some of the pressure. I felt palpably relieved. The cold coffee felt good on my throat and I coughed a little less. The dog and I waited.

Then a miracle occurred. Elderdog stood up! As if nothing had been wrong at all! Slowly and stiffly but decisively it led me back to the house, where I collapsed on the couch and the dog laid down and watched.

That’s its favorite post, guarding a sleeping person on the couch. Especially me.

The clock is always ticking. But sometimes there is grace.

[Life is hard. There are fits and starts and setbacks on the way to wherever you’re going. Folks who leave the bad times out of their stories create unrealistic ideas. They sow doubt in my mind. I start to wonder why this guy grows awesome heirloom tomatoes while I’m lucky to keep a chicken alive. I wonder why that guy effortlessly rebuilds an engine while I had a fire in the garage. The likely answer is they left out the spittlebugs that ate half their tomato starts or the stripped bolt that delayed everything. I’m writing not to complain but to show that the shit hits the fan for everyone. Everyone has to climb their own hill. Maybe folks will benefit knowing we all stumble and our paths aren’t inherently smooth. At least that’s my theory.]

I’ve already mentioned that I made a rookie mistake. In the pursuit of self-improvement I ran too close to the redline and failed to provide a soft landing for my not-as-young-as-I-once-was self. It was bad planning, self-inflicted, stupid, mea culpa, etc… Regardless, I did it. It left me weak.

Let’s call that moment “day 0”. I’d accomplished something of personal significance but was subsequently exhausted. All I needed was some “down time” and maybe a few weeks without drama. I’d be right as rain shortly. Of course, fate smelled blood in the water.

On “day 1” I learned a person of significance in my life was seriously ill. By sunset he was dead. I was crushed. Bitter news any time but worse when you’re in a tired state.

By “day 5” I’d traveled far, done a good job in difficult conditions (at least given my condition), and was limping back home. Recovery wasn’t far off! In the meantime, Mrs. Curmudgeon reported that one of the kids had missed school due to illness.

Let me interrupt the flow here to relay some information. I, Adaptive Curmudgeon, would prefer fighting a wolverine in a dark closet armed with nothing but a cup of coffee and a tire iron to the horror of fighting germs. Germs fight dirty! Don’t judge me. We all have our strengths and weaknesses. Also, I hate how people set the table for illness in a way they’d never court other disasters. Human beings in 2018 know that sickness comes from germs but they only understand it on a shallow, intellectual but not deeply felt, manner. Collectively we act like illness is imbalanced humors and bad spirits. Doubt me? Watch how people manage risk. Folks who’d freak out over a non-ergonomic chair or a kid on a bicycle without a helmet will drag their ass to a workspace and cough on everything in creation and ship the kid to a pre-school that’s biologically akin to a gutter in Tijuana. They just can’t think of any other way. All the Purell in creation can’t overcome human fallibility.

Back at the homestead one kid was down with the crud and surely that was the tip of the iceberg. I was as weak as a kitten and 500 miles away. I considered burrowing into a cheap hotel and staying put for a few days. Get some rest, drink fluids, recover, and (as shallow as it makes me sound) let the winds of plague pass by. In my condition I’d get sick for sure should I come home. So, like every other stupid monkey in society, I hustled home.

By “day 8” the kid was recovering and Mrs. Curmudgeon was on deck. It was hitting her hard. I practically soaked in sanitizers and tiptoed about. Luckily, I had pre-scheduled travel and I was selfishly relieved to flee when the time came.

Meanwhile, another personal deadline started looming. This one far less physical but logistics were key. I had to get a thing built and delivered to a location by a time. Time was short. Mindful of the lessons of the last goal, I made arrangements to take a few days off work. I scattered them about the remaining days. These would facilitate building and delivering my “undisclosed object” without redlining myself again.

Also, spring is a busy time on the homestead. I had a huge list of “must be done in the spring” tasks. The snow was (finally!) vanishing. I’d need all possible manhours to keep up with these things. In mid-travel I placed various orders and got my “ducks in a row” for a busy spring season. I also put up a few blog posts. I hoped to write some more of the Lesbian Squirrel saga soon.

As I traveled I desperately cared for my health. Hydrate, get lots of sleep, one beer per evening… you get one damn beer and no more, etc… Eat healthy and be careful.

Back at the homestead, Mrs. Curmudgeon was getting hammered. Whatever the kid had brought home was brutal. I could do nothing from my remote location.

On “day 11” I was feeling almost recovered. Still a bit shaky though. I had the choice of getting more work done at my remote location or heading home. I picked up a present for myself to celebrate the goal I passed on “day 0” and wondered what to do next. “Get home now!” came a text from a very ill Mrs. Curmudgeon. Message received. I hustled home.

