330 again and again

So I'm up. It's 330 am. Again. 

Chewbacca had been doing okay until the fires which have really exacerbated his breathing issues So the last few nights have been very difficult to say the least. 

Yesterday, I had court and a big motion due. Chewbacca had kept me up all night. I slept a couple of hours max and when I left for work, he was doing better and was dozing quietly. As I walked out the door, I looked at him and said, "Now you fall asleep?" He didn't answer except with a snore. 

I made it through the court and work day on a combination of caffeine and determination. I even finished my motion and put it together for filing (my paralegal will file it today) a little after 5 pm. It came out pretty good, on a complex issue, probably because I was just so focused on getting it finished. It was as if whatever gas was left in my tank kicked in and I got it done. 

But I came home from work, a bit after 6 pm due to traffic, and I was bone tired. I was so exhausted that I almost started crying with relief when I crawled into bed snuggling under my Laura Ashley comforter. Okay I did tear up a little. And yes, Chewbacca was whining but I didn't care. I just said, "I'm sorry buddy, but I gotta sleep." 

I slept until 3 am. Now I'm up again with Chewbacca but at least I feel human again. I can do this. It's hard, but he needs me. Right now, as I was writing this, Chewbacca perked his head up and gave me a nuzzle on my cheek. 

I know he can't talk but I can write and I'm sure he knows I'm here for him. Yes, he's just a dog, but damn I love this little caramel colored shih tzu. We will get through the night and the sun will rise. As it always does. He just started snoring so I'm going back to bed on my futon downstairs so I'm here if he needs me. Night. Thanks for listening. 

The muse

Today, I have an event with a Latina writer named Julia Amante. We are talking about writing stories with a cultural Latina perspective. And reading aloud. It's being moderated by a writer/journalist named Minerva Canto who is also president of the Inlandia Institute. 

Lately, I'm moving toward less "reading" and more performance. I will try only to use my notes when I need to. It is stressful to try this out, but I think it's more me. I've always revised my stories when reading them aloud. And I like to challenge myself. 

And tonight I plan on trying to "perform" my story about my sad attempt at making flour tortillas. Last night, I practiced. I stumbled a bit because I've never read the story aloud. It was first performed on a radio show read by a voice actress. So it's not easy. I cut out 5 minutes to get it within time. 

You never know where a story will end up. Some of my stories end up in newspapers or literary journals or anthologies or perhaps, in a future book. Some end up here. But all of my stories start with an idea. A memory. An inkling where I think to myself, I should write about that. That's the beauty of memoir. It's taking your true life and turning it into art.

For some, making tortillas very badly can just be an event they'd rather forget. But for me, it's literary inspiration. It says something about who I am. And who I want to be. So I will continue to write on.

Crying

Chewbacca cried all night. At some point, I yelled "go to bed" in a frustrated loud voice from the futon. 

This is all bringing back the last week of my dad's life. My dad wouldn't cry, but my dad would see strange things, he called them "passers by". 

Later, I found out that when your organs are shutting down, the toxins can cause delusions. At one point, my dad saw his daughter Barbara (who passed away when I was in high school) by his side. 

I like to think that my dad's vision of his departed daughter's image was not a delusion but instead, that maybe she was helping my dad transition. 

It's 4 am and Chewie is wheezing in his sleep. I need to wake him up to give him his medicine which helps with the wheezing, but I don't want to wake him up. He's snoring and I want to pick him up and cuddle him. There's not much time left. I know this.

So even though I am so tired. And so exhausted. And not my best self, I know there is a beauty to this time. I know I will miss even this. And just like my father, who I would give anything to see alive for even a moment, I also know it will break me apart when Chewie is gone. Into pieces. 

Another

So I'm sitting here. In the bathroom. Waiting for the steam to do its work on Chewbacca's lungs. He woke up hacking. At 445 am. It was so loud that it echoed in the house and woke me up. 

I'd snuck upstairs last night to sleep when he started snoring. I got a good six hours, maybe seven. He sits on the rug looking at me with his big brown eyes then walks to the bathroom door as if to say, open it I'm done.  

He looks at me again. I shake my head knowing he can't see me or much of anything anymore. "Lay down Chewbacca", I plead. He lies down and lays his head on his paws and sighs. 

