Wired For Worry – A Hopeful Confession

I’m wired for worry.

As much as the butterflies and crystals and messages from Diva all help – so much! – I worry a lot.

In the past year and a bit, my primary responsibility has shifted a lot. Our ‘Cuda fur-baby is really showing his age these days. He’s 16 years old! Since he was 4 months old, he’s been part of our family and has barrelled his way into and through our lives, our hearts and a whole lot of fun – and maybe a bit of trouble here and there.

And now we wait and stay with him, knowing that any moment might be when he decides it’s time to go.

He’s become lumpy, boney and wobbly as time has gone on, needing someone to watch over and keep him from harm.

Each trip outside has a few extra steps I wouldn’t do for myself. I need pockets for the scoop-up bags – because even if I intend for us to only be in our own yard, ‘Cuda will almost surely want to walk across the street. He needs his harness and leash on so I can better help him not fall over and keep him from heading straight out onto the street without my support. Since he doesn’t see or hear well, there is the double danger of possible cars and of tipping over. Then there is Jelly Bean, who is a lovely and energetic and mostly well-behaved companion, who also needs to be on her leash in the front yard or anytime we leave the yard.

Once I have that all together, I can help ‘Cuda down the stairs and navigate our way outside.

I’m not proud to say that there are moments when I feel like this is a burden. That there are times when I feel like he is taking me away from all the things I need to do.

Once outside, whenever he decides to just rest, to lay down in the soft shaded grass and “watch” the world go by, I play games on my phone.

If not for games, the worry in my head would be frantic.

What do I worry about?

Everything.

I worry that he will die alone, at some point when we have gone out.

I worry that he will die in my arms in a messy, painful way.

I worry that we have already kept him here too long.

I worry that we will make the decision to assist him on his way for our own convenience.

I worry that sometimes he plays me to go outside when he doesn’t really need to, but that there will be a time when I think I’m being played and he really really needs to go. (and so I usually eventually take him outside)

I worry about the day when he won’t be able to tell me that he needs to go outside.

I worry when he fusses in the night that I have not helped in every way I could, that I’m missing something obvious.

I worry that he understands that sometimes it is difficult for me to be all here for him.

I worry that when we are not at home with him that he will not be able to get up off the bathroom floor, or he will slide under the bed and not be able to get up.

I worry that I’m not giving him the right food, that I’m not giving him enough meds, that he’s not getting enough movement.

I worry that I’m giving him meds so that I can rest better.

I worry that my inability to focus on anything else is letting other people down.

I worry that my focus will never return.

I worry that I am selfish that I’m worried about my focus while my fur-baby’s life is winding down.

I worry that he knows he’s dying.

I worry that he doesn’t know what’s going on.

I worry that I don’t – and can’t – give him everything he needs.

I worry that Jelly Bean will think this is how her life will always be – hushed, slow, gentle. I know she wants to play and run so badly!

I worry that I like how isolated I have become.

I worry that sadness seems to flow through me every moment.

I worry that I will fall apart in my next breath.

I worry that I won’t fall apart when he is gone.

I worry about putting the wood flooring in after he is gone. We won’t put it in while he is here because it is too slippery for him. If I love the new floor, what does that say about my love for him?

I worry that I have spent far too long in my own head.

I worry that my butterflies and crystals will not help you as much as I want them to.

I worry that my time in my head has kept me from letting you know that these butterflies and crystals are services that can help you.

I worry that my sadness will scare the butterflies away.

I worry that my silence with Diva and Godiva will become permanent.

I worry that for all of my insight and connection that I will never really understand what I am here to do.

I worry that I have forgotten how to write. That the words will stop finding their way through.

I worry that you won’t come back to read them if they do.

I worry that I worry too much.

I’m certain I could go on and on and on and on. And I won’t.

There is a power in naming these, in speaking them aloud. It shifts their weight outside of myself.

I see, though, that in giving them too much attention – too much voice – their power will expand exponentially, crushing my spirit under the weight of them.

I see you, worry, and thank you for what you do for me. Your work here is done.

And so, I carefully lift each worry, softly setting each up on the strong wings of a bright butterflies.

They can carry them for me – and you can, too, if you wish to.

Thank you for being here with me. Thank you for sharing in this release.

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