The word “bedside” brings to my mind the image of a darkened bedroom. Knick knacks long since abandoned to dust, drapes pulled tight against the reminder that the rest of the world is still alive. A thin figure asleep in the bed, looking almost two-dimensional under the layer of heavy blankets. The person sitting in the chair, the one who is slumped over, looking haggard… she is “bedside”, holding vigil.
It’s depressing as fuck, I know.
My dog Kerewin is sick, as you may remember. She has cancer. She had surgery weeks ago, we took the bandage off today. The incision didn’t heal well because of the unexpected nature of the cancer. It’s called a Grade II Mast Cell Tumor. She starts chemotherapy next week. Kerewin has always been at my bedside. She loves nothing more than curling up in the curve of my knees and it’s always understood that when I’m sick or just sad, she sleeps in my bed. Now it’s my turn to be at her bedside. This is her after our nap today.