At home I did my best to be a helpful husband and nurse. Chicken soup. Trips to the pharmacy. Etc. I also busily handled homesteading matters. I planted some things that absolutely had to be in the ground ASAP. (Biology waits for no man.) I made a Ryostman. Things were looking up. “Day 13” was the first time in ages that I felt well rested. Recovery had taken 2 weeks. I was on track to build my thing, handle the homestead, and maybe hammer out a squirrels chapter too!

“Day 14” dawned badly. The day was carefully allocated to work toward my next goal. I’d split my time between tending to Mrs. Curmudgeon and homestead chores. I’d been practically gargling Purell but it didn’t work. I knew, as soon as I lurched out of bed, that the gig was up.

“Day 13” was my peak. I’d climbed the mountain and recovered, but it was only fleeting. “Day 14” was a day of decline. My precious worktime vanished as I faded.

By “day 15” Mrs. Curmudgeon, who had been suffering much worse than me, was starting to improve. My fate was sealed. I stopped all forward motion and got very ill, very fast. By “day 18” I was in the Doctor’s office. The next few days hit me like a bomb. By “day 21” Mrs. Curmudgeon was half well but I was a dead man walking.

I’d tried mightily to recover and rebuild, but the terrible slog from “day 0” to “day 21” had been too much.

That’s when I had my moment of grace.

[I’m not a religious man, but like all wise people I have a spiritual component. This is my story and only mine. If it doesn’t fit with your philosophy that’s none of my business. Skip it if you wish.]

“It is said that God will never give you more than you can handle. This is bullshit. Life may hit you hard enough to bury you, break you, or (one hopes) just bruise you. Or trouble may peaceably pass by like a dark cloud on the horizon. One can never tell. What matters is how you negotiate the details with God. Ideally you’ll bear what you can and hand to God that which you cannot.”

I’m gonna’ start this series with a true story I first heard over wine in a Portuguese tavern:

On the morning of November 1^st, 1755, the people of Lisbon were celebrating All Saints Day. At about a quarter to ten, a powerful earthquake rocked the city. Buildings fell and the city was devastated. Survivors fled collapsing structures, seeking the safety of open space; which they found at the docks. The subsequent tsunami arrived with almost malignant timing. Forty minutes is just long enough to flee collapsing city structures and assemble like bowling pins near the shoreline. Two more waves were Poseidon’s version of a “double tap”. Then, as if they hadn’t experienced enough tragedy, large parts of the city burned to the ground. Candles, lit in celebration of All Saints Day and felled in the earthquake, started multiple fires. They combined and became a firestorm. The firestorm generated its own weather, pulled oxygen from the environs, and incinerated everything in its path. It killed another portion of the people who had already endured more than anyone could reasonably expect.

Imagine the horror of it all. Sequential mortal peril. One after the other. Nowhere safe. No chance to rest. Not a moment to grieve. Just one terror after the next. Folks who survived collapsing church roofs and evaded a tsunami wound up asphyxiated a hundred feet from the flames.

This is ridiculous. It’s too much. If it was in a book, I’d say the plot was unbelievable. If it was in a movie, I’d say they spent too much on CGI. But it really happened. So much shit in such ridiculous succession that it’s almost comically unreasonable is a real thing. Nobody on earth is prepared for an earthquake/tsunami/firestorm on the same day. One disaster is enough.

But, of course, there is no “enough”. It is true because it happened.

The good news is the story didn’t end with the disaster. The Portuguese rebuilt. They did so admirably. If you visit Baixa Pombalina in Lisbon (which you should) you can experience the rebuilt quarter yourself. It is gorgeous.

At a smaller scale it happens to us all.

I’m telling you the story of the Lisbon… uh… what do you call it? “Earthquake” isn’t enough. Let’s call it the “Lisbon Triple Threat Overtime, Turn the Dial to Eleven, Unwarranted Clusterfuck of Doom”.

I’m telling you the story of the Lisbon Triple Threat Overtime, Turn the Dial to Eleven, Unwarranted Clusterfuck of Doom because I want to remind myself that unreasonable things happen and that they can cascade. Also, that my concerns, as bad as they feel when I’m in them, are still soundly on a little scale of “first world problems”. Finally, that regression to the mean doesn’t eliminate the possibility of comically unlikely levels of interlocking successive misfortune. This is important. I felt the need to reflect on the long view to help muddle through and come out on the other end of what, for me, was a minor but frustrating shitstorm. Lastly, I’m writing because somewhere there’s a person or persons who are right now wading through eleven levels of simultaneous bullshit. For them, it’s too much bullshit. They might take solace in the fact that it happens to us all. Nobody’s life is as stress free as their Facebook feed implies.