Story

Once upon a time I had a mother. She was born on Christmas day sixty-two years ago. She had three children: A son born in 1971; a daughter born in 1974; and another son stillborn in 1974--my twin brother.

At my mom's memorial, one of her colleagues (an anesthesiologist she worked with), asked me, "Who was the one with the twin?" The question caught me off guard and I stumbled over lists in my head. Relatives. Friends. Brother or sister pairings she may have mistaken for twins. And then finally: "Oh! That was me!" And then, more sullenly, "That was me." "She talked about the twin a lot when we worked the OR together," she explained.

I never did learn the story about how my twin brother had died. When I was little, I would ask my mom whether it was my fault. "Did I eat all the food inside your belly? Did I take up all the space?" My mom always assured me that I hadn't, but she would stop short of saying anything more. I don't know how long he lay by my side without a heartbeat.  I don't know what my mom was like during those first few months of raising me without him. I don't know. We never spoke about it.

Years later, after she was diagnosed with cancer, she would ask the air what it would have been like if he had lived. Years later from that, this past June and standing in front of the hospital where she was receiving yet another albumin infusion, I had the same thought. It was as if that missing something--another shoulder for both of us to cry on--was what was making life so much harder than it needed to be.

And maybe life would have been easier if we were able to take up that narrative thread instead of this fraying one. Maybe. But who knows. What we have is what is. We're driven by the narratives we envision, but only live out just the one. Choose your own adventure--or perhaps more like a mad lib. So tempting to go back and make it play out better, sound better, look better, feel better.

And so we live [insert adverb] ever after.

Drowning

"Daddy, no!!"

As if I were a five year old. I was next to my mom and her breath was slow and gurgling. When you die of respiratory failure, your lungs fill up with fluid until you drown. I still don't understand why.

I think it was about midnight, or maybe more like 11, when the gurgling started to get bad. With each inhale, it was like ... but there are no similes. It was like she was breathing through water because she was breathing through water. I called the hospice nurse who told me we should turn her on her side so the fluid might drain from her mouth. Slow the process. Okay. But we couldn't make it work. She was too heavy and we couldn't make her move to the right to the right to the right without her rolling back. Her eyes would flutter open--uncertainty, sadness, fear, yellow--but she was totally unable to speak. What words could possibly ... ? And then the foam started spitting from her nostrils. We tried to keep things clean. We tried to make her look comfortable, not knowing if she really was. And then we tried not to look, embarrassed for her, but more embarrassed for ourselves. I snuck a peek, and a longer glance, and then I stared, determined. Who are you? You are my mother. I called the hospice nurse again. "I'll be right over."

And we waited. Crying. Petting. Holding. And then my dad climbed up on the bed with a flashlight. A big, grey flashlight that was still sitting on the night stand the day I left to come back to Seattle. "Let me look inside ..." and "Something is blocking ..." And I cried in that way that was outside of myself. I sounded like a five year old.

Daddy, no. The light. Nothing is blocking. Water. Fluid. The light will be too hard on her eyes. Daddy, no.

You do strange things. We all do strange things. He stopped before he could begin, put the flashlight on the night stand, and stepped away from the bed.

The nurse came. She was quick and no-nonsense and careful and then my mom was on her side with a pillow against her back, propping her in place. The thick fluid oozing from the side of her mouth. Swabs and tissue to clear out the rest. And her breathing eased. The gurgle softened. For now.

I know. The nurse did what you wanted only weren't sure how to do. Are you okay? I asked him and apologized.

grading grading grading 2

grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading wheee grading grading grading grading thesis much? grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading Thanksgiving will suck grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading blechhhh grading grading grading overwhelmed grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading ogres! grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading I can't believe I did that grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grieving grieving grieving grieving grading grading belle and sebastian grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading weekends are hardest grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading mmm pizza grading grading grading grading grading grading grading you can't really see the grieving grieving grieving grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading professional dogwalking grading grading I don't think I can watch zombie movies anymore grading grading grading grading grading grading gobble gobble grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading beer grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading staring at the rain grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading WTF? grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading chocolate grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading cat cat cat grading grading the author is really really dead grading grading grading grading grading grading do I dare and do I dare grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading la la la grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading I need a haircut grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading and for my brain to be removed from my head and put through a washing machine and then thrown out because, wow, it totally shrunk in the dryer grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading grading

1 month

That night, before she died, I would, sometimes, put my head in her lap. On her thigh. And I would press the hand I held against my face. She didn't respond to these gestures. It was too late at that point--too much morphine, too much pain, too much too much. But her body was warm and she was my mother and it was more for me than for her. I knew these would be the last times I could put my head in her lap and feel like she, my mother, might protect me.

Today was hard. The last few weeks have been relatively okay, for whatever reason. But this morning and all through the day was incredibly not okay. Tears tears tears. Wanting to pick up the phone and call her. I miss her.

I was remembering how I asked her, once, whether I could be a Brownie Scout. I was in the third grade. What I remember most was her reply. She argued that she didn't have the time. "I'm not that kind of mother," she said. "Don't expect me to be that kind of mother." And, really, she wasn't that kind of mother. Not to me, anyway. And I learned to live with it--and she became proud of a daughter who found friends on her own and developed creativity in her own weird and badgeless ways. And then we grew close.

I think my mom never really knew how to relate to me or talk to me until I could speak to her as an adult. Still, it's funny to me that I have all of these photos and brief memories that suggest something entirely different--different than the broad narrative I have in my head of how our relationship played out. But so it is. And I'm glad for the mystery and the contradiction. I'm glad because it was never simple. My mom and I. And it gives me more to hold onto--to understand--to struggle to remember--to make sense of and yet never really know for certain.

It makes it feel like she's a living and moving memory rather than a still and soundless one.

But fucking still and soundless still.

Second person 2

I just got back from Trader Joe's. The last time I had been was down in California. It was the day we drove to the mortuary to talk to our "counselor"--who really was nothing more than a big guy in a black suit with a contract for us to sign. Every detail about the mortuary experience was silly--the blue surgical gloves the "handlers" (they probably have a sugary name, too) put on before doing the gymnastics required to get my mom's body from the bed to the stretcher; the way they looked at each and every one of our faces as they left the house, saying "my condolences"; the shiny, windowless, white mini-van in which they drove her body away; the cheap cardboard box we ended up choosing for her cremation ("We would prefer not to have her in a container at all," we explained, "but since we have to choose one ..."). Before going to the mortuary, we stopped at Trader Joe's to pick up some flowers to place with my mom's body. It would take two to five hours for the cremation to be complete. Slow-roasted?--my aunt joked uncomfortably. Flowers, we thought. My mom loved flowers.

My parents (should I say "my dad" now?), like me, live just about a block away from a Trader Joe's. While I was visiting over the summer and the week before she died, I would take frequent trips there to buy food--something special for my mom. She liked their cranberry juice. She liked their soups. And, when it became difficult to chew harder foods, I thought, "Maybe she would like the macaroni and cheese?" (I ate the package I had bought for her the night before she passed.) The last food she ate was from Trader Joe's--two bites of their tapioca pudding. These thoughts became rough scars on my memory the moment she died. I hadn't realized it.

I dragged a bit while I was shopping today. You get that disorienting feeling. You remember your old thoughts there, and feel your new self here, but you (something beside mind or body, apparently) are caught in between. First person and second person, only now moving aimlessly between the two. You can't go back and you can't forget. And so you stay in the middle, discombobulated by your body that keeps you here, where she is no longer, and your mind that's scarred by there, where she still is. Still is.

And so it is, yes, one foot in front of the other. But I think it's okay, sometimes, to drag your feet, kick and scream, beg and plead. To remember.

Remembering

My dad forgot it all. Or a lot of it. He showed up at my aunt's house tonight with a yellow legal pad (the same kind he used to record my mom's daily drug intake) to ask my aunt what happened. Each day. Each moment relived. My aunt said they got to Friday and I wanted to ask, "The Friday before or the Friday after?" But the conversation went somewhere else before I had the chance to ask and then the question was gone.

My short term memory is shot. It has been for weeks now. I have this theory that my brain is trying so hard to retain and reflect on my old memories and my strong memories that there's just no space right now for the everyday. These small things that don't matter--they just float through the cracks. And so I don't remember why I opened the refrigerator sometimes. Or I don't remember how I managed to get from point A to point B when the sidewalk was closed. I'm certain I just walked beside the sidewalk, on the street. But it doesn't really matter.

