Note: This post was originally drafted in late June. As today, July 31, I’m firmly in the throes of caring for the tiny human mentioned in the post, I’m presenting it without any additions or changes. –Amanda
As I write this, my husband and I recently finished several rounds of testing on our dog, Cassia, to figure out why she was suddenly drinking twice the amount she normally did–and twice the amount a dog her size needs–which had led to several frustrating overnight accidents and us chasing down the source(s) of the dried-urine smell with a blacklight.
Happily, Cassia does not have cancer. She has diabetes insipidus, which can be treated with a medication, and now that she’s on it long-term, she’s generally back to normal water habits, and we’re not breaking out the blacklight to play “where’s the dog pee?”
As I wrote the first draft of “Love, Death, and Printed Burgers,” however, our dog was her old self. I had no concerns, as I did while we underwent the testing, that she might have cancer or “regular” diabetes or some sort of kidney disease. I just had the normal amount of concern over a senior dog who is slowing down, concern that may’ve been compounded a bit by pregnancy hormones. Those feelings, of knowing that loss is inevitable, but wondering what I’d do at the end of her life if I did have a chance at more time with her, are what filtered into the story during the first draft.
But, back to the present: “Love, Death, and Printed Burgers” has technically been available since mid-June, though behind a paywall. I’m writing this in late June, when I’m nearly 39 weeks pregnant. By the time the story is free-to-read on July 31–the point at which I want this post to go up–I’ll have a tiny person to care for, and my fears of loss and love and wondering how, or if, I’d be able to let go will surely be increased. Bigger than the fears I had when I first wrote this story. Not insurmountable, I hope, but something else to understand the shape of and get my arms around.
It’s not a new observation to say that’s one reason why writers write and why readers read. To help make our fears a little smaller, a little more manageable. To remember that while loss is inevitable, it’s still always, always possible to have hope.
That’s what “Love, Death, and Printed Burgers” came to mean to me. I hope it comes to mean something for you, too. Read it here: https://future-sf.com/fiction/love-death-and-printed-burgers/