August

It’s August. In the Northeast, and I presume the rest of the country as well, August is the time for vacations. 

It’s a slow month. Everyone is on the Cape, or in the Hamptons, or at the Shore, or in the Catskills or Adirondacks or Finger Lakes or wherever they choose to vacation. 


This year, we didn’t take a real vacation — COVID still lurking and all that — but we have been away a fair amount. This weekend, we went to Lake George for a wedding. It was fun, but Julie was never far from my mind. 


Of course, these trips have come at the expense of Julie — and they have come as her health has tumbled. It makes me feel horrible and selfish. 


Her cat sitter came to check on her twice. Both times, the food was untouched. 


Both times, Julie declined her attempts to be hand-fed. 


When I get home on Sunday, Julie eats a little bit — but she barely moves. I wonder how much she has moved, if at all. It’s possible she remained in the same spot all weekend, under our dining room table. 


I don’t know what I’m waiting for. One more rally? She’s still eating, but she seems miserable. She has an appointment tomorrow with the oncologist. Perhaps they will tell me something to make me optimistic, but looking at her today, I can’t imagine what that would be. 

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