I have glimpses of my mom. Close-ups. Beginning, middle, end. Her yellow eyes, opening. The foam that would spit from her nostrils. Her tongue, rubbing against her teeth, bleeding. Two times, toward the beginning, I walked away from her bed grumbling, "This is ridiculous." It was--the amount of pain she was in and how little I could do to help her. And then more morphine and I didn't leave her side except for trips to the bathroom and to the refrigerator, where we kept the morphine and liquid ativan. I held her left hand all night long, carefully replacing my right with my left, and then my left with my right, when one got tired or cramped. When I had to leave the room, I would slip my hand out of hers and my aunt would slip her hand in. We never wanted her to feel that she was alone. Though what I really hope, sometimes, is that she didn't feel a thing.

Something about the tip of the iceberg. You don't want to share these things because they make you feel guilty, responsible, embarrassed. And you share them because you know there's so much more to it than that. So much more. And you share them because that's what we do to keep going. So you can try to be here with me. And so I can lean on you.

And I wonder what my aunt is telling my dad. What details does she offer? What does she leave out? What does she remember?

The question

Should I make dinner tonight as I had planned (butternut squash and banana kofta curry) or should I just stop somewhere for a bite on my way back home from the video store?

I can always make dinner tomorrow and I have no beer at home ...

Hrmph.

Two weeks, one day

I arrived back in Seattle last night. Things get familiar, sometimes. But there is always something missing. Things look hazy sometimes. And I'm not really all here.

It's coming out in small fragments--those last two nights. In maybe a few months, all the bits and pieces that make up the story will have been shared. I'll throw a party and invite everyone who knows one thing or another and we can take turns with what we know. And then the story will be out. What a depressing party.

The parts that are hardest to talk about--that I haven't talked about--are the physical realities. Respiratory failure. The fluids. The sounds. The suffocation. Touch. Taste. Smell. Sight. Sound. All there. And then nothing but cold, and then colder.

I called my dad tonight and asked him, "How was last night?" He told me that when he got home after having dinner at my aunt's, it felt like everyone was around him. I asked him whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. He said, "Sometimes it's better not to think too much." He took a sleeping pill and fell asleep, he said.

Sand/ashes

I had this dream last night (my head has been full of dreams this past week--my subconscious already busy organizing, prioritizing, reflecting, understanding) in which I was talking to my Austen students about my absence. What I told them was that my mom was still hanging on. I said it proudly, though with some worry that I would have to leave to see her again, soon.

"Hanging on" didn't mean that she was still alive, though. It was a dream, after all, and Sandman doesn't make my dream life so simple (the other night, I had a dream in which I was getting the planned tattoo of my mom's name, only it was embellished with other images [a scene from The Simpsons--Homer's bald head shining--and long lines and weird symbols that ran up and down my arm]).

She had passed as she had in real life--only that hadn't meant she was gone. My dream world could not register her as not. So I was simply waiting to see her again, waiting to be with her again, waiting for her to get well, again. Waking up to a reality in which that dream vision is impossible was cruel, painful, and unfair. I knew this impossibility in the dream (I tend to dream lucidly), but I clung--believing, maybe, maybe, maybe. Just around the corner. Alive.

I was speaking with one of our family friends yesterday. She was telling us about the death of one of her close relatives--how hard it was for her when she was cremated (my mom will be cremated today). The body, no longer. No sign of physical existence--or, I guess, only sign and symbol of physical existence.

4 days later

I had this moment last night, when I was trying to fall asleep. I reached out my hand for the glass of water next to the bed ... and my arm was her arm. I don't think it meant anything ... except that I am here and she is not and people have been assuring me, "She lives in you. She'll never really be gone. You will help keep her memory alive." I took some Tylenol PM (the first time I've needed it) and then fell fast asleep.

I've been okay. As well as can be expected I guess. There is always something to do. Someone is always saying something to you. My brother's kids are here showing me in how many ways life goes on goes on goes on. Bouncing balls that almost knock over the framed photo of my mom, over there, garlanded with red roses and yellow mums. Everyone winces, but no one says anything. What can you say?

All the while, I have images and sounds in my head of that last night--images and sounds I want to keep present and alive as much as I want them to go away. Good as well as bad. Images and sounds. But no words. For now.

There are ants all over the house--stowaways, no doubt, on some bouquet. They crawl over the walls, and photos, and somehow onto your arms. And my nephew sings some superhero song. And my niece practices her arithmetic.

Rest

I'll be ready to write about her passing at some point. But not now. Her death was long and difficult for all involved. The hospice nurse was incredibly helpful, but ultimately, death was long and difficult. My mom knew it would be hard for me. She warned me and tried to protect me.

She waited for my cousin and his fiance to arrive before passing. Forty-two long hours since her body had first decided it was time. I hope she wasn't in pain. I hope she knew we were all there with her. (Is hope here denial, too?) All of the people that meant the most to her were there with her.

Please don't hesitate to check in on me. I love you all.

Rest. It's okay. It's okay. It's okay.

The longest night

Up all night. With her on one side of the bed. My aunt and I curled up on the opposite corners--her at the head, me at the foot. My nani on the couch in the bedroom. My uncle in the bedroom down the hall. My dad on the sofa downstairs, then upstairs wondering why he can't bring her juice as he usually does at midnight; wondering why he can't help her to the bathroom as he usually does at 2:30 a.m.

Her breathing, so light and with a moan on the inhale. Or maybe the exhale. Waiting. I get up. Work. I go back to sleep. And then I think about As I Lay Dying. You think funny thoughts on no sleep. You question whether you're the Bundrens. Your dad is like Anse. My mother is a fish. But everything seems clearer in the morning. Everything seems better in the morning.

Only it's not.

She's aware of us here with her. And I can't tell if we're doing enough to get rid of the pain. She can barely swallow down her pills. She can barely swallow. And we wait. We wait. Til 9 o'clock or hopefully earlier. Til the nurse will come and make something happen better. For us and for her. She still responds to me when I say, "Ma?" She'll say "Mama" (her nickname for me, pronounced Muh-ma).

It's okay. It's okay. It's okay.

Only it's not.

And I pray for deaths that are quick and quiet.

Soon ...

It's time. I'm not sure how much longer. But it's time.

Everything I think to write seems silly right now. Melodramatic. Dumb. That I'm writing at all right now seems like the silliest thing of all. But I needed to tell you because you've been on this journey with me for so long and I need you to be with me as I step forward, now, in some other direction. Dear hearts.

Queasy

And to top it all off, I think I ate some bad Chinese takeout for lunch.

My morning started at 5 o'clock, when I heard my mom at my bedroom door. She was convinced that we were either trying to take her somewhere (the hospital, I think) or that we were locking her in her bedroom. (At 3 a.m. the night before, she was convinced that my dad had bronchitis and needed to sleep downstairs.) By 6 a.m. my dad and I had coaxed her back to bed. She finally fell asleep by 6:30, only to wake up at 7 again. I found her in her bathroom, standing there, in just a t-shirt.

She's been asleep for most of the afternoon, but at around 11:00, after everyone else had left the room, she looked me in the eye and said, "I need to tell you something." She was lucid. "This will be very hard for you," she said in Hindi. And then, in broken words, she talked about money--and the rest of the family. I tried to assure her that everything would be okay. She slipped back into her disoriented state soon after.

I wish I could laugh more at how bizarre it is that there is no immodium in this house. I have my moments, I suppose. My aunt and I crack jokes with each other that no one else here would get. We laughed a couple days ago about how, when this is all over, both of us will be bald (both of us have been losing hair--my shower at home is clogged up). I made fun of her this morning for weighing herself on my mom's scale and misreading the number--worrying about gaining weight. It's all sick humor, really. Inappropriate really. And, really, not unlike the jokes the homecare nurse was making--except that we know our audience. Still, we both laugh loudly and nervously. I'm sure she'll joke about my diarrhea once she gets here with my immodium. I hope she will.

Snail's pace

Another hard, long day. I looked at my watch earlier this evening and was dismayed to see it was only 7:30. It felt like 11:00. And even now, it's only just after 10:00.

My mom grows increasingly disoriented. And it's just, well, a different kind of disorientation than it's been in the past and even than it was just a couple weeks ago. Even that gorilla conversation from before, the one that was so disorienting ... I knew exactly where she was. I could trace the steps she took to get from point A to point Z. Now, she feels so far--like the mom I know is already beginning to fade. She FEELS beyond recovery now. And so I feel like I'm doing what I can to make her comfortable and to make me who knows what and so ...

I'm not sure what else to say right now. More tomorrow.

Friday

Everyone here is shaken inside. And I spent the day thinking about how much I rely on your blog comments, e-mail, text messages, phone messages, phonecalls ... to keep me from tumbling over, flat on my face. Please don't stop. I also realized that my head is still in this place where I wonder what my mom will say about this whole experience once it's over ... what will she remember and what will she forget. And then also, today, I got scared that I would only remember her as she's been during the last six years. I have a hard time, sometimes, picturing her without cancer. Those images feel more like memories than realities. Still, it's a silly thought. My mom is my mom--with cancer or without. Of COURSE recent images are stronger, more present. And who needs the idealizing anyway?

