For the past couple of weeks, our lives have been focused on care giving.
In addition to garlic and local tomatoes and the last of the season’s peaches from the farmer’s market, our kitchen counter holds big containers of medicine.
There’s Bud’s antibiotic – huge white horse pills, fifteen of which we have to give him morning and night.
About two weeks ago he came up lame again. Turns out he had another painful abscess on his hoof. Our vet had to pull off the special orthopedic shoe that the farrier had put on, lance the abscess and wrap on a poultice to draw out the infection.
It seems duct tape is a staple in her medical kit.
So our sweet old boy is back in the cushioned boot that looks like a big bedroom slipper.
It’s working though and makes him much more comfortable. Our vet has warned us that these abscesses are likely a part of the Cushing’s disease, and we’ll probably see more of them.
It was hard to watch Bud laboring to walk. Big sigh of relief that he’s finally doing better. And we’re close to being finished with the twice-daily doses of antibiotics.
What the future holds remains unknown, but for now our boy is on the mend.
Just a couple of days after we started doctoring Bud, I had the now-infamous bicycle accident. My world changed from being super-busy to super-not-busy. I joined Bud by having my own bottle of pain reliever on the counter. And the dizziness and head pain sidelined me most days from going to the pasture. My husband became the medic for all of us.
And we are still administering twice-a-day-meds to our sweet cat Mija. Her bottle of pills sits on the counter along with the others.
I’m ready to shift my focus away from pain toward wellness.
I don’t like feeling vulnerable, which is exactly how the accident left me. I don’t like measuring my day according to how many naps I must take, or what my pain level would be if I had to assign a number to it.
I don’t like thinking about my three old sweeties in pain.
So today marks a new beginning.
A wiping of the lenses to sharpen my focus. More thoughts of healing and wellbeing, and fewer thoughts about pain and vulnerability.
I’m not denying what happened to me, or what advancing age holds for our animals (or me for that matter.) I’m just going to do my best not to dwell on it.
It’s back to living in the present moment, appreciating all it brings. Living in fear of the unknown just makes me feel bad, and who needs that?
We’re all doing better at our house. Perhaps our lives are unfolding just as they should.