Jonathan's POZ Blog

I sit in the uncomfortable wicker chair, made only marginally bearable by the thick pillow in the seat. The air is bordering on the dry, enough to make my lips chapped. It is hot, though a brief snow flurry cascades outside in the dark. Mom likes to keep the temperature up, though she admits that, like me, she used to be a cold-weather person. At the commercial break, I steal a glance at the leather easy chair next to me.

Mom is old, finally. Old and not in the best of health. Her hair, neglected, is a translucent grey-white. Her face bears more than one liver spot. Her hands are weathered and withered. Her body is a shapeless series of lumps in her cranberry satin pajamas. Open carelessly at the neck, her shoulder is exposed, and with it the beginning of a single, cruel scar from her pacemaker surgery a month ago. It is red, puckered, and still angrier than I would like. And it reminds me that every moment, every heartbeat, every instant with Mom is a borrowed piece of time. And no one can tell me how long, how much time there is.

I spent the last week doing light home repair, making some calls to get Mom connected to services (someone will pick up her trash from the side of the house, as she can’t drag the fifty-gallon drums around) and generally making sure that things are not in such disrepair as to warrant attention. I have stood on ladders to change light bulbs, installed new thermometers, hand-scrubbed floors and made calls. But mainly, I have cooked for us, light snacks while we watch our requisite three hours of Will and Grace. Sat in the uncomfortable chair (or sprawled out on the floor) next to her. Been what she really needed, what she really craves, another living being in her world.

The roses I sent her for Valentines Day are dying, and every day she snips a few more buds and places them in a dish so they may dry. The rosebuds retain their yellows, their oranges, their reds. But they are dead, and Mom saves them because she loves them so.

We sat in line for over an hour so that she could apply for a passport, and get her photo taken. This I take as a commitment to some measure of continued vitality. But still I wonder if, like when my Dad was diagnosed with dreadful, incurable cancer nine years ago, I am in any position to do anything but whistle through the graveyard.

I simply do not trust myself to see the truth. I see what I want, I accept only what I absolutely must, and information means less to me, as invested as I am, than hope. Hope which steals sleep from my tired brain at night, as it is wont to dance with despair.

Mom mentions on several occasions that, when she was flatlining on the surgery table (she did so twice), she saw my father, wearing a long black coat or cloak. He was not the feeble old man who died in his bed. He was vibrant, handsome, with a big smile on his face when he saw her. He grabbed her, twirled her around as he did when they danced. Mom says that this has removed any lingering fear of death. “It’s just the next thing that happens,” she tells me. “It’s natural, and it’s painless. It’s simply the next step.”

I agree. I agree. And yet I don’t. Because her next step removes the last trace of family, the last vestiges of security and safety from my life. I agree, and there will come a time when it is the necessary next step for her. And I should celebrate that. Intellectually, I do.

Emotionally, I am a lost child, who sees a dwindling parent nearing the horizon even as he struggles to comprehend the disappearance of the other. I am scared beyond the telling of it. I have some good friends, who fight one another to take care of my ferrets while I am away. I have good friends across the country and planet, who are a Skype call or a Dungeons and Dragons login away. I know this. I am not abjectly alone. I know this. And I am grateful. I am, however, still scared to be orphaned, to be truly adrift, to be at the mercy of whatever currents guide my life.

My mother is better. She is walking around, going shopping, seeing friends, driving her car, playing bridge. She is an eighty year old with congestive heart failure and a pacemeker. She gets tired. She gets weak. She needs help sometimes. But even though the allure of a handsome man who she loves very much awaits her on the other side of the membrane. She still wants to get a passport, go on a cruise, see the world. She wants the opportunity to live just a little more, and I want to help.

Will and Grace is over. The snacks I prepared are eaten. Her very weak martini has been finished, and the dishes washed and put away. I lock the doors, turn out the lights, and meet her in the hallway between our bedrooms.

Gnight Mom, I say, and hug her impossibly small body. Her arms circle my back, and for an instant I think I feel her heart beating against mine. The smell of bath salts, fabric softener, and powder linger in the air.

I love you Mom, I say.