Today was very long ... and though I got out of the house, it didn't do me much good. It's not even that I worried that I should be back with her. I don't know quite what it was, though.

This evening, we had a little birthday party in my mom's bedroom for my cousin. 21. Just my dad, aunt, grandma, uncle, and cousin. My mom seemed to be having such a good time ... but then, toward the end, she began trying to hint everyone out of the room. Brushing her teeth. Asking for help with her pajamas. Saying, "Okay. Bye." No one got the hint until she lay down in bed and turned on her side. When everyone finally left, she told me "Nothing feels good" (in Hindi--which I mention because something feels lost in the translation). I gave her an Ativan and she's resting now.

Blechhhhhhhhhh.

Labels, letters, lame jokes

A "home healthcare" nurse came to visit today. It's our way of easing us all into hospice.

And I just ... I mean, I realize I've been on the inside of this situation and I can't expect everyone to be where we are and to know what we know. But the endless and stupid questions and comments just seem so ... endless and stupid. "You have a lot of hair for having gone through chemo!" "Maybe I should go through chemo so my hair won't be so thin." And then you try to explain, even briefly, what the last six years have been like so they know why you're asking for their help and to explain to them how they can be helpful ... and you get nothing. They can give you nothing, I guess, because they see this all the time. I guess. "You're really lucky. Most people who hire us have no one." And it's not that I don't feel bad for those people. I do. But just because we have each other doesn't make us "lucky."

My mom had to sign six or so forms for the nursing agency. Each time, she signed her name differently . Sometimes, she would add an extra "p"--other times, she added several extra letters to our last name. Another time, she started over from the beginning in the middle. (Earlier in the morning, I sat with her while she "relabeled" all her pill bottles with creatively spelled drug names.) She finally got it right on the last form. The nurse didn't seem to care.

My mom's name (which means "love") in Hindi:

प्रेम

Yellow

The whites of my mom's eyes are completely yellow this morning--and her skin is beginning, slowly, to turn the same. Is itching related to jaundice?

I really believed that the effects of the new blood would last longer ...

Night

It's amazing what two units of clean blood can do for you. My mom isn't well, but she's a lot better than I expected her to be. And, according to my aunt, a lot better than she was a couple days ago. Still, she's in a lot of pain. She looks like she's in a lot of pain. And although she's lucid, you have to repeat what you say to her sometimes. Sometimes it's difficult to follow what she's trying to tell you. Sometimes it takes her a very long time to finish her sentences. Sometimes she doesn't finish them at all. Earlier today she kept on telling me, "That broken rock you gave me ..." and then "You know, the rocks you give me." I finally figured out that she was referring to her pills. I had to split one in half and it was jagged and orange when I gave it to her.

She slept for most of the day today. I made her mashed potatoes and gravy. My aunt made her some panfried fish. And then we all watched Jeopardy together and, I kid you not, one of the categories was PAIN, followed by, IN THE NECK. Both were categories dealing with the body and medical conditions and I just sat there thinking, "How does one get to be Alex Trebek anyway?"

Morning

Sorry for not writing last night. I got in late, spent some time with my mom, and then crashed.

Before leaving the hospital yesterday, my mom received 2 units of blood. The blood gave her enough energy so that, when she came home, she was actually able to climb the stairs up to her bedroom. She still has some energy this morning, but she's very weak. Drawn. Withdrawn.

Her thoughts are clear, though her words are few. Earlier this morning, she asked me, "Are you scared." I said, "A little. Are you?" "I'm okay," she said.

Time

I leave tomorrow for California, two days earlier than planned. I talked to her doctor this morning and his prognosis was "within one, maybe two weeks."

I'm very tired right now, but promise to write more once I get in tomorrow night.

Call, write, send over your warmest, strongest thoughts. (Amy I'll try to give you a call some time this week.)

Drowning

Tonight I'm realizing what a luxury it has been for me to talk about every single aspect of my mom's body. To be so aware of how every single organ is functioning. And, maybe, each time I sit here and write about her heart, her lungs, her liver, her kidneys, her brain, her skin, her breath, her voice--that's me diving inside of her, swimming around, getting to know her. It's the advice I give my students when they're having trouble learning how to closely read a text: dive into the words, swim around them, get to know them. Her body, the text. And I do feel closer to her because of it.

This afternoon when I spoke with her all she wanted was to hold the phone and know that I was on the other end. We didn't say too much to each other--it was hard to understand each other. But what I know is that when my aunt reached out to take the phone from her, she said, "No!" I promised I would call her back again. I did, and she sounded better the second time.

I thought I wasn't going to write for awhile because things have gotten bad. But I've realized that writing about her makes her present to me. Makes her meaningful to me. And she means a lot to me. And I need to know that and believe that--even when she's gone. Even when I don't have this physical, this body, this this this to hold onto.

I might be reticent about talking about things for a little while and I hope you understand. It's just too hard is all. My heart is breaking. But I still need you. I still need you.

Anybody want a peanut?

Piecing together what I learn as the cell phone gets passed from person to person in her hospital room. I spoke with my dad first who told me she isn't well. He gave me many details, but the one that sticks in my mind most is, "Sometimes when she talks, it doesn't sound like her." My mom then got on the phone and told me that she was actually doing fine. I let her humor me. And my aunt told me she would call me later.

Later, my aunt explained that, within the last 24 hours, her face has become sunken and small. Her arms are skin and bones. The bottom of her body remains swollen with fluid. It took my aunt two hours to help my mom go to the bathroom and then put her back in bed. She's spending the night at the hospital with her.

Am I downer or what? To quote from The Princess Bride, "BOOOOooooooooo. BOOOOOOOOOOOOO."

And also (unenthusiastically), "Humperdinck, Humperdinck ... Humperdinck."

Kidney

Kidney, not liver. But how was I supposed to know?

I mean, I should have figured. Plan C, to recall, is dialysis. I should have been able to guess from that that it was kidney, not liver. I think maybe I suspected. But then maybe everything surrounding "liver" (the vocabulary, that is) had become so familiar that I got attached to the idea that the symptoms she was exhibiting had to deal with liver failure. And plus, if it were liver failure, it would have been the fault of the cancer. But kidney failure is the fault of the treatment directed against the cancer. Fuck this disease. Also, fuck reading material on dialysis.

The dialysis machine sucks up your blood, cleans up the impurities, and then sends it back into your body. Blood is life. Blood is life. It's like a goddamn vampire machine.

Currently, my mom has just started Plan B ... meaning that she was admitted to the hospital early this afternoon to begin albumin infusions. Although the lasix helped to take off some of the water, it wasn't nearly enough.

Swollen

My mom has gained about 18 pounds or so in water. She called my aunt yesterday morning to tell her that she doesn't fit into any of her clothes. My aunt went to a sports clothing store and bought her some new sweatpants.

She went to see a nephrologist (my spellcheck doesn't know what a nephrologist is) today and he suggested the following:

Plan A: Up the dose on her lasix in addition to two more diuretics to try to get the fluid out of her system. Monitor her weight daily. If the lasix works, she should lose 2-3 pounds a day.
Plan B: If after 5 days, she doesn't show any improvements, go to the hospital for two days to receive albumen infusions.
Plan C: If plans A and B don't work, she'll have to get dialysis done. Two times a week.

Given that, she sounded good when I spoke with her today. Better than she did the last couple days, anyway. When she laughs, though, it's a heavy laugh. I kept telling her I'll be visiting on the fourth, and she kept saying, "the fourteenth." Finally, she said, "Meh, it doesn't matter. I won't remember anyway. You just come to the airport whenever and give someone a call and someone will pick you up." We also laughed about something but I can't remember what now.

And her oncologist is an asshole.

Help wanted nights

All I've been listening to lately is The Good Life's new album, Help Wanted nights.

Here's "You Don't Feel Like Home to Me" and "Heartbroke".

That is all. Continue.

Blur

"Well that should be good."

My dad is making my mom pizza for dinner tonight.

"That should be gorilla. Gorilla?"
"Good ... or gorilla."
"Oh good. Gorilla. Yes, you ate gorilla, remember?"
"Oh not gorilla. I think you mean ... giraffe?"
"No, that makes sense that you ate gorilla. That's why there aren't too many left anymore."
"I don't think I'm the one causing that."
"You shouldn't feel bad."
"But the pizza sounds like it will be good."
"Yes, that should be good. There are two sizes. One is 13.5 ounces and the other is 17.5 ounces."

Before I got on the phone with my mom, my dad told me that she seems to be doing okay. Her temperature is stable and she has enough strength to climb up and down the stairs. He started telling me, though, that her memory and her mind aren't working ... properly? Was "properly" the word he used? Before I had a chance to find out what he meant, my mom announced her presence on the line. I don't think that she heard what my dad was telling me ... or if she did, she chose not to talk about it. Instead, we talked about pizza, and gorillas, and an argument she had earlier about 4 mg or 6 mg and her wanting more.

