24 Hours

August 25, 2021, 10:00 a.m. Julie died over 24 hours ago, at 9:50 a.m. 

I wonder how long I will stop to reflect at this time. Another few days, I guess. Beyond that, it becomes unhealthy. 


For a generally successful person, I am prone to considerable bouts of self-doubt and regret. I’m wondering about a few things, today. 


Maybe I should have taken her to Clifton, for her regular appointment with doctors she knows better. She could have had her regularly scheduled appointment and they could have given me insights as to her condition. And if it were waining to the degree I suspected, they could have put her down there. 


Maybe — not maybe, definitely — I should have taken her food bowl off its usual ledge over the weekend while we were in Lake George. I used the ledge because Julie could jump up on it, and the dog either couldn’t or wouldn’t. But the dog came with us to Lake George, and somehow I forgot to put the dish on the floor off the ledge to make it a little easier to her to reach. What the fuck was I thinking? Maybe she would have eaten more if it had been more easily accessible. And maybe if she’d eaten more, she’d have felt better for the last few days. 


Maybe I should have kept her on the Palladia regimen. I took her off it for the last week or so, hoping that it would help her appetite. Maybe the tumor grew faster in this time period than it otherwise would have. 


So many sad questions I’ll never be able to answer. 


At 9:15 this morning, as I performed some menial work task, it occurred to me that 24 hours ago, Julie was in my lap in the car. And while I was near tears, I was also happy to have that time with her, and I could tell that she was happy for that, too. 


At 9:30, it occurred to me that, 24 hours ago, Julie and I were together in the room, spending the last minutes we would have together. And that I wouldn’t be able to do that today, or ever again. 


A few people who know about Julie have asked me how I’m doing today. And what can I say? I’m a thirty-eight year-old man. An attorney who owns his own law firm. All I can say is, I’m okay. Thank you for asking. 


Of course, I’m not really okay. Not yet. It still just hurts too much.


As I held her body yesterday after she passed, I felt a tough of anger to go with my melancholy. 


“This fucking cancer,” I said. “This fucking cancer. Fuck this cancer.” 


I touched her left jaw, where the lesion was. I saw small bits of blood protruding from the area. I saw my shorts and shirt, both a mess. I felt my right leg, covered with her urine. 


I’ll never understood why it happened to her, why she couldn’t have lived until 20 as she rightfully should have, why our time was cut short. 


Today I don’t feel like the aforementioned thirty-eight year-old business-owning attorney. I feel like a kid, lonely and lost, without his best friend, and deep inside a head full of sadness and remorse and regret. 

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