A Terrible Winter

This was the winter we spent lying on the floor.

photo by Tonya Morton

Tonya:

I’ll always remember this winter as the winter we spent lying on the floor, watching the dog. We studied his eyes, his expression, the way he sat or lay in his bed.

We kept asking each other the same questions:

“What’s he doing?”

“How does he look?”

“Do you think he’s in pain?”

For the whole month of November, we didn’t understand what was happening. Sometimes he seemed to be in pain, but then other times he seemed fine. Was it his legs? Was it his back? We took him to the vet. Then we took him again. We took him in a taxi to the emergency room on 55th street. We took him outside less and less, for shorter and shorter walks, hovering over him and restraining him on the leash until he walked so slowly he couldn’t possibly hurt himself.

But still, when we came inside from the walks and stood at the elevator door, we’d look down at him and find that he was shaking. He looked up at us, as confused as we were. His little tail was tucked against his rear. He was worried, I think. We were all worried. None of us knew what was going on.

In December, we drove him an hour upstate to have the MRI. Oddly, that was the beginning of the release from worry, even if that release took months. The neurologist rushed him into spinal surgery and, when he came home two days later, you and I had filled his new crate with blankets and food. We put him in the crate and, for the next six weeks, we lay on the carpet just a few feet away and we watched him.

I remember looking over at you from my desk one afternoon in January. You were lying on the carpet, taking your shift outside his crate.

“How does he look?” I asked you.

“Okay, I think.” We were never sure in our answers. “I don’t know. I think he’s relaxing now.”

You had your head resting on an elbow. You had been watching Santo for hours. I thought about how far away you were. And I thought that worry was the loneliest feeling I could think of. That, no matter how hard we tried to be together for this awful experience, we were each doomed to worry alone. We can share almost everything else. We do share everything else. But I knew my worry was so wrapped up in itself, you couldn’t reach it. And yours was wrapped just as tightly, kept somewhere apart so that I couldn’t hope to make it better. The only thing we could do together was wait. Repeat ourselves over and over.

“We’re making progress.”

“It’s getting better.”

We kept trying to comfort each other. Mostly through food. We talked about how important it was to look after ourselves too, but often we didn’t. I stopped going to the gym. You stopped swimming. We spent our days looking after him.

In an awful way, our worry kept us suspended in the present moment for months. We were attuned to every sound he made, conscious of him at every second. There was no past and no future as long as he was in pain.

It took weeks of crate rest, lying on the floor, but finally, we released our grip on worry, inch by inch, though we were always ready to snatch it back up at the slightest squeak. Only in the last few weeks, now that Santo is almost entirely back to normal, has it felt acceptable to think of things like summer, like next year. Only now are we discussing trips again.

I don’t know if there’s another way to go through this—watching someone you love in pain. I don’t know if another kind of person could go through it without that intense, world-altering worry. I hope we don’t have too many opportunities to find out.

And I want to ask you: do all the other worries feel smaller for you now?

I think they do for me.

Paul:

First off, I’m not sure that THE DOG was worried. I think he was in terrible pain. In fact, I’m more convinced of that, now that <knock wood> it’s in the rear-view mirror. When an animal is sick, they don’t want to show it. The pack might abandon them. That’s my guess, at least. We were worried because we didn’t know what was going on, but we knew that SOMETHING was very bad. You didn’t mention his horrible squealing. It was the worst sound ever. His body language was awful, but the squealing was what drove us to the vets - four different vets.

His condition presented strangely. He didn’t show any pain at the vet’s office. After the first few episodes, his plight consumed me and all I did was to wait for the next one. Is this worry or fear? There is overlap between the two. Fear is an emotion, but worry is a thought process. I often joke about how my ancestors, the Greeks, invented worry beads. Constant worry is no joke, though.

I would lie in bed as a child and ruminate about bad things that could happen. This was not my whole life - I also fantasized about the usual things: being a superhero, flying a plane, getting a driver’s license one day, but worry crept in. I read a lot, had a vivid imagination. If I began to cough, I thought it might be the beginning of the end. I spent way too much time coming up with bad scenarios and thought, later in life, that I could have gotten a job with the pentagon creating war games.

When Santo was in pain, I don’t know if it was worry or sympathetic pain that took me over. Pain and overwhelming fear. I could think only of when it would hit again, what it might be, and what we could do. Consensus among the vets and the animal neurologist was that it was a spinal disk issue. But they were not certain, nor did they think it was urgent. They did not see a dog who was paralyzed. WE knew how bad it was, though. They gave him the equivalent of doggie Advil and gabapentin. I’d wake up early in the morning and give it to him, but I knew he was hurting and it was destroying all of us.

Not knowing the cause of something terrible is far worse than knowing. The mind fills in the blanks with bad scenarios - worries. A wise friend once said to me, “We always worry about the wrong things.” I’m not so sure that applied in this case. When we finally found out what it was - a ruptured disc, a severe compression on his spinal cord - it was a relief. The doctor said, “I’m surprised he can still walk.” The real relief was that we had an answer and a course of action.