When I spoke with her yesterday, she was completely lucid, so this conversation ... well, it's not that it threw me. It didn't. I spoke with her as if the conversation made sense ... or, rather, as if what she said wasn't too unusual. And when I asked her questions, they weren't about what she did today, but about what she was doing now. Even asking her how her pain was, though, became difficult. When she finally got that I was saying the word "pain," she started making fun of the word's long vowel sounds: "aiiii. aiiiii." I laughed with her.

Her words. Her thoughts. Her memories. They all blur together it seems. And she depends on us to find her by reading between the lines. And I see her, in the care she takes in talking to me, and in the subject matter she chooses ... like our trip to Africa, years ago, when we all tasted giraffe (hey, at least we didn't have gorilla). She would always bring up that trip: "We had such a good time." And we did.

So it doesn't throw me. But it does break me.

Shorty

I'm a full 7 inches shorter than my brother. Still, I can't believe that the study featured in this article passes as acceptable research ... let alone newsworthy research.

I love that they use a photograph of Ben and Casey Affleck as evidence. Convincing.

Ah distraction.

l'update

I haven't been able to speak with my mom too much since I've been back. When I call her, she's too sleepy and tired to talk for more than a few minutes. I ask her questions about her day and she can't finish her sentences. I try finishing for her, and she acquiesces, but I can tell that she's frustrated. Just too tired to do anything about it. Her vocabulary has become blurred as well. "Backyard" for "background" yesterday.

Today I tried calling a little earlier in the day, but it was the same thing. Too tired to stay on the phone for very long. And my dad told me he fell down the stairs (!).

My aunt's sense of it is that she (my mom) sounds like she did when she went to the hospital back in June. Her talk is messy. I think it might be her liver again. I asked my aunt when I should come visit next and she seemed to think it might be better to wait. It was really hard on my mom, she said, when I left the last time. So ...

le weekend

Saying goodbye was emotional and difficult. All morning, she asked me when I was leaving. I kept repeating, “There’s still plenty of time. Plenty of time.” And then it was 1:45, fifteen minutes before I would leave for the airport, and my mom started sobbing: “You’re leaving so soon.” I answered, “There’s still plenty of time. Plenty of time.” And she started crying more, saying, “Get there safely. Go.” Again and again. I held her and helped her wipe her tears, holding back my own until I left the room, when I, my aunt, and my dad, all broke down. I left seven minutes earlier than we had planned.

Last night, she had a fever of 101.7. It abated toward the morning, only to return again a few hours later. She has no appetite. For lunch, she ate a couple spoons of cottage cheese with a couple slices of mango ... just enough so she wouldn’t get nauseous when she took her antibiotic. She walks in very slow steps, sometimes with help and sometimes without. Climbing back into bed is always a challenge. Sitting up in bed once she’s lying down (never completely ... I think it’s been months since she’s slept flat on her back) is also a challenge. Her breath is so quick. When I watch her sleeping, I’ll try matching my breath to hers and then I feel guilty and sad because such experiments--what a luxury.

Medically, I have no idea about what to say. Over the summer, all the medication had a clear purpose and a clear goal. Everything seemed so concrete. I knew that albumin infusions would help compensate for her failing liver. I knew that blood pressure medication would help to reverse the damage done to her heart. I knew that some regular walking would help to strengthen her lungs. Nothing works the same anymore. Aside from the lasix (which does seem to be helping the edema in her legs and feet), all the medication seems to be necessary, but also counterproductive. And the recommendations (eat, exercise) seem like mockery.

I helped her put her clothes on yesterday. One foot at a time. Hooked her bra for her. Dried her hair. And now I’m home again. And I wrote most of this entry on the plane, where I had time to change words and sentences around. I think I may have deleted some stuff, too. Strange way of feeling like I’m in control.

Also, she now calls me "Miss Lotus-face" or just "Lotus" for short.

D

This post will need to be short as the wifi that I was using over the summer seems to have disappeared and so I'm using my dad's computer and it just feels weird to be blogging on here ... a little bit like it did when I was little and my parents said not to play in the car and I would anyway and I would always end up locking the steering wheel. And he keeps walking into the room. Either because he wants to use the computer or because he wants to talk ... I'm not sure which one. I'll find out soon.

My mom returned from the hospital today ... I think just hours before I arrived. She's very weak. Some strange combination of medication has given her pain in all of her muscles making it impossible for her to walk without help. Her blood pressure medication (which, her doctor explained, was supposed to help her body get rid of toxins in the process of regulating her blood pressure) has in fact raised the amount of toxins going through her kidneys. They've taken her off of that and she's now on a beta blocker for her heart. Her heart muscles also have stiffened quite a bit from the toxins.

And then there's just a lot of other stuff that is all jumbled up ... I think for everyone involved. A lot of poor communication. A lot of no communication. A lot of confusion. Her skin is very loose over her body.

And when should I just lie? The parking shuttle guy, as he was driving me to the airport, asked me, "So is this a fun trip?" And I said, "Umm, no, not really ..." "Business?" "Actually, I'm visiting family." And then I thought, "Well, I don't want him to think that I mean visiting family in and of itself isn't fun"; and so I added, " ... in the hospital." And he said, more meaningfully than this will sound, "Oh, that's a bummer." And then we were quiet the rest of the way until he said, "You said Alaska Airlines, right?"

S

My mom received a chest x-ray today that revealed that the amount of fluid in her right lung is starting to decrease. She was told that she needs to start eating more ... even if it's in the form of food supplements (Boost, Ensure, etc). Not ONE can of Boost a day ... THREE. Depending on her hemoglobin level tomorrow, she may receive a blood transfusion (she's at 8.5 currently). Maybe go home Thursday ... more likely Friday.

This information courtesy of three separate phone conversations. And the letter "S."

September. School. Sleepy.

Labor day 2

Here's why I don't ask. I've been there, in the hospital room, when the phone rings. And I've heard my mom trying to explain what she's going through. I've heard my dad trying to explain things that he doesn't quite understand. And it's painful for them. And so I think it's okay for me just to wait, patiently, to hear the answers they don't make clear. I can wait.

I just spoke with my mom again and she said that, yes, she's developed some pneumonia in her right lung. She doesn't seem to have a fever, though. And she feels well enough except for her returning panic attacks. Maybe one of the medications she was taking, or perhaps the small room, she reasoned.

And she told me not to worry. "Go prep for your classes!" she demanded.

Labor day

Last night, my mom went to the emergency room. The sense I got from the brief conversation I had with my dad this morning is that she was having a difficult time breathing and her chest was in pain. Once at the hospital, they learned that she has a slight case of pneumonia. I'm not sure at this point what "slight" means ... whether the doctor used this terminology, or whether my dad did so as not to worry me. Or maybe that's the word my mom used so my dad wouldn't worry. Words are loaded and loaded and loaded. And then emptied and emptied and emptied.

I asked my dad whether they were giving her antibiotics intravenously (as they did the last time she came down with pneumonia) and he said no. But when I spoke with my mom, she said that she had been hooked up all night. I don't probe during these conversations. I don't know why. I think of all the follow-up questions I should have asked only after we hang up--all the things I could have said seem so obvious afterwards. The conversations go so quickly though the memory of them sticks, right there, still.

So I'm going to do some work now (it is Labor Day after all). Read up. Take notes. Get ready. Get excited. For tomorrow.

Biting the bullet

School starts on Tuesday.

My third-year review file will be due toward the end of October.

I've been watching the new Doctor Who series with Christopher Eccleston. It's funny, charming, sweet, and just all around a lovely distraction.

My mom isn't well. Last week, some test results indicated that the chemo was working and the recent kidney scare was in the past. This week, her fever has returned and her appetite is pretty much non-existent; her doctors advised that she skip chemo until she's feeling better. She tells me she's been trying to eat broth and jello and anything that doesn't taste like anything. I leave next Friday for a (planned) quick weekend visit.

I'm trying to think of ways to feel less like pavement. Like I guess I could wear earrings and paint my toenails--pavement doesn't do either of those things. But I'm open to any and all suggestions. So suggestions please!

Hippopajamas

All thumbs 2--or--blah blah blah blah blah

I've been trying to rethink Pan's Labyrinth in terms of magic realism (as a genre) because, well, theorizing is (stupidly) safe. And when you're feeling non-theoretically vulnerable, a little bit of heady BS makes for a nice palliative.

