Dare To Rest: Sick Glider Paranoia

(Written two nights before our move from GA)

It’s one AM. Sleep pulls at my eyes and I know I should close them and rest. But worry compels me to stay awake; to watch Cardamom and Dreamer and to make sure that they are okay.

Adventures in Odyssey plays in my ear buds and drowns out the sound of the air purifier and the glider wheels turning. The smell of cinnamon and orange essential oil fill my nose. We will be leaving here soon, heading to new horizons. Utah awaits. Lovely mountains, clear skies and hopes of community and friendship.

I glance at the glider cage that I lay next to. My bed has been moved to the U-Haul and my room is bare. Vanilla and Ink run together on the wheel. Dreamer is curled up in the trashcan toy. Cardamom, my beautiful baby, is busy grooming himself.

I look closer, and breathe a sigh of relief as I see that he hasn’t reopened his incision sight (from his neuter). I took the Cone of Shame off. I fought to get him in an e-jacket but he kept getting out of it. At last I decided to take it off and watch him closely. It’s been an hour and the wound has been licked but not reopened. I pray that he will leave it alone and that it will heal.

1:10 AM. Do I dare sleep? Will I wake up to find Cardamom covered in his own blood after having done irreversible damage to himself?

I check him again. He looks up at me with his big black eyes. Tell me you’ll be okay, buddy. Tell me that you won’t hurt yourself. I don’t want to force you back into the jacket.

Dreamer is at the cage bars, looking at me curiously and longing to get out. Nightly playtime has been put on hold for the past few nights because of the move. I miss my babies. I miss holding them and feeling them scamper up and down my arms.

I hear my sisters rhythmic breathing from the next room. The rest of my family sleeps on mattresses downstairs. It won’t be long before we sleep in a new house, in a new state. Excitement fills me as I think of the new adventures ahead.

1:30. I open the cage again and stick my head inside. Cardamom is asleep and is not grooming. Ink, his dad, is curled up beside him. I carefully lift Cardamom and check the incision sight. It has not been harmed. I breathe a prayer of thanks.

My babies will be okay. My family will be okay. I’ll be okay. I close my eyes and let myself drift into sleep. I’ll wake again soon to check on my babies and to give out doses of pain meds, antibiotics and GI infection remedies.

For now, for a few glorious minutes, I sleep. I am at peace.


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