Julian. I am so sorry. Damn this isolation and damn this horror. I regret, yet know I could do nothing. No control, no resource, no value, to you when suffering like that. I have never had one of you need me so much, and I was late, I was weak, I was in a deep deep fatigue, took sedatives to finally sleep after days of body pain and a mind screaming to go help my loved ones, but I stayed, I didn't leave, and I protected us. I woke to my baby sister, calling my name frantically. Julian was trapped, I don't want to move him. I suddenly realized, he wasn't in bed with me, with Tink at my front, with Eleanor and Bowie at my back. I left him, closed the door to the room they'd just moved me to, better isolated, safer, from the human family.
My white and black spider monkey man was wet with his own vomit, regurgitated pounds of dog food, and urine, closed in the food bin all night, humid and stifling from his own expired air. He was heaving, swallowing, dry retching, and I wiped off the wet food, loosely wrapped him in my shirt. At first, I thought, it's okay, I'll recover your fluid losses, we've got you, I've got you, it's okay. Then, I saw his abdomen, lightly palpated it. He had vomited all night, he'd sucked air open mouth panting all night. His 7lb body had a softball for an abdomen, extending from chest, to groin, pushing his bladder lower. His bladder was a hard firm, turgid, irregular lump when palpated. He was very painful. I'm isolating. No. There's no one open now, no one, no surgery, no one, not for 120 miles. No one. This is bad. I'm so sorry, baby, I'm so so so sorry.
I change mode from treat and stabilize, regain losses, to inject high dose buprenorphine in his thigh, let him rest sternally, while I gather my supplies. I catheterize his left front limb, holding his little black and pink toe beans, lightly squeezing them, pulsing. He flexes them in my hand, spread those patched beans wide. Yes, Julian, not long now. He's relaxed now, but still breathing hard, mouth wide. I minimize holding him, knowing how painful that distended, food and fluid filled abdomen is, so much pressure and compression on other organs. His wet side with the hair flattened is really showing the heaving abdominal breaths, the struggle, his agonal rise and fall. Sedative in, slow, gradual push, empty the syringe.
I wrap him in the towel, still in my shirt, and hold him against my chest. I talk nonsense, and gibberish, no words, just sounds. Slowly, his heaving eases, slowly he goes from gasps to light breathing. Slower, slower, forever it seems, his once racing heart is felt against mine, barely. Humming and singing under my breath, waiting. I hold him under my chin, against my breast, and don't move. Just be. I don't know how long I hold him. My sister said it was a half hour since she woke me, when she stuck her head into the den kitchen area to check on me, on us. Trying to stay away, she was struggling not to come help me, holding herself back. Damn this pandemic.
I laid Julian down, I washed my face. I cleansed his body of the drying waste from his time trapped, dried him, and brushed him. Returned him to the counter, and cleaned and dried his feet. Julian has the best beans, so many patterns of pink and black marbled on each toe. I take some toe bean pictures, wipe snot on my sleeve. Grab the nearest pen, remove the ink vial, snap it and ink his pad and digits. After paw prints of all beans complete, I lay the prints to dry. I wrap his body and prepare it for cold storage. I hold him one more time, one long time. After placing him away, my energy gone, I slowly bend and clean up all the debris and hair. Save the hair I clipped from his leg, his chest, his soft soft belly I once buried my face in while he burrowed into my neck.
My Julian. Jules. Julio. Spider monkey, where are you, I call, every morning, any time I re'enter a room and he hadn't followed me, letting Tink flank me instead. Tink's old lady croaking meow gets my attention. I pick her up, tuck her close, she let's me, when there was a 50/50 chance she'd want to be left alone, as her FHS waxes and wanes, and she is not as attached to riding my shoulder when time makes her bones and skin more sensitive. I stare blindly into nothing, and just sync my hitched breathing up with Tink's rumble. We miss you, Julian. A week, feels like a moment ago.
We'll curl up and grieve, longer than a few seconds at a time, when this hell is over, and we can all wrap our arms around each other and shudder as we cry and keen over losing you. I never would've been fatigued and sedated, but for this time, this world, of stricken shock and cycling losses, waking to a new death, a new story of wondering where this one is, I haven't heard, thought you got her last message, who's got a bead on where she was moved to, who knows where my friend, my kin, this friend, where are they, is she ok, he's gone, he's gone. We got contact, Martha is home now, she's ok, she's alive, she's breathing hard for weeks to come, doc says, but she's alive. It's ok.
I gotta go clean up, medicate, and keep checking on my NC family, Martha, on Michelle, on German, on their 14yo seizure dog, alone at home, Keeper, call the petsitter, on Sandra and Todd, my hearts, my lifelines, keep them safe; on Kerri alone in NYC with the kids, on Mom, on my 4 little sisters, their sons, from CO to DC, on Matty, WA, he's cleared, he's ok, cuz, on Nana, 93, isolated early, good facility, clean, safe, on my aunts and uncles, 70s all, no time, Julian, no time now. But, this was a moment, to reflect on you. Hold your ink prints, touch your hair, so soft, cold. I can't look at your pictures, not yet. I can't. I will. When we are safe, when we are clear, I will. I love you Jules, my leetle beetle spider monkey.
