Tired

Tonight, I gave Xena a bath.

I cleaned away the remnants of blood from last week — not because they bothered her anymore, but because I wanted her to feel fresh, clean, held. I dried her gently, blow-dried her fur, and then sat with her the way I do every night, performing what has now become ritual.

Cleaning her mast cell tumours.

Bandaging the ones that still bleed.

Cleaning her anus and the lipoma around it.

Cleaning the mast cell near her eye.

Only while writing this did I remember that I forgot to apply the Fur Fresh ointment around her eye. The cone is on, though. I’m sitting right here. She’s safe. Sometimes caregiving is like this — you do ninety-nine things right and then your heart races over the one you missed.

Beyond the physical work lies the real weight.

The daily fear of losing her.

The anxiety of that dreaded call — again.

The kind of love that doesn’t sit quietly but presses against your chest until breathing feels incomplete.

Xena has been my heart and soul since she stepped into my life in 2014, after Zoe passed in 2013. And now Zach is gone too. Losing him shattered something in me that I’m still gathering up, piece by piece. Taking care of two dogs with terminal illnesses has taken a toll — on my back, my knees, my head, my heart.

Sometimes, in the middle of work, I just start crying.

I look at Xena and think of Zach.

A song plays, and I’m undone.

I am hurting. I am exhausted. I am terrified of the inevitability I don’t want to name. And still, every day, I choose to show up and make her comfortable — because this is what love demands when it is no longer convenient or pretty.

I don’t expect help from friends. I’ve made my peace with that. But my family and my partners have risen in ways that matter. My sister has been a pillar. Her husband, who was close to Zach, sees now — truly sees — the toll this has taken on me. Anand is grieving too, even if his grief speaks a different language than mine.

And me? I am so tired.

So anxious.

So stretched thin that sometimes I can’t take a full breath.

I want to write this because I want the world to understand something simple and brutal: loving an animal doesn’t mean loving them only when they are young, beautiful, playful, and easy. Loving an animal means going all the way. It means staying when they are old, sick, inconvenient, and breaking your heart.

This is the first time I’ve had two senior dogs at the same time. I’ve always had one elder and one younger — balance, continuity, hope. But losing Zach and knowing Xena may follow within months has cracked something open in me.

Six months apart.

Two souls.

One heart learning, again, what it means to love without conditions.

This is not a story about strength.

This is a story about staying.

I’m tired of wanting to be loved,
Of waiting for the men I love to see me,
Of waiting for them to return,
And to leave.

I’m tired of second guessing myself,
Of not seeing myself as worthy,
Of waiting for acceptance
From a dead father.

I’m tired of thinking life can be lived,
Of losing people I love to death,
Or to life.

I’m tired of people being people,
Of losing the animals I love.
I’m tired of buying clothes
To ease my vanity.
I’m tired of waking and sleeping,
Of hoping and loving,
Of losing, and of believing
In promises.

I’m tired of giving chances
To those who don’t understand them.
I’m tired of eating and gaining weight,
Of falling sick and growing thin,
I’m tired of my heart,
I’m tired of breathing.

I’m tired of me.