Two “perfect storms” coming together … me in the middle.
Six days earlier, on July 8, 2011, the phone rang a little after midnight. When I heard my mom’s voice—metallic and reverberating with pain—I zeroed in on the details. I fell; I’m on the floor; it’s cold; they are taking care of me. I broke something in my leg or hip. I am in a lot of pain. I can’t move my leg. An ambulance is on the way. Will you meet me at the hospital?
I said something to make her laugh, but she caught the tail of it and wrapped it back around my neck. Okay, that was a test. This is pretty bad. Her tolerance for pain is extremely high. She is alert and herself but seriously injured. Shit. Get a move on.
Jeff and I packed up and went to the hospital where my mom was already in surgery to have a metal rod inserted alongside her femur. The question was: will the rod hold? Was there enough good bone in there not affected by the myeloma? And if not … true: the pain and the fact that she would probably never walk again meant that these could be her final weeks. And, rough ones…
The Context
My mom had just recovered from a bad case of shingles—the scars still radiating and red on her kyphotic back—and, prior to that, a week plus of intense pain during which I had walked into her room to find her curled up from it, eyes half closed. No make up. Her skin hanging. Her pain meds had been pushed to every two hours when they should have been at every hour. We also had to go back to the pain doctor multiple times for more treatments and medication adjustments. Meanwhile, the myeloma never took a vacation. Mom continued taking low-dose chemo when she was able to.
On the home front, Jeff and I had been talking to contractors in May and June about getting our ceiling fixed. In early January 2007, in an 80-mph wind and snow event, the roof failed on our newly built healthy home and snow packed the ceiling and melted into the house. Drips lined the inside of the window wells. While I was on the phone with our builder, the light bulb in the loft exploded, shards tinkling across the loft floor. Water in the wiring. The bulb was on, and hot.
We evacuated within 24 hours, driving down Boulder Canyon at night in a snowstorm, finding respite at Jeff’s parents’ house an hour away. At that point and for weeks to come, I didn’t know if I could live in the house again given my mold sensitivities from previous mold poisonings… And aside from one friend’s house, it was the only place I could be day after day and not have physical reactions. It was my hospital. My recovery center. My safe zone. My home.
Long story short: We did seal up the roof vent and rip out a third of the interior of the house (while living in a shed on our property), dry it out and check for mold, and then rebuild it all.
But, the next summer, we were hit with a devastating smell. The new insulation was heating up in the summer sun warming the roof and off-gassing into the house, triggering asthma and other symptoms for me. Home: still not safe.
Back to It
I arrive at the hospital to get hit by two more storm waves.
The doctor had reinstated the chemo and steroid for my mom. F*** #1. No. Not yet. Wait till she’s through this and is clearly in recovery before hitting her with more chemo. Why would he do this without talking to her primary oncologist?
My mom’s friend and hired caregiver handed me a flyer from mom’s residence. They will be spraying pesticides on the trees and lawns on Monday and Friday. F*** #2.
Last time I encountered fresh pesticide spray, I was numb on the right side of my body for four days. My doctor’s orders: wait at least three days before going by trees or across lawns that have been sprayed. I am on the Colorado Pesticide Sensitive Registry, but it only provides some modicum of protection at my residence, nowhere else.
I get the chemo and steroid DC’d. I call the facility where my mom lives and through tears and strong words explain that my mom is in a precarious situation, may not live long (if the rod doesn’t hold), may need my help when she returns, and that I can’t be poisoned in trying to simply help my mother. They hold off on the spraying, but feathers are not only ruffled, they are on fire… I am on fire too and shaking. The fact that the very cancer that is slamming my mom time and again is likely caused by pesticides (among other suites of chemicals) shoots red flames across my eyes.
I take a deep breath, dry my eyes, shake out some of my anger, vent to a friend on the phone, and head back into the hospital, taking the elevator to my mom’s floor.
I step into her room. She perches on the edge of the hospital bed trying to shift her weight toward the walker, her gown open in the back showing the smear of scarred skin from the shingles—the series of thoracic vertebrae that had crushed from the myeloma causing her to hunch way over. Her usually well-kept hair is frizzy in the back from days of being pressed against the pillow. She turns to me, but her speech is a bit slurred and dimmed from the pain meds and the pain. I can’t hear her. The physical therapist coaches her on. She pulls the walker closer in, inches forward, carefully stands up, but then doubles over in pain when she puts weight on the injured leg.
I break in two.