You’re growing more and more tired by the day.

You're growing more and more tired by the day.

Walks have become more laborious, though you still rally for them. You still want to be included and do our "routine" with us.

This morning, when Todd and his dementia woke us all up at 4:30 am to get the day started () ... you struggled coming down the stairs.

You struggled to swallow your breakfast. Perhaps because of the size of your lymph nodes.

We're sitting here now as I type this. You bathing in red light, watching me. Tears, once again, streaming down my face. Sharing a string of moments of just staring at each other.

I don't know what you're thinking, but I've got every joy-filled memory of you running through my mind.

You brought so much life to my life, Chip. You fully embodied *joy*... fully embodied it; and you loved, loved, loved to "work". You made any "training" so easy...and *fun*! It was all so incredibly effortless with you... it always was. You and I were always so in sync and so in tune with one another.

I'm playing cat and mouse with this thing that's taken a hold of your body. Just when I think we're getting the upper hand- it laughs in my face.

I see you, my boy... my dear, sweet boy... and I love you so very, very much.

I'm absolutely sick over this and my heart is breaking in a million pieces. I feel gutted... and you haven't even left yet.

I know you need me to be strong.

I know you need me to be your rock as you move through and navigate all of this. As you prepare yourself (and the rest of us) for this transition.

I know you'll always be with me... with all us. And I know this also isn't really "goodbye", but the human part of me can't accept all of this. It wants to hang on for dear life. To keep you... in this form... with me. Selfish, I know. So incredibly selfish.

I'm trying to slide into a state of acceptance. Of release and going with the "flow of life". I really, really am. I'm listening to podcasts, watching videos, praying like a mad woman, journaling, doing EFT... and just when I think I'm making some headway, I look at you and-- I just can't imagine looking around our home and not seeing you. Looking around the room at the rest of our fur-mily relaxing on their beds, on the couches.... and not seeing you included. Coming home and not hearing you be the first to sound the alarm. Walking through the front door and you not being the very first to greet me. Then all the grief, heartache, and struggle sets in all over again.

You've hung in there and actually thrived for far longer than expected... until you weren't thriving so much anymore.

Again, I don't know how much longer we have with you, my boy; but I'm treasuring every moment that we do.

(P.S. I apologize for having the camera up in your business 24/7. I'm chronicling every single one of these moments with you, however long they last)