the friends

I’m here for you.

Do you actually only love someone when you love them more than yourself?

I look up from Ann Voskamp’s question on page 140 of The Broken Way and I see Maxy sleeping peacefully on the family room floor.

I’ve been so tired.

Tired of living like a shut-in, as most caregivers do. Tired of changing diapers and wiping piddle trails off the floors. Tired of hoisting a 46 pound bag of bones to feet he can’t find, feet attached to legs that collapse under him, or that never unfold at all.

“Help me out, buddy” I say.

He collapses to the floor again.

“Come on, Maxy,” I say impatiently, “you can manage to find your feet when dinner is ready.  Help me out here!”

“Sorry Bud, I know you’re old and I’m trying to help you, but I’m old, too, so you try and help me.”

Maxy is my 15 year old hound dog, who likely has degenerative myelopathy – the canine version of ALS. His hind legs have grown increasingly weaker over the last year or so and we can expect that as the disease progresses his upper body and breathing muscles will be affected, too.

“When he gets to the point where he can’t stand at all,” the hub said a few months ago, “we’ll have to put him down. Otherwise he’ll have to pee and poop laying on his side and he wouldn’t want that.”

Not a minute before, I thought in reply. Not a minute before.

But now I think about the people who take control of their lives, who would have put him down long before they stopped inviting people over because their blanket-covered family room floor smells like pee; people who would be out chasing their dreams, doing their thing.

I think about me who spends an hour each morning and again each evening preparing ketogenic meals, doling out medications, supplements and chemo to my beagle as I check them off a legal-sized spreadsheet. Me, who spends the hours in between doing laundry and wiping Maxy pee off the kitchen floor.

Sometimes I wish he would hurry up and go.  Sometimes I ask God to hurry up and take him. Peacefully. While he’s sleeping comfortably, with the sleepy background sounds of his family gently cradling him.

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He’s awake now, head up, looking around, looking out the doorwall.  He looks bright, alert, like he’s enjoying the peace and quiet of the afternoon.  There is no way I can schedule his death.  Not while he still looks content. Not while he’s still so enthusiastic about his meals.

Do you actually only love someone when you love them more than yourself?

“I’ll take care of you for as long as it takes,” I whisper.

He looks at me as though he knows my thoughts.

Do I love Maxy more than I love myself?

Or is it that I love being the me who will take care of him more than I would love being a me who wouldn’t?

“Greater love has no one than this,” Jesus said, “that he lay down his life for his friends.”

 

 

 

 

 

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