The Quiet Hard Things

I’m staying at my daughter’s house while she’s back in hospital again.

The ninth admission in nineteen months.

Life feels like it’s permanently packed into a hospital bag these days, waiting rooms, phone calls, and the constant feeling of holding everything together with thin thread.

At the house there’s also the little dog. She’s eighteen now, deaf, blind, and confused.

She cries most of the day and most of the night. Not because she’s naughty, but because she doesn’t understand where she is anymore.

You can’t leave her outside because the neighbours would hear the crying.

Inside, she’s no longer toilet trained.

It’s one of those situations where compassion and reality collide.

An old dog who has reached the end of her road, and a family trying to manage yet another hospital stay.

Some days feel like everything difficult arrives at once.

This is just one of those days.