Then came a new set of worries - would the surgery be a success, what would recovery look like, could we handle the crate rest and do what we had to do? I have learned a few tricks in life by now and reverted to the basic lessons of: “just show up,” “do the next right thing,” and “ask for help.” We did watch him constantly, but I did what I would do for any other pack member - any loved one: I tried to be present for him and tried to keep my worries to myself. Comforting someone can simply mean sitting next to them quietly.

This injury was a concrete worry. You probably chose it as a topic because it was so all-consuming, a “big kahuna” worry, one that happened to take over our lives for three months. But there are so many more, so many little ones that can erode a day of life on earth.

I can worry about money and the future. Lately, I worry about a total economic collapse and what might happen to us. I worry about health issues. Hey! Does it feel like I’m going to break a tooth on this sticky bun, just like I did in 1999? Will I ever lose the ten pounds I gained during Covid? When will I need the brake rotors turned on my car again? And will they fuck it up like they did the last time? Will I drive around with a pulsating brake pedal for months? Worrying is a complete waste of life.

Okay, by now I know that I have painted a portrait of myself as an insane worrier. It’s not that bad. Like I said, I have learned a few things along the way and have learned some drastic responses, such as repeating to myself, “Worrying is a waste of life.” It works, but the thought as I type this now is, “Wow, I worry about worrying. That’s fucked up.” So be it.

You want to know what my latest worry is - hot off the presses? I just realized that the fun thing about these exchanges is that I write them as responses to you. And I now worry that I didn’t do it this time. I didn’t address this to you, Tonya, so much as go off the rails with my worried rant about worry. I’m sorry for that. Luckily, I don’t worry that you’ll judge me. And that’s a relief.

Tonya:

You may think Santo doesn't worry, but you haven't seen the expression on his face when you start yelling at your computer. I think he's just as co-dependent as the rest of us.

I almost regret choosing to write about the last few months of his recovery. The memories are still so fresh and awful. Each day, we prayed nothing would go wrong. We worried about the cold. Worried about walking him in the snow. And now that he's strutting up and down Bank Street like himself again, I'd love to forget how all of that felt. But that's life, I guess. Heavy shit happens. There really isn't any way to prepare for it.

Actually, if there's a "Big Lesson" to take from this winter, that's the one I choose to take. I now fully believe that worrying is a waste. And your friend’s theory— we worry about the wrong things—is right. You're always going to be blindsided by the big stuff, so what's the point? I remember what I was worrying about when Santo started feeling bad: I was worried about the rain. And did it rain in November? Yes. But, God, who cares?

I could list all the things I'm worried about right now, but that would just be amplifying a bunch of background noise. None of it is real. In fact, since we've emerged from Santo's Shitty Winter of Hell, I worry far less about the things that used to consume me. Not that they aren't important—money, of course, and the future, of course. Where-to-live and dear-god-what-the-hell-with-this-country and then the omnipresent fear of failure thing... but, I don’t know. Somehow it feels like it'll all get figured out with time. If I just keep doing what's in front of me, one thing and then another thing, I'll be alright. When something big pops up, we’ll deal with it. That's how it feels right now.

Or maybe it's just warmer outside, and the sun came out.

This will make you worry about my sanity, but I've been feeling guilty about NOT worrying so much. Like maybe it makes me a worse person? Or, at the very least, less interesting. I don't want to seem like a Pollyanna, given how over-stressed, overwhelmed and overwrought everybody else is. And it isn't like I don't register all the horrible things around me, all the worthy things to worry about. I just... I don't know. I feel okay right now. And that seems almost inappropriate.

Do you think it's possible to be an interesting person and also mentally healthy?

Paul:

Okay, first off, I'd call it "Our Shitty Winter of Hell" because we all shared it. But I forgot to mention another path out of the worry hole for me - and I don’t care about sounding corny if something works - gratitude lists.

We did it together. We talked our way through it as much as we took actions.

We showed up for each other

and, contrary to what you said in the last email,

We did take care of ourselves throughout. It just didn't always feel that way.

We were consumed. When the absolute worst was past and we were not freaking out about the crate rest issues every night, I began to take long baths. They were a refuge. We ate. We tried to focus on what was going right, while talking about what we were scared of. And another corny slogan - I live by corny slogans - a worry shared is a worry lessened.

I know Santo may be co-dependent, but that's just another way of saying, "the pack sticks together," and that we all care about each other. But to hell with the psychobabble of modern times. The big lesson is that everything is relative - or maybe that’s not the big lesson.

I remember the last time I got mugged - this was a long time ago, the mid-1990s and I hope it was the last time - I was on a Number 1 train pulling into the World Trade Center station. Or was it Rector Street? Either way, two kids entered the empty car I was in and threw me to the floor. It was scary and they said they had a gun and were going to shoot me if I moved, but I could not look. I was face down on the floor of the subway car, too scared to twitch.

