Chasing Hope

I can't find the motivation to get back to my editing, or rewriting. Sure I'm writing my blog posts, but that's different. That's to share my made-up treatment, which is really a case of trial and error, and to document my condition, in case it turns out to be the Corona Virus, hoping it can help someone.

I still don't know what it is. I don't have a fever... yet. I don't have blue lips... yet. I can still smell and taste. I have all the symptoms of the flu. So it may be the flu. However, I've had the flu before, and I've never had this much trouble breathing before. I'm doing everything I can at home to help my lungs. I'm treating this as bronchitis because I don't know what else to treat it as. I've been chewing raw garlic, constantly applying menthol rub, making and drinking weird concoctions made of ingredients that are supposed to support my lungs. I haven't given up.

I have hope that I will beat this. I've done nothing but work on restoring my breathing and things seem to be going better, but just when I think I'm making progress toward recovery, my chest pain returns stronger and I get depressed. Last night, I read that the former French minister died of Covid-19. He had been stabilized and was feeling better. Yeah... Just like I thought I was feeling better and now I can't breathe again. I rationalized he was much older than me. Then I read the first infant in the US died as well. They did say older people and children were most at risk. Then I read my friend's husband's cousin was only 36 and he just died. Age doesn't really matter.

I just don't have the motivation to work on Reflections, my work in progress. Every time I sit down in front of my laptop, I think What's the point? This still needs months of work. I should be boxing my books and sending them to my book-loving friends. There are no other valuable possessions here. Just books. More importantly, I should be finding someone who would take care of my dogs.

My dogs... What will happen to them? They are used to a certain lifestyle. I've spoiled them a little too much. They're used to getting massages every morning and to their faces being wiped with a paper towel sprayed with almond oil and rose water. I cook them fresh food twice a day. I play with them, maybe a little more than other dog owners do. I wipe their butts after they poop. They don't like their nails being clipped, so I prepare treats, clip one nail a day, and reward them for being such good babies. Until my lungs ran out of air eleven days ago, I used to constantly talk to them, just to see their cute little heads tilt. I used to sing silly made-up songs with their names just to watch them sit there and wag their tails. I carry them to bed one by one every night while whispering how much I love them in their ear, and I tuck them in.

My three dogs are my family, but they are also literally a family: a mommy, a daddy, and a baby. They've never been apart. I got the parents when they were only four weeks old and separated from their mother. Their baby was born in my kitchen and I cut his umbilical cord. They've always been together. If I take one of them out, the other two will sit by door until we get back. They've never been apart. Who would want all three of them together? What kind of life will they have? They may be my puppies, but they're not really puppies anymore; they're getting old. They need peace and love and care, and no one can take care of them like I can because no one knows them better than I do.

My thoughts get darker and darker, and I snap myself back to the present. Now. I'm still here. I hug them, look in their eyes, tell them I love them. Then I start coughing and wheezing again. I get up and repeat the process: lemon, eucalyptus, ginger, garlic... Hope.