4 AM is too early to wake up, even for the birds. I went to bed with the chickens, so I woke up eager for the night to be over. I do however enjoy the quiet of early mornings.
Water flows from a fountain rock sculpture in the corner park across the road. I’m listening to that as I write.
In 2020, after most businesses shut down, I often sat by my windows listening to the sound of the flowing water. The trains weren’t running. Trucks weren’t carrying cargo. The few cars that traveled hwy 70 passed at the same times twice daily. I had the town to myself.
Bella and I would walk the main blocks downtown several times a day. I’d stop to look in the shop windows. I met the regulars who also walked their dogs each day. We’d say hello. Bella loved hearing people say how cute she is, which is still true.
The corner park also has flowers. A young woman tended them and kept a colorful array of blooms in every season. I enjoyed talking with her. A small town west of here soon took her from us to tend their gardens. Our park’s flower beds never fully recovered her departure.
The other day, I watched the young men who are now in charge of the flower beds. One man held a large plastic bag. The pretty yellow bell-shaped blooms that I’d been enjoying for weeks, had been dug up and were falling from the bag. He’d taken them from their roots. My heart sank a little. He even took the silver-leafed plants with tiny golden blooms that were not bothering anyone or anything. I have a vase with those in water by my desk.
“We’re going to plant red and white flowers for the holiday,” the young man answered, after I’d asked why they were taking the plants. And then he said it. “For the fourth of July.”
I felt dread. Bella doesn’t like the noise of fireworks. Neither do I. This is by far my least favorite holiday. I wish I could leave. I wish we could go someplace by water, maybe in the mountains, where nobody would set off fireworks.
I broke my foot and ankle in 2020. I still walked the town. Only with crutches. My shoulders and arms still hurt. In fact, I now have a frozen shoulder.
Doctors say Frozen Shoulder, (Adhesive Capsulitis), is a self-limiting disease and will get better in two years. This is the 11th month.
For the first four or five months, I felt like an oak tree that someone had cut down. From late August to mid-December 2025, I cried every day and night. My son came and helped me.
I wasn’t only crying from the pain in my shoulder, although, it is definitely one of the most debilitating conditions I’ve endured. The pain with frozen shoulder is constant. 24/7!
My family endured two tragedies in early 2025. Everyone survived, thank goodness, but as a result, dynamics of care giving for my mom changed. I was needed and I wanted to continue helping out, but frozen shoulder got the best of me.
The orthopedic doctor said, “You didn’t have anywhere to go when you started.”
I asked her to explain.
“You started at the top,” she continued. “You were already in a lot of pain when your shoulder froze.”
As with most invisible illness or chronic pain, many people, even family, do not understand. My siblings went no contact. My heart broke into many pieces. They had their own challenges to face though. Nothing was easy for any of us in 2025.
Things are better now than they were, although, not everyone is out of the woods yet. My sisters call when they can. I got tired of explaining pain. I don’t even try to explain chronic fatigue syndrome.
A new doctor made life a bit easier for me in mid-December. I no longer felt that someone had cut my trunk like an oak tree. I felt more like a storm had pushed me over. Slowly, I started to feel that I was rising up.
I wish I could write more regularly. I may have pain later from this session. I miss blogging and writing in general. I still have hope. I still enjoy walking Bella around town. I think that’s what we’ll do now and if the bakery is open, I’ll get a muffin or something not too sweet that will comfort my belly. From the tone of this post, I could use a bit of comfort.
Thank you for visiting my blog.
Michelle, from DOGKISSES.
DOGKISSES 
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