I love you, she replies in a voice that is tired, happy, aged and weak.

She sleeps well. I do not. But I suspect that’s simply going to be the way of things, now.

I am furious with myself today, for I am faint of heart.

On my birthday, I called my Mom to thank her for giving birth to me. Mom, less than two weeks out of the hospital after undergoing emergency surgery. Heart failure. Pacemaker. And a recovery period far slower than expected.

I asked her how she was, and she admitted to being a little down in the dumps. When pressed for details, she admitted that, this morning, when she bolted out of bed, it was as if a great fist had punched her in the chest. The next thing she knew, she was four or five feet from her bed, sprawled half in and half out of her bedroom closet.

Uninjured from the fall, she slowly got back up and began her day. No thought of calling for an ambulance, no thought of calling her neighbor or her friends or me. Just went about her day, shaken to the core, and very weak. When I heard the news, I insisted that she call her doctor and make an appointment (to be fair, I spent a lot of time trying to get her to go to the hospital immediately. She was having none of that). So I then called her next door neighbor and ratted her out. Tomorrow morning (actually, five hours from now) she has an appointment with the cardiologist, I would be surprised if she was not admitted into the hospital again. Something is terribly wrong, still. And I am 326 miles away from her, with no money for a plane ticket and a car – and body- that simply can’t make the trip.

Last year, I developed the nasty habit of passing out at a moment’s notice, and during one of these episodes, managed to plow into a large car on the roadway. Luckily it was rush hour traffic, so nobody was hurt (with speeds only approaching thirty or so). But aside from the damage to my front bumper (which might or might not decide to fall completely off if I hit enough potholes or rough terrain) my car was uninjured. I was shaken to the bones, however. Since then, I have been very hesitant to drive any real distance at all. Even to the detriment of doctor’s appointments or picking up my bags from the food pantry. I am afraid.

And right now, am furious with myself for being such a slave to that fear.

My doctor said it was a combination of anemia, low blood pressure, hypoglycemia, and a nebulous “HIV-related” situation. It was as if he was rolling Dungeons and Dragons dice, and assigning diagnoses randomly. I suspect that he simply thought I was experiencing a resurgence of agoraphobia, and had a panic attack.

I know what a panic attack feels like. I have been having one all night, worrying about my Mom. Wishing I was there, though to be fair, I would simply be panicking in Greensboro, North Carolina instead of here, and just about as useless. But I would be there. I have a plane ticket for February 16th, to spend the week with Mom. Unfortunately, it’s non-refundable and non transferable. And with four dollars in the bank, I am quite firmly stuck here.

My heart has been racing, fluttering all night. I have been in bed, trying to breathe slowly. Playing a computer game with my borrowed laptop. Reading a book. Trying to sleep, because I cannot afford to be exhausted if, in the worst of all possible scenarios, I have to drive tomorrow whether I think I can or not. I keep forgetting how to breathe. I feel that I should be crying, or screaming, or running blindly into the rainy night. Outside, wind whips against my building, roaring past like all my wasted seconds. I am terrified. I am horrified. I am petrified.

It is not okay for my Mom to die. I am not ready for it. I am not prepared for it. I am not at all braced for it. I am still so damaged from my father’s passing, that this would undo me – and there’s not a lot left to undo, at this point.

My friends are good people, but they each have their own issues. None of them can take off from work and drive me. None of them have an extra three hundred-odd dollars hanging around (last minute plane tickets are appallingly expensive. My trip in February cost a hundred and thirty dollars, because I booked months in advance). I am at the mercy of the telephone, and my own terrible imagination.

Mom insisted that it did not hurt (expect for that one moment this morning). She said that before the pacemaker, she was simply sleepy, simply drifting off. She even dreamt of my father, who was wearing a long black coat. He danced with her, spun her around with a huge goofy grin on his handsome face, then let her go back to the (dis)comfort of the living. Mom tells me that she is absolutely not afraid of death, that it’s natural, a transition not unlike sunrise, not unlike waking from sleep and discovering that her vivid dreams were simply that, dreams. More and more, she is referencing this world, this life as the dream state, much like certain Aboriginal tribal beliefs. And the next world, the next universe, is becoming more real to her.