Please keep this open for me in the months to come. I want to show my family, Julian's family, and we'll look at his images, and post his little face, in time. Thank you
My white and black spider monkey man was wet with his own vomit, regurgitated pounds of dog food, and urine, closed in the food bin all night, humid and stifling from his own expired air. He was heaving, swallowing, dry retching, and I wiped off the wet food, loosely wrapped him in my shirt. At first, I thought, it's okay, I'll recover your fluid losses, we've got you, I've got you, it's okay. Then, I saw his abdomen, lightly palpated it. He had vomited all night, he'd sucked air open mouth panting all night. His 7lb body had a softball for an abdomen, extending from chest, to groin, pushing his bladder lower. His bladder was a hard firm, turgid, irregular lump when palpated. He was very painful. I'm isolating. No. There's no one open now, no one, no surgery, no one, not for 120 miles. No one. This is bad. I'm so sorry, baby, I'm so so so sorry.
I change mode from treat and stabilize, regain losses, to inject high dose buprenorphine in his thigh, let him rest sternally, while I gather my supplies. I catheterize his left front limb, holding his little black and pink toe beans, lightly squeezing them, pulsing. He flexes them in my hand, spread those patched beans wide. Yes, Julian, not long now. He's relaxed now, but still breathing hard, mouth wide. I minimize holding him, knowing how painful that distended, food and fluid filled abdomen is, so much pressure and compression on other organs. His wet side with the hair flattened is really showing the heaving abdominal breaths, the struggle, his agonal rise and fall. Sedative in, slow, gradual push, empty the syringe.
I wrap him in the towel, still in my shirt, and hold him against my chest. I talk nonsense, and gibberish, no words, just sounds. Slowly, his heaving eases, slowly he goes from gasps to light breathing. Slower, slower, forever it seems, his once racing heart is felt against mine, barely. Humming and singing under my breath, waiting. I hold him under my chin, against my breast, and don't move. Just be. I don't know how long I hold him. My sister said it was a half hour since she woke me, when she stuck her head into the den kitchen area to check on me, on us. Trying to stay away, she was struggling not to come help me, holding herself back. Damn this pandemic.
I laid Julian down, I washed my face. I cleansed his body of the drying waste from his time trapped, dried him, and brushed him. Returned him to the counter, and cleaned and dried his feet. Julian has the best beans, so many patterns of pink and black marbled on each toe. I take some toe bean pictures, wipe snot on my sleeve. Grab the nearest pen, remove the ink vial, snap it and ink his pad and digits. After paw prints of all beans complete, I lay the prints to dry. I wrap his body and prepare it for cold storage. I hold him one more time, one long time. After placing him away, my energy gone, I slowly bend and clean up all the debris and hair. Save the hair I clipped from his leg, his chest, his soft soft belly I once buried my face in while he burrowed into my neck.
My Julian. Jules. Julio. Spider monkey, where are you, I call, every morning, any time I re'enter a room and he hadn't followed me, letting Tink flank me instead. Tink's old lady croaking meow gets my attention. I pick her up, tuck her close, she let's me, when there was a 50/50 chance she'd want to be left alone, as her FHS waxes and wanes, and she is not as attached to riding my shoulder when time makes her bones and skin more sensitive. I stare blindly into nothing, and just sync my hitched breathing up with Tink's rumble. We miss you, Julian. A week, feels like a moment ago.
We'll curl up and grieve, longer than a few seconds at a time, when this hell is over, and we can all wrap our arms around each other and shudder as we cry and keen over losing you. I never would've been fatigued and sedated, but for this time, this world, of stricken shock and cycling losses, waking to a new death, a new story of wondering where this one is, I haven't heard, thought you got her last message, who's got a bead on where she was moved to, who knows where my friend, my kin, this friend, where are they, is she ok, he's gone, he's gone. We got contact, Martha is home now, she's ok, she's alive, she's breathing hard for weeks to come, doc says, but she's alive. It's ok.
I gotta go clean up, medicate, and keep checking on my NC family, Martha, on Michelle, on German, on their 14yo seizure dog, alone at home, Keeper, call the petsitter, on Sandra and Todd, my hearts, my lifelines, keep them safe; on Kerri alone in NYC with the kids, on Mom, on my 4 little sisters, their sons, from CO to DC, on Matty, WA, he's cleared, he's ok, cuz, on Nana, 93, isolated early, good facility, clean, safe, on my aunts and uncles, 70s all, no time, Julian, no time now. But, this was a moment, to reflect on you. Hold your ink prints, touch your hair, so soft, cold. I can't look at your pictures, not yet. I can't. I will. When we are safe, when we are clear, I will. I love you Jules, my leetle beetle spider monkey.
Please keep this open for me in the months to come. I want to show my family, Julian's family, and we'll look at his images, and post his little face, in time. Thank you
Attachments
-
138.3 KB Views: 77
-
232.9 KB Views: 79
-
86.3 KB Views: 77
-
236.7 KB Views: 86
-
359.1 KB Views: 79