When It Rains, It Pours

Jennifer Estes
4 min readAug 2, 2022
Photo by Sander Sammy on Unsplash

When it rains, it pours. I know this all too well, unfortunately, and right now, it's a hell of a downpour!

I am at my kitchen table working. It's been a busy day with phone calls from clinicians with tech issues. My cat Luna is making a game of running in and out of the house, trying to engage me in play.

My cell phone rings; it's the mechanic calling to give me the scoop on what's wrong with my car. In my rush to place my work phone on "away from desk" status, send a slack message to my team that I'll be right back, and answer my cell phone, I don't realize Luna is standing behind me.

I listen intently as the mechanic explains the cost or rather tries to justify the astronomical amount it will cost to fix. I step back in front of my computer to ensure the phone is set to "away from desk" and that my slack message was sent. I don't realize I've stepped on Luna, and she is screaming in a yowl of pain until I feel the claws cut into my ankle and the pain as her teeth break the skin.

I hang up the phone and hobble outside to find her, blood trickling down both sides of my right ankle and pooling in my furry slipper. I find her under the lawn chair licking her leg. I crouch down and tell her how sorry I am before heading back inside to examine my wounds.

As I clean the wounds, it appears that only the bite looks terrible; the claw marks are okay. I clean it and smother it with antibiotic ointment. Thanks to my last two MRSA infections during the previous three months, I have a large tube of it. I murmur to myself, "Of course, it's the right ankle," checking the left ankle to confirm it's still swollen. Last week I fell down my porch stairs, landing on the grass. I am unsure if I rolled my left ankle, causing me to fall or if I fell and rolled the ankle in the process.

Last week, I landed on my half-dead lawn, nursing my wounds, crying. I feel so alone in this cold place. It's 104 degrees and the coldest place I've ever lived.

Tom passed away last September, 321 days ago. He took care of car trouble, sprinkler system problems, water heater problems, and everything I always considered a man's job.



Jennifer Estes

I am a widow, a mortician, a mom, and grandma. I write about grief, caregiving, substance use disorder, and the death care industry.