When it was over and I had gotten home, I sat on the couch, exhaled, and looked around the room at all the little parts of my life, the stuff I enjoyed, but didn't really appreciate consciously most of the time. The bike I liked to tune up, the pots I cooked with, my cat at the time, Jayne, my books - all the little things that gave me joy. I thought about how much I'd miss if I were suddenly removed from the scene. Well, if I were dead, maybe I wouldn't miss them, but you know what I mean. It was an "It's a Wonderful Life" moment.

So yeah, worrying is a waste. It removes you from the present, from the little things. It's a waste of life. It's like the shittiest drug ever, a form of escape that is actually worse than whatever it is you want to avoid. Why, you might ask, do I indulge in that kind of terrible thinking? I don't know, but I'm working on it. I’m trying to not worry about the next day’s weather. Does it matter whether it rains or not? Sure, but then I think of Paul N, a guy I knew a long time ago. We were having one of those conversations on the corner of Bleecker and Perry Streets, the chats where Paul would go on for a long time and I would try to edge out so I could just go home. It began to rain, then it got worse. I said, "Paul, it's raining. I'm getting wet." and he almost screamed, "YES! ISN'T IT GREAT TO BE ALIVE?" I could only smile. I’m still smiling as I think of him.

And, dear Tonya, I'll never worry about your sanity - mine maybe, but not yours. No matter how much you worry about it, you will never be less than fascinating to me. And you do still worry. I started sanding that table that we were building the other day. I had just begun to sand a small area and I caught the look of horror on your face. It was profound. I asked you about it and - I think you didn’t want to say it - but you were worried that I was not using a back-and-forth motion with the sandpaper, that I was creating swirl marks. That made me upset.

You were worried I was fucking it up. I was upset that you were maybe judging me. Shit, this sounds bad, but I guess I am responding to your claim that you worried you were not worrying enough. THAT is not a worry of mine. Because I have seen you in the act. There is a fine line between worry and care. I like where you went with your thinking, though. And you're okay right now. That's all we've got. Worrying is just so much smoke and mirrors.

I knew that, if we did a mutual diatribe on worry, it would devolve into a Marx Brothers skit. "I worry about worrying about worry..." et cetera.

I don't want to talk about mental health. I have some opinions there and we can discuss that another day.

And one more thing: I just remembered that I also got mugged a few years ago in Florida, on a sunny, quiet little street. Afterwards, I worried for a few days about getting mugged again, but I dealt with it. Oh hell, I'm going to wind down and start thinking about bed. Maybe the ultimate cure for worry is exhaustion. Or maybe not. Fuck.

Tonya:

Your last response makes me want to add just one more thing to this conversation:

Some time in the midst of Our Shitty Winter of Hell—god, I think it was New Years' Eve—I remember I sort of lost it. It was right in the middle of a great meal (we really perfected the art of takeout this year, and that night’s pasta came from the swanky Italian restaurant on Grove Street.) That night, mid-meal, I told you I felt like I was losing my mind, cooped up in the apartment worrying about the dog all day. It was freezing outside. And the days were short and dark. And yes, we needed to be here for the little guy, but I was swiftly going insane. I needed something un-stressful to think about. I needed something to do with my hands. This was all too much. I was anxious. I was unsettled. I was sick of my own company.

I was worried you might be annoyed that I was being such a bummer on a major national holiday, but you weren't annoyed. And I worried you might think I was being selfish, putting my cabin fever above what was obviously more important, but you didn't seem to think that at all.

Instead, you helped. You helped me, right off the bat, without even pausing. Like it was fun. And, somehow, it was fun. Before we'd even finished the pasta, we'd made a plan to re-arrange all the furniture, and you started measuring walls for bookshelves where I'd been wanting to put bookshelves. You made me laugh. And we both got so caught up in planning, I forgot about feeling bad before. Now we had all these great ideas mapped out, all these fun ways to spend hours inside, and I had no room in my head that night for anything but happiness.

Anyway, I should have mentioned it before, when I was saying that worry is the loneliest emotion. Because, here's the thing: any time I talk about my worry with you, it changes. All the scary stuff turns into something else. Not really worry any more, but something easier. It's only when I keep spinning on my own thoughts, ruminating and re-working them, attempting to solve everything myself, that things get dark. I have to remember this when the next heavy shit falls. Please remind me if I forget this. If I can just open my mouth and talk, then the worry becomes something we—yes, the pack—can handle. Like we handled this shitty, shitty winter. Like we can handle anything.

photo by Paul Vlachos

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Paul Vlachos is a writer, photographer and filmmaker. He was born in New York City, where he currently lives. He is the author of “The Space Age Now,” released in 2020, “Breaking Gravity,” in 2021, and 2023’s “Exit Culture.”

Tonya Morton is, among other things, the publisher of Juke.

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