The Shape of Days

Whenever somebody is very sick and there’s nothing anybody can do, doctors haul out the old saw, “resting comfortably.” She’s not dying. She’s “resting comfortably.”

Well, Nelson is resting comfortably. I mean it literally. He’s on the couch right now, covered by a little fort made of throw pillows. We’re watching TV, my roommate and I, and he’s resting comfortably.

My roommate’s plan, which I wholeheartedly endorse, is to let Nelson have one more night and day at home. We’re going to keep him here with us tonight. He’ll sleep on her bed tonight, then when she gets up at 5:00 to go to the hospital she’ll put him on my bed to sleep until I wake up at whatever time I feel like. Then, while she’s in the OR during the day, he and I will spend some time together. When she comes home, we’ll evaluate his condition and, if it’s appropriate, help him to rest.

Here I am, launching these hundred-word diatribes against euphemism, and I can’t even bring myself to say the words. We’re not going to kill him. We’re going to help him to rest.

He’s not dying. He’s just going to take a nice, long nap.

Every time I think I’m okay, I turn around and write something like this and then I end up crying again. I’m clearly out of my freaking mind.

This post is part of a series. You can read the whole thing here, if you’re into that sort of thing.

• I’m not the friendliest person before I’ve had my coffee
• Office Dog
• Load-bearing gunk