While Pan's Labyrinth is not clearcut magic realism, it does exhibit one of the most consistent attributes found in magic realist texts: real and magic components collapse into each other to deconstruct and then obliterate meaning. Despite Ofelia's attempts to find solace from loss (of nation, father, mother) in Pan's magical world, that world of fantasy suffers from the same problems and is similarly traumatizing for her. In weaving these two worlds together (with Ofelia as the desperate thread), the film leaves us not with meaning, or redemption, or hope ... but simply painful experience. Most magic realist texts have loving and happy experience side by side with the painful--but, yeah, NOTHING in this one. (In that way, it resonates with that one chapter in Isabel Allende's House of the Spirits, in which Clara is being tortured.) There is no light at the end of the tunnel ... and Ofelia's (or, really, it would the audience's at this point) ability to imagine that end place in which she can rest in peace (king, queen, and princess reunited) is understood as a ridiculously desperate gesture. And, in some ways, it is. But it is what it is. Loss is loss. And you don't handle it so much as cling to it because ... what else are you going to do when something can NEVER be again?

The problem here is that we usually associate that "clinging" with hope--in the movies we see, that is. We've grown accustomed, I think, to films with ambiguous endings; would I be going too far to say that perhaps ambivalent conclusions are the new Hollywood kiss? Ambivalent endings once meant that the film was challenging the status quo--challenging our expectations. But perhaps, now, ambiguity is itself status quo. We live our lives so quickly and haphazardly that we expect ambiguity in all its shades of grey. So much so that we've grown (or I've grown ...) suspicious of a film that ends with the Hollywood kiss--unsatisfied, unbelieving. Instead, it's the ambiguous ending that seems weirdly comfortable and hopeful--the ending in which we can imagine the possibility of future happiness without having to commit to it. These wishy-washy films--they're losing something for me. Perhaps I'm starting to question why I always cling to the hopeful side of things, despite the simultaneous promise of calamity. Or perhaps I've grown tired of being lazy--that I'd like a clear decision rather than to have several options open to me. But now I'm just rambling.

You could argue that there is ambiguity in Pan's Labyrinth, but I would probably disagree with you. If anything, the film is painfully and horribly in your face and unabashed about being so. And I think I've decided that I don't think that's a good or bad thing. It is what it is (though I would say something about why the female suffers and the male heir gets to survive--but that's all social commentary). Pan's Labyrinth leaves us clinging only to loss, loss, and more loss. Of course I'm not suggesting that all film should now follow suit and be as horribly brutal as Pan, but hey, maybe postmodernism's heyday is finally over. And that would be good.

In conclusion, thank god that I'll always have Mirrormask for when the Pan's Labyrinths get to be too much. Hooray for Mirrormask. You know what you get when you joggle the BA-NA-NAS?!!!

Oh and also--blah blah blah blah blah.

All thumbs

I really wish that someone had warned me that Pan's Labyrinth would not be a good movie for me to watch tonight.

A beautiful film. Definitely. Not a fantasy film, though. Realist to the core, when it comes down to it. And the reality it suggests is one of those that surprises you with your own reality in the harshest kind of way.

I don't know if anyone else had that experience or if it was just me and how I don't think my mom is doing too well right now. Earlier this evening, she asked me if I could come visit her sometime soon, just for a few days. How did she put it? To make her eyes and her ears and her thoughts light. I'm not sure what to do. I think I'm aiming for the first weekend after school starts (in September). Is that what I should do?

This apartment feels empty and my belly feels bloated.

Holy shit

I guess we do treat shit like it's holy. One must not speak of shit. One must not look directly at it. As for actually touching shit?--out of the question.

Unless, of course, there are circumstances in which you're forced to become rather intimate with your bowels and the movements thereof. One such circumstance is when your mom is dying from metastatic colon cancer and you've talked to your doctor about beginning early cancer screenings for your own colon. In other words, I, my friends, have entered the inner sanctum. Or is it rectum? The inner rectum sanctum.

Common wisdom dictates that you should have your first colonoscopy when you're ten years younger than your family member was when first diagnosed. My mom was first diagnosed when she was 55 ... which would mean my screenings should begin at 45. However, my doctor and I decided that, given that my mom was diagnosed somewhat later than ideal (are these things ever ideal?), I should have my first colonoscopy at age 40. Til then, we agreed that I might have yearly, get this, "fecal occult blood" tests done.

Nothing, NOTHING about a fecal occult blood test sounds good, right? Why, for instance, do they have to use the word "occult"? The test is designed to see if there is any blood hidden in your feces. But using "occult" (which I know means something different in medical lingo than in, erm, regular lingo) makes it sound like they're testing to see if you have haunted poop. Like it might start floating about of its own accord. Or start glowing. Or start spinning around really fast, talking like the devil. Something like Slimer, from Ghostbusters. Only brown instead of green. (Mr. Hankey was too obvious a reference so I decided to go old school, and, also, am I grossing you out yet?)

The fecal occult blood test is a take home test--only instead of giving you a booklet and test questions and the easy opportunity to cheat, you're given three paper sheets, three flat wooden sticks, and three slides. The idea is that you lay the paper down in the toilet before you have a bowel movement, "movement" onto the paper, and then use the sticks to collect a sample, which you'll then "smear" on the slide. Three times over three days. They make it sound easy ... but I don't know. There seem to be missing steps. Like how do you collect a sample without getting it wet? And, perhaps more importantly, how do you maintain your dignity in the process? (Oh right!--you let the world know by BLOGGING ABOUT IT.)

Oh and I guess you could cheat on the fecal occult blood test ... but, really, you can pick at your friends, you can pick at your shit, but you can't pick at your friends' shit.

This blogpost notwithstanding, I hear I'm really sexy and you should totally date me.

Hiking, hiking, hiking

See Jane run

RUN JANE RUN!!!!!

If we are to trust this blurb, featured EVERYWHERE (though I got it on the apple movie trailer site), then the new film, Becoming Jane, is all hooey:

The story of the great, untold romance that inspired a young Jane Austen, played by Anne Hathaway. Willful and spirited, Jane is not ready to be tied down to anything but her writing. That is until she meets Tom Lefroy (James McAvoy), a charming rogue from London who spends more time drinking and socializing than on his law studies.

Blech. Ptui.

Carry on.

At least 3 BAs

My brother used to joke with me when we were little that the "B.A." in B.A. Baracus stood for "Big Ass." I've since learned that it stood for "Bad Attitude." Both will suffice.

To be fair, the British Airways representative I spoke with just now was much more useful and understanding than the one I spoke with a couple days ago. I requested to speak with a supervisor immediately, but she explained to me that a supervisor wouldn't do any good as "these matters are handled by our refund department." But then she asked me what the problem was. She informed me that she was sending an e-mail to refunds that said, "Due to cancellation of flight, passenger is entitled to full refund." She also recommended that I reply to the e-mail I had received yesterday and explain the same, which I did soon after I got off the phone. At the end of the call, when she said, "Thank you for choosing British Airways," she said it as if she wanted to convey to me, "I know that's the last thing you want to hear and I feel really stupid for saying it but it's required and so I'm sorry."

I'd like to say that all I really want is for British Airways to practice good customer relations. And it does help ... it does make a difference when the reps speak to me as if I do have a legitimate ax to grind. Yet, it really bothers me to know that if it weren't for the cancelled flight, their standard policy (which also happens to be their be-all-end-all policy) would have me scrambling to find a time between now and March to fly to England; such a "vacation" would cause me to incur even more fees for rebooking and would have me paying the exorbitant cost of a ticket bought non-electronically. And they still might ask me to do such scrambling and rebooking and paying. I thought the customer was always right ... but instead I appear to be some mediocre circus clown all watch me roll watch me flip pay attention to MEEEEE honk honk.

I looked up British Airways on the Better Business Bureau website and there were a number of complaints made against them. The website also showed the BBB helped to resolve over half of these cases--and so if I fail, I will enlist their help. I'm also considering contacting my credit card company and filing a claim with them ... but, yeah, for now I'll play the waiting game.

I'm sick of whining about this really erggg stuff. So speaking B.A. Baracus, did I ever tell you about how my mom saw Mr. T when we were on the freeway this one time when I was ... 12 maybe? She was driving and I was sitting there and then she said, "Did you see that?! That was Mr. T! In that red car!" And she tried speeding up so I could see, but Mr. T was long gone. But she said he had the chains and the mohawk and everything.

I totally pity the fool.

British airways SUCKKKKKKKKKKSSSSSSS

OH MY GOD. Oh my god. I'm, wow. I just received an e-mail informing me that I have TWO options. The first option is that I can receive the amount of TAX I paid on the ticket. The second option is that I can have a credit for the amount of the ticket to be spent on the ORIGINAL DATE OF ISSUANCE (which was back in, like, March). I plan on calling either tomorrow morning (if their office is open) or Monday and DEMANDING to speak to a supervisor. WTF. The flight was FUCKING cancelled.

Anyway. I wanted to write something else tonight. About parents.

