This is a repost of a blog that originally appeared on my now-defunct lieawake.com blog. I’m posting here because it contains backstory for my upcoming book.
In 27 days, I’ll be hitting the road in my trusty KiSpo with my surly furburby, Lobo.
We are leaving.
We are leaving IL and we are leaving the first nine months of 2020 in our dust. Adios, betch. Obviously, it’s been quite the year for everyone. Between the global pandemic, police brutality, civil unrest, and the election cycle, we’ve all been Zooming our way through a sheer hellscape, holding onto our pantaloons with one hand (if and when we happen to be wearing anything on the bottom half) and holding on for dear life with the other.
Then, just a few weeks ago, I took Lobo in for some routine blood work only to discover that his ALT levels were pretty high. This triggered an abdominal ultrasound, which revealed a tumor, which set in motion a series of vet visits that led to us discovering that Lobo has cancer.
Fuck. Fucking. Cancer.
While my blue-merled boy is a crispy 13 years old, I always believed in the back of my mind that he would be around for another decade. He’s been my companion and my champion through some of the best — and worst — times of my life. His prognosis is still fairly positive at this point, but no good thing lasts forever. And yet, I have promised this dog that we are traversing the country to a land with palm-treat-lined streets. So we forge onward.
We are throwing up deuces. To cancer. To bullies. To sub-zero temperatures. But we’re also saying goodbye to some really, really special people in our lives. This is the hard part. As I recently noted to someone, the best things in life are bittersweet, and this is one of those things.
Yet we are excited. Well, I am excited. Lobo has been shitting his pants wondering why I keep leaving the house with different pieces of furniture and returning empty-handed. Did I mention we are selling all of our things? That is happening. I say *we* like I obtained Lobo’s written consent, but the truth of it is that I’m just holding a digital fire sale and shedding as much as possible before we hit the road. We’re slowly whittling down our possessions to a few boxes that will fit inside of a midsized SUV.
This is it — a new beginning and a chance to reinvent myself once again. Lobo refuses to reinvent himself because he says he’s perfectly content being a grouchy, silver-tipped, fire-spitting, treat-feasting community watch captain. Le sigh.
Goodbye, Chicago.
Thank you for the memories, pizzas, and shell casings. For the most dismal winters I have ever experienced, the most glorious summers a Midwesterner can behold, and the entire 2 weeks of spring and fall you bestow upon us each year.
Thank you for raising me amidst the corruption but not corrupting me while you raised hell. Thank you for 35 years of growing, stopping, dancing, and pondering. And for the lake that ruffles her skirt at our shores.
Mostly, thank you for letting me out alive.
‘Til we meet again.
