My husband and I planned our week-long trip to my Ohio hometown.
“Is there anything particular you want to do?” I asked. Preston asked me the same. We had a potential list: drink coffee and write (well, I would write, he would read) at the Emporium; hike in Glen Helen; pick up food at Current Cuisine; try the new vegan place; go see my beloved college campus; get ice cream at Young’s; make a Trader Joe’s run.
Just before we got into our packed car, we took our Covid tests. Preston works outside the home, and I work from home so I have little exposure, but we both are extra careful and always take Covid tests before we see my parents. We got the all-clear. Negative! Yay!
We had one stop to make on our way to Ohio: a lunch in Lexington to see my cousins. That went beautifully. It was hot and we sat outside because we had our dog with us, but catching up was perfect and never long enough.
We got to Ohio. Our first full day, Day One, Preston took a Covid test in the morning just to be sure, and it was negative. Yay! Preston went on a run, I took my favorite walk, and we got coffee at Dino’s. My coffee was exactly as I liked it—with oat milk and extra hot. The sky was clear, and it was warm out but not terribly hot like the last time we had visited in the summer and it had broiled so much we hadn’t wanted to spend any time outside. We got salmon at Current Cuisine; we went to Young’s for ice cream. Life was as we planned it.
On Day Two, Preston took another Covid test, just to be sure. That’s how much he cares about my parents, and for that I am grateful. I had gone for a walk, and when I got home, my father said, “You should talk to Preston.”
“What happened?”
“Talk to Preston,” my dad said.
Apparently that was code for “He tested positive for Covid.” By the time I found Preston, he was already packed and ready to check into a hotel.
This was not part of our plan. But it was the new plan. I tried to be accepting and to look on the bright side: he’d caught it quickly, maybe none of us would get it. Preston, ever the one who accepts reality for what it is, said, “If we were at home, we’d have to be isolated from each other anyway. This way, you can still spend time with your parents.” He stocked us with Covid tests and he made us filtered contraptions out of box fans. Then he left.
It was me and the dog and my parents. Okay, I said to myself, it’s fine. It’s all fine. But really I wanted the trip we had planned.
On Day Three, I noticed my dog’s right eye was watering a lot. I emailed my vet back at home in Tennessee, thinking she would tell me it was nothing to worry about.
On Day Four, the storms began. Did I mention Kibbi is a storm-phobic dog? She was panting and shaking and trying to climb me to find higher ground. I had an online workshop to give, and the storms were raging. Okay, I said to myself, it’s fine. It’s all fine. But really I wanted the storms to stop. I’m not good at accepting what is—when what I really want is what isn’t.
My Tennessee vet called. “You need to get her checked out by a vet in Ohio,” she said.
As the storms raged, I called vets in the area around my Ohio hometown. No one would take us. Finally one 24-hour emergency vet practice said they could take us and would text me when I could bring her in, but it could be the middle of the night—they were backed up with clients.
Why hadn’t this medical thing happened when we were back in Tennessee? Why was this happening now? Wah wah wah. (That’s me, whining.)
Finally another emergency vet said they would take my dog that afternoon. The sun popped out long enough for us to make the forty-minute drive. My mom, saint that she is, offered to go with me.
We arrived early and sat in the waiting area. I had a moment, then, of clarity: here my mother was with me, and we were chatting, and wasn’t this the main purpose of this trip after all, to see my parents, to spend time with them? We got called back, and Kibbi got seen by a doggie ophthalmologist. Who knew there were doggie ophthalmologists? That was lucky, wasn’t it? It was, except the doggie ophthalmologist wanted me to put eye ointments in Kibbi’s eyes five times a day, and I had to do it solo because Preston was checked into a hotel and really it’s a two-person job. Whine whine whine.
Still, Kibbi was getting the care she needed and would get better, right? I was trying to do what my husband more easily does: see the silver linings. It takes me longer to see them because I am busy writing up my long whiny-whiny list when things don’t go according to my plan. Why isn’t the world paying attention to my plan??
And now many days have passed and it is Day One Thousand and Sixty-Seven, at least this is what it feels like, and my parents and I have not gotten Covid. I figured out how to do the eye ointment by myself. Kibbi hates me for doing it, but I can live with that. She’s wearing the cone of shame (thus I have dubbed her “My Little Handmaid’s Tale”), but after a day of bumping into things, she adapted. Yes, I am aware of the lesson in that. Her eye is better. And I have gone to Trader Joe’s, and I am sitting here writing at the Emporium with a cup of coffee. I miss my husband, but we’ve made do with what it is. And I have gotten to spend time with my parents, and isn’t that the most important thing? It is, it is.
I cross more things off my whiny-whiny list. I make a new list of things for which I am grateful. I consider whether to wear a cone of shame.
Photo credit: Ice cream pic by Svitlana from Unsplash.com
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