Time is a Little Rascal
“If you take two plastic bags from the grocery store, you can use them as supports under both sides of her body. That way you can help her get up.”
That’s what our vet told us about our dog. She’s 12 years old. And I know that you might be considering closing this window because, like me, you cannot stand reading about the loss of an animal. Or maybe you’re a cat person. Or maybe you don’t have any pets.
But this isn’t just about my dog.
This is also about every time my grandma made me a bowl of turkey-neck soup with fried onions. This weird, greasy recipe used to stuff her grandchildren full at lunch-time was her way of showing her never-ending love for us. I forget how the soup tastes, but I remember the smile stretching across her half-tan half-white vitiligo face as she watched us eat. Unfortunately, I also remember that I never took her out for a walk, bought her something nice, or gave her flowers.
Later, she started forgetting where she was or what month it was, bringing up the alarm I set up for her on her phone ‘yesterday’, except that was half a year before, and she was 5062 miles away from us. The dementia wasn’t the only thing: there were heart problems too, and now Grandma’s gone.
My mom says that Grandma asked her for help with eyeshadow makeup when she was still at home with us. Back then, she said she didn’t have the time. Surely mom could have found time between her job and taking care of my siblings to show Grandma how to use eyeshadow. Surely I could have found the will to take Grandma out for a walk in the park.
My dad probably had it the most fucked up. On his side, Grandpa was an alcoholic. Grandpa wasn’t a violent or abusive alcoholic, but he wasn’t present and left my Dad’s mother and sister on their own. Downing copious amounts of vodka over long periods of time, as I’ve seen it done in my extended family, can result in stomach and liver cancer. When Grandpa was gone, Dad decided not to go to the funeral. After all, Grandpa was the reason why Dad’s mom was harassed for being with men who didn’t share the same surname as her or her children.
For all sad words of tongue and pen, The saddest are these, ‘It might have been’. — John Greenleaf Whittier
Some sort of forgiveness for a non-present man who was now no longer present at all… It could have been. And my Dad regrets not going to that funeral every single day of his life.
Time is a little rascal and I hate him. He creates the illusion that whatever you have in front of you will last forever. He points to something else in your life and convinces you that it needs your immediate attention. When you turn your head back to where you were looking at before, Time is gone. It ran off with the dog. It ran off with my Dad’s principles. And it ran off with Grandma.
After sitting on my ass and drinking beer and eating poorly every day, time is also the reason why looking in the mirror was painful. Especially when your former lover no longer loves you, when you haven’t spoken to them in months, and when the thought that they’re off with someone better than you is genuinely probable.
But time can be your friend if you play your cards right:
Time helped me run away from my past self. In fact, I ran away from my past self 5–10km every single day and exercised. Time wanted to tell me that the beer, the video games and the porn were important. It wanted to get me to turn my head again.
But I stared Time straight in the eyes and I told him what’s important. And I told him it’s going to be important today, and tomorrow, and the day after that.
When you’re firm with a little rascal such as Time, it listens to you.
PS: My dog is still alive. It takes a while for her to get up, and when she does go outside, I have to wait for her to move. But I’ve made it clear to Time that this process is important and that he’s not taking her away from me just yet.