I am powerless to stop this, and powerless to argue. Intellectually I agree. And for Mom to feel no pain is a wonderful thing.

But I am a selfish beast at my core. I am her child. If she lets go of my hand, I shall be utterly and completely lost. I do not think I can endure that. I do not want to try.

Today was my birthday. My friends took me out for sushi, and I put on my bravest possible face - though I was a million miles away, and trying to stave off panic the entire time. My friends brought me birthday donuts, and sang to me. The tune was noise, static in my buzzing head. The donut tasted like dust. I love my friends. I love my Mother.

I am exhausted from fear, and worry. I only hope tomorrow brings better news. Outside, a terrible wind is blowing. Even the solid walls cannot keep out all of the chill. I am huddled in the dark, like any caveman, painting with words instead of oxblood, but nonetheless trying to make sense out of a senseless time.

So the ferrets are sitting in a pile. Zachary and Duncan are on one level of the cage. Benjamin is bored, and has curled up in the bottom of the cage. For the longest time, Zachary and Duncan have been watching me, as though I were a rerun of an otherwise interesting television program.

They are bored, but I am what’s on.

I had some plans for tonight, but they all fell through. All my friends are having terrible financial crises, so I suspect that tomorrow, my actual birthday evening, might be a no- go as well. Which is cool. We all have issues, and besides, next week is Mardi Gras, so always other chances for fun times. I love my friends, but I like to think I am sensitive to them as well. It’s just another day, right?

Well, yeah. But still.

What I’d really like is to have a friend come over with a dozen donuts and a pile of DVDs. And to watch a few movies, give me a fierce shoulder rub, then cuddle with me. Alternatively, to get me out of the house, pay for seven strong drinks, watch me flirt shamelessly with strangers, then drag me home and put me into the shower before throwing me into bed; clean, and with little to no memory of the evening.

Honestly, I think the truth will be somewhere sorta close to the middle. My friend will come up and take me to sushi, then hang out at home with a few donuts, and hang out for the evening while I drink four vodka drinks and watch Boston Legal on Tivo before passing out. Whatever. It’s my birthday.

All my friends are in terrible financial straits. And myself, I have a whopping three dollars and change in my bank account until the first of the month. So I am at the mercy of those whom I depend upon from a day to day basis. Oddly, I am doing better than they are. I have, at least, the luxury of spending time alone in my apartment without the need for gas or food (for the moment) .

I spent time tonight hanging out around the ferret cage. I know, I know, I use the poor kids as a scapegoat. But they loved hanging out with me. They loved watching my every move, and jockeyed for position when it came to petting and kissing.

They loved my company, loved hanging out with me, loved getting out of the cage and chasing one another, and attacking my ankles. I lay on my back, waiting for the inevitable attacks and the inevitable counter-attacks, as my body was a battleground for ferret boundaries and ferret affection. I was a Pat Benatar song. And I liked the idea. I have creatures that did not see a birthday or a moment, but simply saw a wonderful opportunity for play and affection.

They love me, not because it’s my birthday but because every day, every moment is an opportunity for celebration. And they dance around me like gleeful Lilliputians danced over Gulliver. I am happy for them, for that. Because at the end of the day, it’s not about the content or quality of the endorsement. It’s simply about the beauty of being loved, of being trusted, of being real. My guys dancing around me, make me real. The make the day special. They have no bills to pay, no bad jobs to overcome, no repossessed cars to recover. There are no free birthday dinners, and no special circumstances. There is only love, and frivolity and kisses and playtime.

That is what I want for my birthday. Playtime with the creatures in my life who love me, who understand me.

Mom is doing so much better. She asked what I wanted for my birthday. I told her that the fact that she was healthy enough to ask the question gave me my answer. I wanted her part in my life to stay the same. I wanted no more loss, no more grief, no more fear, and no more uncertainty. Not this year, please. I wanted my life to be as close as it could be to last year. I wanted no damage, I wanted and want to be able to depend upon my stable set of constants, just for one more year. That ought to do it.

It’s all I want.