I think this week is going to be a test of the thing I do worst of all: patience.
I’ve been an instant gratification person my entire life, which probably speaks to some other issues I should unpack once I get past this damn cancer. But that feels like a problem for Future Me. Current Me is busy obsessively checking Natera’s website for blood test results like I’m waiting for Grand Theft Auto 6 to finally release.
They conveniently gave me a tracking number for the blood they took last weekend, which I’m sure has to weird out at least a few people at FedEx. Somewhere out there is a guy scanning a box labeled with biological material while I’m at home refreshing tracking updates like it’s Christmas morning.
Still, I’m weirdly grateful for both the tracking number and the people moving my blood around the country because at least it feels like progress. According to the shipping updates and my own completely unqualified detective work, Wednesday seems like a realistic timeline for news.
Until then, I’ve been trying to distract myself.
Much to the frustration of Tugboat.
Man’s best friend is apparently supposed to comfort you during difficult times. They lay beside you on the couch, rest their head on your lap, and provide unconditional love and emotional support.
Not Tugboat.
Nope.
Tugboat’s version of support is trying every morning to slip out of his collar, sprint downstairs to the coffee shop at the base of my building, and convince complete strangers that he is both starving and horribly mistreated. It’s honestly impressive how committed he is to the performance. He wanders around looking like a Victorian orphan asking for scraps while I’m upstairs paying an embarrassing amount of money for prescription dog food he refuses to appreciate.
Once he exhausts the coffee shop crowd and squeezes out enough sympathy belly rubs, he usually starts trying to visit other residents in the building. On most days, he successfully finds someone willing to let him hang out for hours. If Tugboat could speak, he would probably say these people aren’t suckers at all, but generous benefactors honored to have him serve as their emotional support muse while they work from home.
He has an ego nobody really gets to see in public, but it is massive.
There are moments where he pretends to show me affection, but I see through the scam pretty easily. He becomes very loving around 7 AM and 5 PM, which just so happen to align perfectly with meal times. Even then, his affection is conditional upon whether I’m serving portions he finds acceptable, despite the fact that he is objectively fat and currently on a diet he deeply resents.
The low-calorie food has apparently ruined his life.
He voices this opinion often.
Meanwhile, when he visits other people, I get routine updates about how amazing he is. How they took a long nap together. How he stayed close to them all day. How comforting and sweet he was.
With me? He goes into the other room, attempts to claim the entire bed, and gives me judgmental looks when I have the audacity to try and sleep in my own apartment. He’ll move just far enough away to avoid accidental touching, but the second I get up in the middle of the night — which still happens regularly while I figure out how all my new plumbing works — he opportunistically reclaims every square inch of mattress space before I can get back.
He doesn’t care why I’m awake at 2 AM.
He doesn’t care that cancer is the reason he gets sent off to extended sleepovers full of treats and attention.
And honestly, I didn’t think he cared much about what I needed at all.
At least not until last night.
My brain would not shut off. I could feel the anxiety creeping in while I waited for news about whatever comes next with all of this. The blood test. The remaining cancer questions. More treatment. No treatment. All the stuff your brain likes to weaponize against you when the lights go out and things get quiet.
And then, completely unprompted, Tugboat came over and laid down close enough to snuggle.
Which genuinely made all the difference in the world.
Right up until I realized he was farting directly on me.
I turned on the light and I swear I could actually see him smiling in his sleep while he did it.
But honestly, it made me laugh. It broke the spiral in my head. For a little while, I stopped caring about blood tests and timelines and cancer.
And it reminded me that even though Tugboat is absolutely a little jerk sometimes… he’s still a good boy who cares in his own weird way.