I have to be better about living in the not knowing

I have to be better about living in the not knowing. From the book Lily and the Octopus.There are spoilers in this post.

I grew up needing to know. Needing to know what I was good at, wasn't good at, what the future holds, what I would become. I needed to know so much that I visited a clairvoyant, a fortune teller, a seer. I was young, just finished with training as a lawyer, and really wanted to be finished as a lawyer completely. I was too chicken to quit in truth, and I wanted someone to tell me that I could. That it was ok to do so. Instead, she told me the opposite. That I was good at it. And that I should continue. And so I continued, on for another 12 years.

I have to be better about living in the not knowing comes from a line in a book I am reading.  About a dog and his owner, and an octopus. An octopus that was hiding in plain sight. (If you want to know the book title, it's Lily and the Octopus by the way, and this is book club, online style).

I had my octopus moment about 14 months ago. Only that there wasn't an octopus to be seen. I could feel it though, in my soul. In my being. I knew that George had an octopus. Hiding in plain sight.

I searched for it. I prodded and poked our dear Westie every time he sat down. But I found nothing. I went to the vet's in search of answers, only to be told that there was nothing. But I knew. And needed proof. I checked him out at Christmas I checked in out in February. Nothing.

"Nothing Mrs Brown!" they would say. "There is nothing wrong with dear old George!"

And I would go away, less than satisfied, because I knew that there was an octopus.

And my best friend said, "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't find out." she continues. "Don't know. It's better not to know."

And I agreed. It is better not to know. He lived a happy life then, ate, slept and lately, climbed on beds. I put the octopus to rest and I quietened my restless heart and hugged my dear little white dog.

6 months later, he died, our dear old George. And the funny thing was, none of the tests showed what he had. It was as if the cancer hid and grew, out of sight, as if to give George as much time as he needed before he was taken away from us. It hid in plain sight, avoiding all the organs that would have revealed his condition when we took the tests. It hid, like a thief in the night, stealing away my poor George's life.

I have to be better about living in the not knowing. For if I had known, what could I do? Would I subject George to terribly pains and awful medicines? Would I choose to let him live?

Not knowing meant he lived a full life, without the octopus hanging over his head (or his eye). Not knowing meant I didn't get sick with worry or look at him each time with tears in my eyes. Blissfully unaware seems to have given us a fuller life with him even in his last days. What do they say? Ignorance is bliss. How blissful it was in the last few months.

And he suffered so very little.

RIP dear George.