The room fills with steam. I breathe in deeply. He's stopped coughing. I'm buying a nebulizer today. I have to make sure he sleeps with it. His meds really aren't working anymore and he hates taking them although I force him to by placing them in caramel or sometimes chicken. 

Chewbacca moves to the tile at my feel. He hasn't coughed since the steam filled the room. I know the end is near but I'm just trying to get him some more good times. His quality of life means everything to me. Chewbacca has been my devoted companion for 16 years. Frodo lasted fifteen years and the end was quick. But I miss him so desperately at times. 

Chewbacca has fallen asleep. He breathes in deeply no coughing. I remind myself that times like these are everything. It may seem taxing to get up and do this, but really (except for the fact I left my espresso at the machine this morning) it's not. It just is. We just are.

So I take another deep breath. And another. 

Don't Ask

I'm asking myself, why can't I focus on my next book project? And basically, I've realized, that I'm a sleep deprived and aching back mess. 

You see, for the last months, my shih tzu Chewbacca and I have a week work routine. It's very dysfunctional. He starts meowing (yeah I know he's a dog but he's so whiney lately that he sounds like a cat) about 11 pm. Now by that time, I've usually been asleep for two hours. And hubby is snoring. 

So I get up. I carry Chewbaca downstairs because he is very sight lacking, and kiss his face. Then I put him down and pull out the futon and put on West Wing or Succession or Gilmore Girls on the TV. Then we go back and fourth for a couple hours. Chewbaca barks, whines in his cat like way and usually eats and then he goes outside at some point. This is pretty much every night from 11 pm to 1 am. 

Of course, around 3 am, I pad by him quietly and sneak upstairs and try to sleep for a few more hours. Then I have to get up and get to work! It's so hard. But I am kinda used to it.

Plus, Chewbacca is definitely not himself. He is perpetually mad at me for making him take his meds. He does not feel well. He needs a groom but the last few times triggered attacks so I'm holding off. It's like taking care of a very surly, very small and furry baby, but he's a dog. He's also my everything. I love him so. So will carry on. 

Writing life

Many don't know how hard a writer's life is. The majority of writing is in seclusion. All alone. You and your computer. 

Yes, there are workshops, and writing groups, and events. But to really focus, a writer needs to sit their damn butt in the chair and write their stories, poems, plays, and/or essays.

I have a hard time with the seclusion of writing. Working full-time, it's hard to find the time and I'm also a very social person by nature. I'm sure you all know that I'd much rather be at a concert in Vegas or at a bar, then writing. Plus, I have a husband that I spend a lot of time with. Then there's my dog. And my new exercise swimming regime which is definitely a necessity. These are not excuses, just observations. 

When I do write, it's everything. I know this. Yet, I still can't believe I wrote my two books. I also know it was kismet. Finding the time was definitely due to Covid. I didn't go anywhere for months. So every early morning and weekend, I wrote. And wrote. Then wrote some more.

I keep saying that once I retire, I'll focus one hundred percent on my writing. And I mean it. I really do. 

But I also need to focus now. Because now is all there is. It's a writer's life for me. Let me say it again. It's a writer's life for me. 

Enough

Yesterday at work, we took a short break and had some tea. It was a nice little social. Everyone chatted about cases. It was just a bunch of woman lawyers (almost everyone on our floor in mental health law is female) communing with one another over tea and scones and my friend's evil yummy cinnamon rolls (I had only a tiny bite of one).

It made me remember why I love community. It's healing. It's fortifying and inspiring and it's why I write. Everything is so confusing and contentious right now. From politics to the economy and inflation to the carceral system I work within. It's all so stressful. But community helps. It really does. 

It's 4 am. I'm thinking about my mother who just fell but is doing okay. My dog who is struggling health wise and of course, about all my clients who are suffering. My empathy is a good thing but it makes it hard to let it all go.

There are days I no longer want the stress of my work. I won a big battle yesterday for my program, but another is looming in the distance. It never stops. The briefs. The argument. 

The work is getting harder as I get older. But sometimes, I have to be content with what I can do as one person working in a broken system. Yesterday, I got an elderly, transient man services and housing through the county (county mental health did the hard work) and a dismissal of his multiple misdemeanors. 

Sometimes, that has to be enough.