It will be twelve weeks tomorrow since Catie’s surgery. Despite all the fears and tears – and I remember those despairing, helpless, hopeless days well – the world kept turning. Hours turned into days, turned into weeks, turned into months and here we are. It’s April.
The snow’s melted for now. The poplars and the ash trees remain starkly bare, the air is stale with snow mold and thick with dust from the sand and gravel dumped on winter roads and sidewalks, but I swear there’s a hint of green in the grass. It is Alberta though. The weather could change overnight and transport us without mercy back to January conditions.
Catie’s snoozing in her spot beneath the front window. She’s endured great pain, so much so that before she was diagnosed with osteosarcoma her diseased leg had atrophied; she’s been x-rayed and biopsied and poked and prodded; sailed through major surgery, took each and every painkiller and antibiotic with unflappable patience and trust; and has thus far endured three chemo treatments.
And yet . . . life has gone on. The hares are no longer white, but a mottled grayish brown colour. They continue their hare-raising parties out front when they think no one is watching. As for the mice – to be honest, I haven’t set foot in the garage for weeks.
Catie continues to enjoy her cookies and trips to the dog park with Riley and barking at strangers on our street. She’s strong and she’s beautiful and I’m sitting here thinking: wow.