My hamster has pneumonia.

The day before yesterday I was sure he would die. Yesterday I was sure he would die.

Today I'm not so sure. He's wheezing less. He slurped up two teaspoonfuls of milk and honey with apparent interest. He opened his eyes a bit. He went for a scamper on the table.

He's a little fighter.

Now it's my job to live up to him.

Things haven't been going well lately. —After months and years of struggling to find a job, I had one, and then it disappeared, like a mirage. My finances look correspondingly macabre. —After twelve years of living in my beloved home, I'm selling it, because I have no choice, and I'm mourning its loss. —I came back to the world of tango that I had so much missed, and within minutes of my return, I stepped right back into a familiar old steaming pile of toxic social crap that had done me so much harm so many times before. This time I stepped out of the pile of crap, which hurt but proved to me that I could learn from my past.

Then I lost my son.

It wasn't pretty.

He's fine, Gentle Reader, he's safe and in good health. But he's going to stay here with his dad while I go up north to school. After I tried so hard to create a world that would be good for all three of us.

Words were said. Feelings were had. Lawyers were contacted. And now all I can do is get used to the idea—although I don't know if living without my child is an idea to which I could ever get used.

I work hard at finding a positive spin on whatever's going on in my life, but sometimes situations just suck and the best I can do is admit that they suck and know that a day will come when I feel better.

But this morning, the hamster did not die. Who knows what will happen tonight, but for now, the little guy is alive and furry.

If he can make it this far, so can I.

Fighter. Christina Aguilera.

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