Grit, Assisted
Photo courtesy of Gratisography
Monday, December 15th, 2025The Monday after Thanksgiving arrived already asking for more than I had planned to give.
Not in a dramatic way. Just… persistently.
It was the first week of fittings for the new season, which meant being in the office, being “on,” and holding too many details in my head at once—so many cracks to fall through. Wally was home from boarding school—noticeably calmer, still reacquainting himself with every smell he’d missed. I was already behind at work, carrying that low-grade dread that hums under your skin when you know so much more is coming.
Then my oil light came on…
Not a gentle suggestion. More of a hey girl followed immediately by a fuck.
I asked CarPlay to text my car friends. It texted the wrong people. I apologized. Then it added someone else. I apologized again. Eventually the message landed where it was meant to, and after some back and forth and a consult with the owner’s manual, the conclusion was clear: add oil now, get it checked soon. Also, there’s a known issue with some Mazdas burning oil. None of this felt like something I had room for that week. I appreciated the people who filled that space for me.
A coworker—who happens to know cars—offered to help during my only break between meetings. We walked across the street to NAPA, where the guy behind the counter delivered an unexpectedly great, tightly structured comedy routine about motor oil and current events. It was genuinely funny. I didn’t realize how much I needed that laugh. Highlight of my day, really.
Back at the car, the hood went up, oil went in, and everything visible looked fine. Underneath, though, an oil slick was spreading through a rain puddle in the parking lot.
Not ideal. And not something I could deal with right then.
Thank goodness someone else could.
Fittings went on. Eight hours of standing, talking, thinking, and steadily adding to my to-do list. When I got home, the dogs had been walked and dinner was approaching the table. Someone stepped up to take care of me. I appreciated it more than they know.
A few days later, Wally started sneezing. Not normal sneezing—deep, uncomfortable, face-rubbing sneezing. I assumed he’d work it out until the internet suggested otherwise. Waiting was not the right move. The vets were closed on the weekend. Fittings would have to go on without me. By early morning, we were at the emergency vet, second car in the lot, rain coming down steadily.
While we waited, I scheduled my car service from the parking lot.
Multitasking, but make it anxious.
The vet didn’t find anything. They said it was likely something he picked up at boarding. Antibiotics, twice a day, for the next week. We went home so he could make the morning walk, and I went to work thirty minutes late, appreciating all the people who were picking up what I couldn’t carry.
After work, I photographed the fresh oil slick I’d made in the parking lot that day. Even in the rain, it looked significant. Proof, maybe, that my concern wasn’t imagined.
That night I went to dinner with a friend instead of collapsing. This felt radical. Rest isn’t always the answer. Sometimes it’s joking, laughing, and harassing strangers. Note to self:
have friends who remind you that fun is a legitimate coping mechanism.
Over the weekend, my friend with the car lift took my car apart from underneath. No leaks at the filter or plug, but clear evidence elsewhere. She topped off my tires, handed me a spare quart of oil, and told me to take it easy until the dealership could see it. I expressed my thanks the next morning in her love language: Shokupan donuts and marshmallow crispy treats.
Then the rest of the house decided to get down with the sickness.
Wally improved. Willow declined. Cole got sick. Willow developed aggressive reverse sneezing that required me to crouch every ten feet on walks, lifting her chin and blowing into her nose like an ancient Victorian-era cure. It was absurd. It was raining. The neighbors crossed the street to avoid us. I don’t blame them.
Back to the vet, this time with Willow. Her pills were negotiated. Wally’s missing pills were retrieved. Cole’s meds were picked up. Airborne was purchased in a half-hearted effort to stave off the inevitable long enough to hit my deadline. I played pharmaceutical courier for the household, then came home to cook dinner because
sometimes care looks like logistics.
Midweek, I dropped my car at the dealership early in the morning. The verdict came later: yes, there’s a leak. Yes, it’s extensive. Yes, it’s covered under warranty. No, it won’t be done today. Good news that it’s covered. Equally good news that it won’t be done today.
That afternoon, the atmospheric river flooded Seattle and leadership sent us home early. I was relieved not to be driving through it—an hour each way, in the dark, on highways severely lacking reflective markings. My worst nightmare.
The next day, Wally had his long-scheduled teeth cleaning. The vet called with more good news: no extractions. His broken molar had sealed itself. The emergency vet cost less than my regular vet’s lowest estimate. With clinics privatizing left and right, I felt grateful for accessible, competent care that didn’t feel predatory.
By Friday, the rain had eased, my car was ready, and I picked it up clean and repaired. Two big things off my list—a puppy with clean teeth and a car with a repaired oil pan. I made it through the rest of the day on what turned out to be borrowed energy and succumbed to the inevitable sickness by evening with a headache that wormed its way down into my teeth..
Saturday I slept in and worked in the afternoon. Sunday I called friends I’d been meaning to check in with. I told the long version. They told theirs. The week loosened its grip—for a moment, at least.
I’m not really someone who practices a lot of gratitude. It feels performative when I try too hard. But over these past two weeks, I kept noticing how often someone else stepped in—matter-of-factly, without drama—when I couldn’t quite hold it all together.
Knowledge. Meals. Laughter. Rides. Time.
No one died. Nothing fell apart.
Not because I handled it all, but because I didn’t have to.
Thanks for helping me Stay Gritty