Yesterday, I was at Group Health waiting to pick up a prescription and a father and daughter pair walked into the waiting area. The daughter became immediately annoyed with the father for telling her that rather than straining her neck by turning around to read the most recently called number, she could just look straight ahead of her at another light-up sign. She snapped at him, saying, "Maybe I want to turn around. Maybe it's easier for me." She kept snapping at him for various reasons and then said, "Well, I feel like standing up." She stood up and walked to the other side of the waiting area. After several minutes, the father got up and found a chair that was closer to where she was standing.

Why do we get so easily annoyed? Why do we get so easily frustrated? Why are we so impatient? Why is it so hard for us to understand that our parents have thoughts of their own and lives of their own and wants and desires and feelings? Why do WE need understanding so bad? And why do they have to sacrifice their understanding for ours? It's really not fair. And it's only fair, it's only fair, that we let them live their lives too ... at least once we're secure with our own lives. And treat them with respect. And understand that they have needs of their own. And problems of their own. And passions that have nothing to do with us. That don't revolve around us. How can we deny that? Or make them feel guilty for being, for once in thirty-some-odd years, selfish.

I know that not all parent-children relations are like what I've suggested here. Clearly, what I'm going on about has everything to do with my own experience. The pair I observed at Group Health--who knows what their story was. My story? I had a conversation with my dad earlier today about what he wants his future to hold that broke my heart--but only because I never had any clue. No clue at all. And ... I know he doesn't need me or probably even want me to think so ... but I think it's pretty amazing.

British Airways, the saga continues

Well, I feel silly calling it a saga as there is nothing heroic or adventurous about it. Just me trying to get my money back ... though there's something to be said for the why behind it all. Anyway ...

When I called British Airways on July 3rd, I was told that my refund would take 7-10 days to be processed. To be processed. Keep that in mind. Today, I called my credit card company to see whether or not the refund showed up. Nope. So I called British Airways and spoke to someone who hailed from planet DUH.

Me: ... so I wanted to check the status of the refund.
Duh-Lady: Refunds take 7-10 days.
Me: I made the request on July 3rd. Can you please check the status?
Duh: Ma'am, the refund sometimes takes one to two billing cycles to show up on your statement.
Me: I just spoke with my credit card company and they have no record of the refund.
Duh: Well, ma'am, it takes 7-10 days to process refunds.
Me: My initial phone call was on July 3rd.
Duh: ...
Duh: Well, I can check your booking record if you'd like.
Me: Yes, please. [OH MY GOD]
Duh: ...
Duh: ...
Duh: ...
Duh: Ma'am, kjahfisenfvuiwb [indiscernible] only shows that the refund was requested on July 3rd.
Me: Wait, so does that mean it hasn't been processed? When will it be processed?
Duh: Ma'am I don't have that information. Refunds are handled by the refunds department. But they usually take 7-10 BUSINESS days, ma'am, and today is the 10th day.
Me: What, so it's going to be processed within the next couple hours?!!
Duh: Well, Ma'am, it might be a couple more days. Maybe on Monday. There were many cancelled flights and so they have a lot of refunds to work through and sometimes these things can take up to 8 weeks to show up on your statement.
Me: So I'll call back on Monday and by then it should have been processed??
Duh: Well, ma'am, you can try calling back on Monday, but they're really busy. And it won't show up on your credit card statement til after, sometimes, two billing cycles.
Me: ...
Me: Does the refund department have a direct line?
Duh: No Ma'am.
Me: So I need to call this number again?
Duh: Yes ma'am.
Me: Okay, I'll call back on Monday.
Duh: Thank you Ma'am. And thank you for choosing British Airways.

I didn't have a calendar in front of me, but I've since located one and have found that today is, in fact, the eleventh day. And I was generous and didn't count the 3rd or July 4th. And I do realize that I'm not the only who was on this cancelled flight and they must have a lot to deal with, but I doubt that the majority of people asked for a full refund (I imagine most travelers rebooked their flights). And it worries me a little bit that the record said, "Refund requested,"--as if my refund can be denied. Why couldn't it have said, "Refund approved," or "Refund forthcoming," or, simply, "REFUND"? And how long can it possibly take for the refund to be processed?! Everything is computerized. They should be able just to punch a few numbers and, ta-da, money. Chances are that everything will be fine--but it was just aggravating ... and I don't like being called ma'am. And this woman was a numb-nut.

My mom has been doing okay. Her nausea has gotten a bit worse--and my aunt tells her that she misses me. My aunt also told her not to make me feel guilty for leaving ... that that wouldn't be fair to me. I'm grateful for that, but it does mean that she'll be guarded about what she tells me. So we've returned to this place where I have to stitch together the fragments of what my mom tells me, my aunt tells me, and my dad tells me in order to make sense of how she's feeling. Hopefully, I'll come up with something close to the mark.

Tomorrow

Seaaaaatttttllllllle

With a twist

Today for lunch, we packed up a picnic and took my mom to the park (first post-hospital outing!!!) and we started remembering all the times we would go to my dad's work picnics in Milwaukee. My mom was telling us about how she would always win the three-legged race. We talked about how nice those parks in Milwaukee were. I have this very distinct memory of running up to a group of people watching someone walk across this river--right before a waterfall--in one of the parks. I remember grabbing hold of the hand next to me, thinking it was my dad's, and asking, "Is he going to make it?" And then I looked up, waiting for my dad to respond, only he didn't respond because he wasn't my dad, but a bad imposter. And then I looked at the person walking across the river and I realized THAT was my dad.

My mom is off chemo this week (two weeks on, one week off). Her oncologist gave her a shot of Procrit on Thursday because her hemoglobin was low ... and, right now, she's feeling some side effects from that. Procrit, in the process of increasing red blood cell production, makes your bones hurt. But her energy continues to build. And she, well, went to the park. And her appetite is good.

Yesterday, my aunt half-joked with me about when I'm going to write a book about all of this and I said, "When none of you would sue me." And she suggested (jokingly), "Well, you can write it when we're all dead." This family of mine has a really twisted sense of humor. And I love it.

If a tree falls in the forest?

Today I read Gene Luen Yang's graphic novel, American Born Chinese. Beautiful. Touching. Read it.

I think I'm ready to go back home (knock on wood). My mom remains relatively stable (knock vigorously on wood) with just a few side effects from the Xeloda now and again (knock the crap out of wood). And I think I need to go somewhere, um, else for a bit. We had a power outage this afternoon and the conversation we had about which phone to use, which one would work and which one wouldn't, took too, too, too long--only to return to the place where we started. The same thing happened with the conversation about what that vegetable was in the szechuan shrimp. Things must be explained again, and again, and again in this house--with much patience and respect for why things must be explained again, and again, and agan. I'm fine with that, but I'm beginning to miss, more and more, the kinds of conversations and even solitude I'm accustomed to. I'm living with three people whom I love dearly, but who all have different health and aging issues.

Also, I'm so afraid of breathing a sigh of relief (though I did already obliterate the wood ...)--but, can we all just say ... I have no idea what, but something in the territory of amazing about my mom? I'm wary of saying anything that would suggest that she's doing something special here because so many people have cancer and there's NO reason to suggest that they're not as amazing or more amazing than her. Their stories are different. I guess I'm just ... yeah ... I thought, well, I thought what I no longer want to put into words because then I would have to resurrect the wood again in order to knock on it.

Dammit. I'm not even a very superstitious person.

Something like a summary

I've been trying to work this out in my head. On May 25th, my mom went to the hospital and was diagnosed with ... liver failure? About a week after that (June 1st), when she was released from the hospital, the oncologist on duty told us she had three to six weeks to live ... depending; maybe months if she went back on chemo. On June 7th, she went back to the hospital for what turned out to be mild congestive heart failure. On June 13th, she was released from the hospital. On June 16th, she went back into the hospital with pneumonia. She was released on June 19th. She went back on a half-dose of chemo on June 27th. It's been about 4 1/2 weeks since the oncologist gave us the 3-6 week prognosis. And she seems to be doing really well (considering the last month) right now. Helping her to do well, of course, is a pharmacy of daily medications.

This morning, I took her to see her pulmonologist. He thinks that things are heading in the right direction. Everything is couched, though, in an "I think" or an "As far as I can tell." I can't blame him, though--these things are iffy (of course, when she wasn't doing well, that language was UNACCEPTABLE). But he's encouraging my mom to start walking more. Go outside--see if you can walk half a block from the house and back. Just don't push it. Apparently, to the heart, going up one flight of steps is the equivalent of walking a quarter mile on flat land.

I'm trying not to push it, too. Push myself, that is, to feel normal ... whatever that is. I went to Trader Joe's just now and stopped in at a clothing store to try on a t-shirt and when I looked in the mirror, I noticed that my hair was a mess and I looked tired and there were spots all over my shirt. I'm trying to laugh it off. I mean, it IS a little funny ...

