Pushing through

I didn't even look right before gassin' it through the puddle. This could have ended very badly.

So, the cars are okay, the apartment is fine and the only signs left of the lake that was our road, yard and driveway is debris that washed up, marking the high tide point. Dan and I went back on Wednesday to check on the cars and though there was still a pond in our driveway (such that we had to ask our neighbor with the high rubber boots to check our mail) I was able to charge the ol’ Subaru Outback out of the driveway so that we could return the rental car. (A Chevy with manual windows and locks, by the way. “How do you lock this thing? What do you mean I have to just push the button down?”).

When we walked into our apartment on Wednesday I was suddenly so overwhelmed by all the life-in-order tasks that needed to get done that I disappeared for 15 minutes into a silent stress attack. Our bills---stacked in scattered piles around the apartment---needed to be paid. In the rush before the evacuation I had thrown our laundry all over the bedroom and the rest of the apartment while packing my suitcase. (Most of it had been in laundry bags and baskets anyway, having not been put away in weeks.) The entire place needed a douching---floors vacuumed and washed, bathtub scrubbed, etc.---never mind that thing called spring cleaning. Plus, I knew I was heading down to RI the next day (Thursday; I am there now) so I had to organize and pack everything up once more before loading the car again. As we stood there, the smell of dampness still in the air despite the beautiful sixty-something degree day outside, I froze, unsure of where to begin and feeling just completely seized up by all that needed doing. In these moments, I can barely talk. (Dan told me later that he wanted to slap me across the face a la Cher and say, “Snap out of it!”)

And it was, of course, ultimately Dan who did get me to snap out of it. Seeing my sudden tension and unease, he said, “Let’s pretend we were never here and stay at the hotel another night.”

I hesitated, feeling like a night at home could be so productive but also disheartened that I was no longer homeless and thus could not take a day of writing outside in the sun, to be my only choice. Plus, Dan and I had both been looking forward to our rowdy St. Patrick’s Day plan of take-out and American Idol in the hotel room. It was also our last night together for an undetermined length of time since my mom started chemo today and I’ll be staying down here for a bit to see her through it. We knew we could either spend that last night together having fun or with me frantically whipping around the apartment trying to do seven things at once and ultimately failing to really complete even one.

“Come on,” Dan said. “Let’s pretend we never came home at all. We’ll have a fun night at the hotel and then I’ll get all the stuff around here done this weekend while you’re in Rhode Island. Let’s go back to our FEMA trailer and enjoy our last night together.”

And so I went with it, knowing that this was exactly the right choice to make. Though we could have probably stayed at our apartment, we shelved all that needed doing and from a bed that had been made by someone other than us, we watched TV on a set that carried all the channels we don’t have at home. Needing a break from reality, we played pretend for one more night.

And now back to reality we are.

Today was, indeed, my mom’s first day of chemotherapy. I packed a cooler of food, threw Travel Scrabble in my backpack and readied for the worst. The outcome? The best. (Well, the best as far as mestastatic lung cancer is concerned.)

The chemotherapy room had two rows of paper-lined La-Z-Boys running along each wall. It’s like a little cancer community where people sit, get their chemo administered either intravenously as my mom did or through a catheter, and hang out. My dad and I went in first while my mom had her vital signs checked. As we walked in the room, I was surprised to feel fear. There were three people already in their recliners and each one was very thin and very sickly looking. It was not the stuff of those brave women out in the world with their beautiful bald heads or colorful scarves; the image of cancer I have taken comfort in. These people were very, very ill and the fear of my mom becoming this sick made me nauseous on the spot.

And then she joined us in there and the laughing began. My dad asked my mom if she preferred a private room as one was available but, as he anticipated, my mom rather be with everyone else taking in the scene and making friends. (My dad and I both agreed we were the private room type though I can only speak for myself when I say that my desire for privacy seems to serve me less than my mom’s social nature serves her.) The woman connects with people. Within two minutes of meeting the oncology nurse, she was recounting to my mom the details of her husband’s affair, their divorce and how the kids are taking it. This nurse was lovely as were all the others we’ve met along the way. (I love nurses. If any group of people is saving this world, my money’s on them. If I could handle bodily fluids of any kind and I didn’t hate people so much, I’d almost want to be one.)

And then they hooked her up and it began. We took pictures as soon as it started. My parents on the first day of chemo. Gig with her IV drip. We cracked ourselves up. And when a nurse came and placed a large tray of delicious looking bagels and muffins in front of my mom, whom we’ve got on a torturous no sugar/no flour diet, we only laughed harder.

At one point my mom said, “This is a really great experience.”

To which my dad responded, “This isn’t Disney, it’s chemo.”

And then four hours just somehow passed. We didn’t even get a chance to read our books.

My mom felt great for the rest of the day. Like, freakishly great. They gave her a steroid to protect her from a possible allergic reaction and she attributes her zest to this. She’s a little Wonder Womanesque right now. I’m pretty sure she could lift a car. She got home and called all her friends and family and laughed about her “great experience,” we went for a nice walk in the sun, and she even handled all the requisite billing issues and phone calls that come with all this medical intervention (‘cuz who doesn’t want to call a hospital billing department on her first day of chemo?). My dad and I marveled at how a person could possibly feel that happy after her first dose of chemotherapy.

Dan and I talked tonight about how with all that you hear about chemotherapy---it’s pretty commonplace these days---you never really know exactly what the experience is. You hear about vomiting and hair loss. Low immune system and fatigue. But I’ve never heard about the experience firsthand; what it’s like that first day, how soon the symptoms start, etc. And though I had no idea what today would bring, I had not even pondered the possibility that she might come out of the hospital feeling fantastic.

The steroid will wear off though and tomorrow may be a different day. When my eldest sister was nine-months pregnant with her son and about to blow, having never been pregnant before she said that waiting for labor to start was “like waiting for a car accident.” It was imminent and it was huge, she understood, but she had no idea when it was coming.

That’s sort of how this feels now. My mom is going to get sick. You can‘t put poison in your body and avoid that. But whether it’s nausea or vomiting or headaches or mouth sores or pain that are coming, none of us know. Will she be able to eat tomorrow? Or will it be three more days until it kicks in? How heavy is the tiredness of chemo? How will it feel? If I am so consumed by all these questions, what must be going through her head? Is she going to bed tonight wondering if her body will be her own tomorrow? How strange that must be.

And how is she always laughing? At every appointment we’ve gone to, as my mom has checked in and my dad and I have taken our seats in the waiting room, he and I have shared a smile after hearing my mom erupt into laughter with whomever was manning the front desk or clerk’s window that day. It doesn’t matter the person, the setting or, apparently, the scenario, the woman can find the laughter.

No steroid could do that.

P.S. Happy Birthday, Mattie. I remembered on my own (with a little Facebook assistance, I’ll admit...and don’t pretend like you know exactly when my birthday is either), but this is the e-mail I got from Dan today:

By the way, and before you go “I know when my fucking best friend’s birthday is douche!” I wanted to let you know today is Matty’s b-day. I only tell you this because I think for the last eight years you always pop up and go “FUCK! IT’S MATT”S BIRTHDAY!” So I am only helping.

My gift to you? Permission to leave me a nice, lengthy drunken message at 3am. Please include a musical number, if possible. Happy day, love.