Jonathan's POZ Blog

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.