Thank you everyone for all your kind thoughts and angels sent in our direction. And, also, for making me laugh and for continuing to share your lives with me so I feel like I'm still on the planet earth (such as it is--and why is Bush still president and oh my god with Libby and poor Al Gore's son who looks a little like Bill Clinton) and for picking up where I've, um, thrown down? You guys make me happy ... and, apparently, mushy.

Also, The Departed was REALLY good.

Tortoise

The last few days have been slow. I feel slow. My thoughts are slow--and I have all this time to sit here and so I watch my thoughts as I have them and I assess them and decide that I should feel guilty for that one and proud of this one and ashamed of that one and, well, let's have this one to make up for that one. Wishing things to happen quickly?--well, no, you don't want that, either.

She makes the most of this time passing slowly in ways that seem odd sometimes. She sings her moans of pain now, for instance. Any discomfort she has--she'll turn it into a tune. I look at her strangely and she tells me, "Sometimes you need to make fun of things. You need to laugh to make it lighter." And I say, "That's true," and I force a smile. I honestly think that the laugh would come quickly and naturally if I didn't feel so slow--if time wasn't passing at a snail's pace. But it should, right? Happen slowly. Slow is good, right? Like turtles--are good.

Compared to the last month, she's doing well. Her right leg continues to bother her. Walking is difficult and painful. But she's better than she's been in a long time. And I'm not doubtful (which I'm doubtful of). It's strange to think of the last month ... the last just-over-a-month. And it's embarrassing ... to see yourself grow tired. And it's embarrassing that you're so tired and she's still working so hard to feel better.

We should, starting now, pronounce "tortoise" french-style: TORT-WAAAHHZZ. And more than one tortoise should be called the "tortoisie" (TORT-WAHZ-EE). And the ones that do all the work should be called the "pro-le-turtle-at."

Two visions of teeniness

Yesterday, my aunt and I picked my mom's donut-peach tree. Most of the peaches were just on the verge of ripe (we put these in the fridge), but there were about twenty of them that were JUST past perfect. We peeled them and sliced them and froze them. This afternoon, I defrosted one of the packages and made a peach cobbler, which we all ate after dinner with ice cream and Mmmmmmmmms.

I took my mom to her oncologist today for her weekly check-up. She's doing better (in spite of a bad morning and, yeah) ... so much so that she took her Xeloda this evening. She's still a bit loopy from the Hydromorphone from yesterday--but the pain hasn't reared its mangled head yet. I joked to her that maybe the Oxycontin-morphine needed the Hydromorphone-morphine to remind it of what its job is. And then I had this vision of what it would be like if my mom's body were the subject of a remake of Fantastic Voyage--and what if I were in charge of maneuvering the shrunken submarine?

I'm having these thoughts about what my next move might be--go back to Seattle or stay here longer or something in between. It's hard for me right now because I don't want to DECIDE anything--and, plus, I can't decide anything without feeling more secure about my mom's condition, which, good luck with that. But I do have wondering ants in my pants.

Which reminds me that there were also lots of ants on the peach tree. They crawled up my arms and were tiny and hungry and what if my job were to climb across the branches of a peach tree all day? I know I would do my best not to bother someone by being all annoying by wondering in their pants ...

Explosions in the sky

My nani and I had half an hour to kill this evening and we spent it talking (in Hindi) about different game show genres. Some require intelligence while others require luck. Still others demand common sense. My nani believes that The Price is Right falls in the latter category. She explained (translation mine), "What kind of a dumbass are you if you lose on The Price is Right?"

Today was a rough day for my mom. She woke up in pain--or discomfort--or something that was bothering her all over her abdomen and up through her lungs that she couldn't quite describe. I gave her one tablet of the backup pain meds that we have on hand and that put her out of commission for the bulk of the day.

"Out of commission" is a dumb way of putting it. She spent the entire day in this hazy state of sleep and dream. Dream and reality wove together in her mind. She would be watching TV in her dream and then she would wake up, raising up her hand and pressing down--a gesture to turn off the TV. Or my aunt and I were having a conversation with her (she had been awake ...) about my cousin's highschool marching band, and she would say something about a rickshaw. It frustrates her. I can't tell if it makes her more comfortable or not ... when I ask her to tell me about the dreams she wakes ... into?

She decided to stop taking Xeloda (the oral chemo she's been taking for the last week) as that is likely what is causing this most recent pain. The feeling is similar to what she was experiencing when she went to the hospital on May 26th. And it's troubling that it's a similar pain given that she's on regular pain meds now. How bad must the pain be?

And as I didn't go out to see any fireworks tonight, I decided to make up for it by listening to some early Explosions in the Sky. Wish you were here.

Crab

Ugh ... first I feel like I need to apologize for the crappy/crabby post from last night. I was tempted to delete it a few times ... but then I kept talking myself out of it. Yesterday was one of those days when all of us were on edge--nostalgic, bitter, annoyed (with each other and with ourselves). I think a lot of you have heard me talk about the unwarranted remarks my mom would make about my weight through the years. My mom isn't the perfect mother ... but who is ... or what does that even mean? I've been having these moments when I'll remember the difficult times that I've had with her ... but I'm glad for that. They keep that whole compulsion to idealize the cancer victim in check. My mom, after all, is still my mom. What's nice is that at the end of the day (or, occasionally, the next morning) we know exactly the state of our devotion to each other ... and I know she's an incredible person.

But things are relatively stable here. That is, not too much to say. Some emotional setbacks have been manifesting themselves in more panic attacks. Tonight got a little on the bad side ... and a part of me wonders if that pressure in her chest is not so much panic as it is the elephant in her body. Of course, we're realizing how incredibly interconnected all of it is.

And some weird but good news. I got an e-mail this morning from British Airways telling me that my flight (I was supposed to leave for London earlier this evening) had been cancelled (a whole wing at Heathrow Airport had been shut down because of the terror alert). I called the airline just to make sure that, in the process of cancelling the record of the flight, they wouldn't also cancel my request for reimbursment (I faxed the letter over the weekend). Well, the very friendly gentleman on the phone told me, "Not a problem. Since the flight has been cancelled, I'll just go ahead and give you the full reimbursement. No fee." While I was on hold, I thought of ways I could flirt with him and then propose. Gratitude is a funny thing.

How is everyone?

Ode on a SHUTUP SHUTUP SHUTUP

It's past midnight. This bird will tweet, whistle, screech, chirrup til 2 am, I predict. At least if last night is any indication. I'm at my aunt's house for one more night. And this bird outside the window demands my full attention. Go to SLEEEEEEP.

Today my mom told me not to eat too much dessert. Do I take that as:

A. a sign that she's feeling better
B. her attempt to regain control now that her house is returning back to normal with the departure of the grandkids
C. an indication that I've gained weight
D. a compliment

My aunt says that my mom is acting "normal"--which is a good thing. Curious.

And, seriously, I don't want to throw a boot out the window at this bird outside, but what's the deal??

Oh my god. SHUT. UP.

Oh and Blood Diamond is a horrible movie.

Briefly ...

I had this thought on the airplane (because the person sitting behind me had the biggest feet I've ever seen and my inner voice exclaimed, "BIG FEET!") that Big Foot is a really strange name for Big Foot. His feet can't be that big, right? Or, if they are, surely the evidence of that is coming from tracks left in the mud more than from an eyewitness report ... like someone who actually befriended him and had trouble finding shoes big enough to fit him. And so then why isn't he called Big Footprint?

My mom was doing okay today. I think she's ready to have the house quiet again, though. Kids are great, but they do bounce around a lot. And then they get upset when you tell them to stop bouncing around so much. And then they bounce around and do so while crying.

She's thin, though. Her arms have gotten really thin during the six days I've been gone. She seems to be doing okay on the treatment right now ... but all of the same problems are still there--some abdomen discomfort and pain; fever, off and on; wheezing. But she seemed, you know, okay. More tomorrow.

I should be packing ...

My flight leaves tomorrow morning at 7:30.

I have so much to say that I don't have anything to say ... and plus, wow, it's like my family is a crap magnet. I'm taking my big boots because I think I need to kick some serious ass ... or, you know, at least have proper foot protection for plodding through the crap. And my cat seems to have finally forgiven me for being away.

I need a mantra. And it shouldn't be "You go girl" or "Things could be worse."

Southerly

Southerly's "Cold Caller" featured on NPR's "Song of the Day"!!

And you can also listen to "Close to the Crime" (which is awesome) here.

Hooray Greyday (where you can also purchase the album--hint hint hint hint shameless plug shameless plug shameless plug).

Slowdown

I haven’t been keeping up on the news for the last month. True ... while I was at my parents’ home last week, my brother and I would catch the 8 o’clock repeat of The Daily Show. But I didn’t learn much about the world. Without concrete knowledge of recent events, what I saw didn’t do much but produce a shallow laugh. My brother laughed louder ... he’s been keeping up. But I’ve been avoiding that kind of concrete knowledge. My world is tiny right now. Perhaps repressive. Perhaps self-aggrandizing. Perhaps naive. But it is what it is.

