Or, why I needed to get the hell out of there. Warning: long, self-indulgent, probably incomprehensible. I promised myself I'd write it down, and it seemed like I should get it out before the new kind of crazy that PIO brings...
... yes, they put me on just half a cc, and I just got some bloodstains on a Helmsley washrag that I was using as a hot compress afterwards.
Friday evening they told me to keep taking the same stim dosage and to come back -- for bloodwork only! -- on Monday morning. The nurse left me voicemail, so I didn't get to ask what my levels were.
Yes, I can simultaneously believe that
a) they should have started me off with more drugs, and
b) their keeping me on the initial dose that long, and not wanting to take a peek at what's going on, means that the bloodwork Friday indicated that my ovaries are DEAD.
So far side effects are mild. Too mild. After 4 days of 6 vials, my lower back feels "full," more so on the right than on the left, but no exterior bloating, no excessive mucous, no hi-estrogen glow of hope.
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My grandmother is miserable. Severely depressed. Only gets out of bed to poke at her dinner, then read for a couple of hours.
It's harder for me to talk to her than ever. I have to shout, and even then repeat. I can't tell if she's angry or disappointed, or sad even. The television blares, painfully loudly, through dinner. We both sit reading afterwards and I feel so far away from her.
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We've just about decided that Beaker won't come out. It suddenly seemed overwhemingly dumb to have have him and Miss T. get on a plane and stay at a hotel in a boring part of Manhattan in the depths of winter, for him to miss 3 or 4 days of work, for her to get dragged out of whatever routine she has -- all so that he can sign me out of the hospital, post-retrieval, for a cycle that probably won't work.
[So, he could come out for like a day, right? But Miss T. would have to come with him, and we both think that once she sees me she shouldn't have to get separated again, which means they'd have to stay until I can leave, 4 days after retrieval.]
Which means we have to find someone else who can sign me out. Not easy. I don't know which day it will be, and it's during business hours. Marina is working again, and my one high school friend still in the city is way too employed. Am considering calling Beaker's mother, or finding some kind of home-health-care-whatever that I can pay... but last time, the stretch between retrieval and the fertilization report was sheer hell, grogginess and tears, and it would be nice to have someone actually close to me there.
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If this were a dramedy, the "antic" of this episode would be headlined, "Ricky hits MySpace!" 'Nuff said? Imagine the potential: this man has walked through a glass wall in real life, after all. The fourth- or fifth-best blues harmonica player in New York (according to himself) rented a studio and hired some session musicians last week. I think there are friends who are going to help him edit and post the results. As long as I don't have to get involved...
... and he'd never ask, in any case. Ricky's life is a drumbeat of little taxi trips for him, for Marina, for going shopping, for bringing the car back (he can only keep it overnight if he has a very early morning call). My offering to help is generally ignored. Changes to routine just make it harder for him.
Today I was allowed to take Marina to work, but that was because Ricky had triple-booked his morning: Nanna had to go to church, and a starving musician friend had to go to a train station with equipment.
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The secondary comic theme would be me getting yelled at by suburban librarians. My cellphone rang! I parked in the staff parking lot, by mistake -- twice!
(What would I yell back at them about? Outlets. Fixing the wireless when it's broken. Parking, actually. And not making patrons ask for a key to use the restroom -- what the hell is up with that?)
You're reading Well, aren't you? Admit it. It's awful (but somehow not quite so horribly guilt-inducing as Jane "I'm healthier than you because I work at it, damnit" Brody). This line, from an entry that's been getting attention, struck me:
Although chronic disorganization is not a medical diagnosis, therapists and doctors sometimes call on professional organizers to help patients. One of them is Lynne Johnson, a professional organizer from Quincy, Mass., who is president of the National Study Group on Chronic Disorganization.
Ms. Johnson explains that some people look at a shelf stacked with coffee mugs and see only mugs. But people with serious disorganization problems might see each one as a unique item -- a souvenir from Yellowstone or a treasured gift from Grandma.