Today, though, I turned on the TV and Katie Couric informed me about the London terror plot and how I should beware of suspicious looking vehicles. She also told me that we can look forward to increasingly segregated classrooms. And she finally told me that Joel Siegel died of colon cancer (I wondered if she would mention her husband and tell us to ask our doctors about colon health ... but she didn’t). I never watch Katie Couric--but I’m glad that hers was the news I caught today. She enabled me to justify hiding my head in the sand a little bit longer.

But the problem is that I do well when I have concrete THINGS to deal with--known quantities, entities, issues. The abstract and unknown make me nervous. Don’t get me wrong ... I love change. But that anticipation before the change, I HATE that. And where I am right now feels so unpredictable. The only thing I know, in fact, is that I'll be left with an incredible void in my life. I don’t mean to wax existential (I’m in the middle of reading Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home and I’m certain some of her Camus-inspired musings are coloring my thoughts), but I don’t like the way things are right now. And I feel helpless to do anything about them.

But there are the small things, I guess, I do for myself and the people I love. And I guess I need to remind myself that that’s where life really is ... where it counts ... and what I can hold so tightly and close to me. My drunken e-mail to you, the promise of her secret, his lunchtime joke falling flat, her eyes that hug, a shallow complaint made again, and again, and again, and someone so amazing to whom to make it. The big ideas?--they can suck my ass-stick.

And I’m pretty sure that that’s the dumbed down and personalized version of Camusian absurdity ... and, man, that’s annoying as hell.

Gross

So the nice lady on the phone told me I should write to British Airways Customer Relations. And I wrote a first draft of a letter this afternoon. And it's impossible and disgusting to have to write this letter and explain to them why they should give me my money back because my mom is sick. I had all these parantheticals in the letter (insert ticket information) to remind myself of what I should include in the letter (insert dates of travel)--all embedded in discussions of why I can't leave the country right now. And it's gross. And the question of whether I've written a "good" letter is gross. And the question of whether they'll read the letter and think, "We should reimburse her," is gross. And the thought of, "If you need to see evidence of my mother's condition," is not only gross, but ridiculous, and embarrasing, and stupid, and what-is-wrong-with-me? Which itself is also gross.

hi

Sorry no updates last night.

Everything is pretty okay right now ... regular, even. My mom's continuing to do well (though her liver mets were bothering her again). I'm eating fish tacos (well, not this very moment). And I feel inspired to get some work done.

This morning I will attempt to take on British Airways. And then I will attempt to take on my book orders. Both while spinning plates on my nose and fire-hula-hooping on a highwire fastened just above a tank of hungry sharks. And then I'll eat sushi, which, HOORAY for little pieces of raw fish wrapped up in rice with all manner of other good things.

Decepticons

Remember how, before, it was all about go go go go. Now it's all about don't go don't go don't go don't go. Today, my mom took my hand in hers and said, "I'm not going to say anything. I'm not going to say anything about how you're leaving tomorrow." I tried to convince her (and myself, really) that Sunday really isn't that far away. But these days are so long. These days are so long.

We've grown accustomed to each other. We've developed habits--how she'll rest and how I'll rest with her. I've been the one bringing her her lunch and dinner plates--just so much, just so much. She'll say my name with that certain look and I'll say, "Ativan?" She'll nod and I'll go get her pill. You become attuned to the bodies that are close to yours. Their needs.

So why am I going back? I don't know. I have my reasons, I suppose ... but they just don't feel like very good ones right now. To get away? Relax? Pay bills? Remind myself of the other life?

Well, they're okay reasons. And important. I guess they just feel a little selfish. A little indulgent.

But I wouldn't go if I didn't feel like she was doing well, all things considered. She still has some pain that breaks through the meds--but she seems to be in such a better place than she was just a few days ago. I worry about what Wednesday's chemo treatment might do ... but they're starting her off with a very low dose (which, well ... if you haven't got anything nice to say?). And, plus, her grandchildren will be arriving in a couple days.

So--it should be okay, right?

Transformers anyone?

EDIT: Awww. It doesn't come out til after I leave Seattle again ...

Seattle or bust

The plan, as of now, is to return to Seattle on Tuesday and to come back here on Sunday.

Her energy level is good ... though that "sick feeling" has returned. She's supposed to go in for a chemo treatment on Wednesday. I have no idea. I have no idea.

I mean--if the toxins are what have caused a lot of her recent problems ... then, um ...

And her liver mets are starting to bother her once again.

If it's not this, it's that. If it's not that, it's this.

I feel like I've gotten so accustomed to the ups and downs that I'm not the best judge of how she's doing right now. You fall for it ... the hope. It's so easy to fall for it. She was absolutely convinced she wouldn't start chemo again, but her oncologist was SO incredibly encouraging that how could she say no? Still, he looks at me disappointedly with this "you know too much" look.

Picture

Well, this sucks. I've had chest pains all day. They're kind of like the ones I would get in grad school from stress. Kinda heartburny. As I haven't had them in years ... I'll chalk it up to a combination of stress and too much of my nani's cooking, and I'll assume they'll be gone by tomorrow.

I spent the afternoon hanging photos in the hallways with my brother. My parents moved into this smaller house a couple years back and never found the time or energy to hang the family photos. My brother was careful to keep our worst eighties photos off the walls. And we got excited together over a couple of really old ones of my mom and dad--and one of the two of us, when I was a few months old and he was three, and we were sitting in my dad's big, black, vinyl office chair.

And some of you wanted to see photos of my mom and so here's one from way back when. 1976, I believe ...

Morton

The shit hit the fan today. My mom is doing relatively okay. Her liver mets are starting to give her some pain ... but not so bad that she needs to take extra doses of pain meds. Her energy level has been better ... she's been holding longer conversations and cracking jokes. Her temperature has been running between 99 and 102 ... but it immediately responds to advil. I still worry about her lungs--her breath was crackling when I watched her sleep today. But she's doing okay.

The shit on the fan has to deal with other family problems that I can't talk about here. I want to assure you that none of it is immediately related to me. I'm okay. You know, considering. Details in private.

I'm still considering the possibility of coming back to Seattle on Tuesday, as scheduled. But I have no idea whether that's possible right now. Will let you know. Because, my god, I'd kill for time spent with you. Today was one of those days when I had to step back and consider that all this is REALLY happening. Most days, you just go with it. There's always something to do. Even when you're just sitting there, there's always something to pay attention to--the time, the breathing, where the sunlight hits her bed. Today was the same--but my head would get clouded and I had to catch myself and say, "Stay with this. Stay with this." And if not that, then the pounding at the back of my head--when I wanted to cry to her, "Don't leave me."

And P.S. I'd kill for time spent in ANY of those cities where you live, not just Seattle and Tacoma. Teleportation, anyone? Laurie ... pod system?

Zoo

Today I began to wonder if the reason no one says anything about my mom's elephant is because we're all a bunch of monkeys. Dumb monkeys. Yesterday, I had this gigantic stick up my ass and I tried, today, to pull it out ... but it turns out it's pretty happy right where it is. I feel like such a dick. I'm crabby. I'm ungrateful. I'm mean. I'm territorial. I'm easily annoyed. Certainly, I'm annoying as well. I know I need to allow myself these days. But, god, I need to get over myself.

And I also need to learn that I can only do so much ... I can only take on so much.

It's fairly clear to us now that my mom had pneumonia ... a mild case of it. She seems to be doing somewhat better--especially with her breathing. Her lungs have cleared up quite a bit in the last couple days--and the albuterol they gave her seems to be helping her when she does feel short of breath. And she's got a lot more energy, too. Her sense of humor has even returned. But then she pushes it--like she spent a good portion of today out of bed and then wound up with a fever. And then when the fever broke, she got out of bed AGAIN, and then later her temperature went up again. She also needs to be really careful with how much work she's making her heart and lungs do ... but then I feel like such an ass when I say stuff like, "Are you SURE you want to go downstairs?" "Are you sure you want to leave your bed?" "Are you sure you want to pretend that you're not sick?" And of course, I would never ask anything like that last question ... but that's what I feel like I'm insinuating sometimes. And why shouldn't my mom be able to get up and go downstairs and hang out for awhile if she's feeling well enough at the time? But how do you enjoy those moments when you're feeling better when that enjoyment just makes you feel worse later? So what do you do?

And my mom knows all this. We talk about it--how frustrating it is for her because she does one thing, and then another thing happens. And then she tries to make that better, and that makes something else worse. The albuterol helps, but she shouldn't take too much because it can increase her heart rate. She needs to eat and gain weight to get energy, but she needs to be careful not to eat too much because any sudden weight gain will be hard on her heart. She needs to do this, but she needs to do that. Turn left--NO WAIT, turn right! Stop, slow, fast, go. I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them, Sam I am.