I'm trying to be a good girl as I get ready to go see Dr. Wow. In particular, I am trying to get through one of the two teensy tiny tasks I claimed I'd complete before going out there. This involves lots of waiting as my old laptop churns through data, so I thought I'd try to make some headway on my office mess, too. Just take a couple of things off the top of the stacks, decide what to toss, what to file. Small steps.
The first folder I pick up turns out to be all the papers I have left from my mother's collapse into psychosis in late 1997. That's the time she was picked up naked in the street (W. 127th, in case you were wondering) by the NYPD. It took most of a day to find her because she gave a false name at the hospital and because I didn't recognize her as she cowered, near fetal, on a stretcher. I spent the next several months driving back and forth to New York trying to manage her aftercare, her applications for public assistance, her dog, everything.
[It was also the year I was on the market -- the label on the folder reads "TOTALLY REJECTED JOB ADS," which I think meant things Beaker really didn't want me to even apply for. And the year I failed to finish my dissertation -- or perhaps I should say, the last year I failed to finish my dissertation.]
It's all in there. Long streams of notes from confusing phone calls. Her discharge orders, and, somehow, crazily, most of her chart. Receipts from the drugs I paid for. Her bills. Copies of her address book, her checkbook, her passport. Dog boarding bills. Notes on the friends of friends who took care of the dog when I was trying to avoid paying to board it.
Oh, and one note asking me to call uncle Ricky at some motel in Las Vegas. He usually called me asking for money back then. I usually didn't give it to him, and never gave him much.
Now, most of the paper that's stacked over a foot high over the two large desks in here is not this incendiary. I think I know how this managed to be on top -- it used to be buried in a bookcase in a corner, next to years of old Filofax pages, but then the bookcase was cleared and moved downstairs to house Miss T.'s growing literary collection.
Still. The things that are out, the things that are getting in the way, they do all mean something. Every stack is an unmet commitment, an abandoned hope, a disappointed colleague, an annoyed friend. This folder? Went into a drawer. The rest? I need to to get over it all, somehow.
Meanwhile: 22 hours to Lupron, and 38 to getting on a plane going the wrong direction.
[Answering machine picks up. Outbound message recorded years ago, back when he was drinking, and a little drunk. Many, many beeps.]
E: Ray, are you there?
[Horrible feedback screech as he picks up the phone.]
R: Yes. I just had to pull my head out of the shredder.
[His voice is quavering. Tired? Tearful?]
E: Can you tell me what kind of shredder you got?
R: It's a Xerox.
E: Can you tell me the model number?
[Shuffle, rattle, rattle.]
R: It's a 24 sheet shredder.
E: Oh dear. So that hasn't been good enough?
R: No. It's only 8 inches wide, so you have to fold the pictures... horizontally? no, you have to fold them...
E: Vertically?
R: Yes, vertically. They're all 11 by 14's.
E: What about the mattes?
R: I haven't gotten to those yet.
E: Does it overheat?
R: Yes, and it's slow. It's making my back hurt doing this. I'll have to stop soon today.
E: You can leave all of this for me to do. I know it's terribly difficult for you. I'll have two full days this weekend. Ken and I agreed. He'll pack, and I'll deal with this.
R: Yes. [choking snuffle] Yes, there were some very difficult things in there today. Including pictures of you.
E: Don't shred any pictures of me. Those I'm going to take home. I'm willing to FedEx them to myself.
R: Really?
E: Yes. I can't do that for pictures of anyone else. But I want the pictures of me.
R: Why didn't you tell me that a long time ago? ... well, perhaps there are duplicates of some of them. I printed duplicates.
I'm going to New York this weekend to help Ken move my foster father Ray out of his apartment. They're flying off to sunny California on Monday evening. There's an apartment rented there, a couple of blocks away from Ken's. He sent me pictures of it, and of the playground across the street and of the hills off in the distance.
Ken does not disappoint over the phone: "I saw the listing on Craigslist on, let me see, the autumn equinox, and by the next full moon I had the keys!"
They're planning to leave most of Ray's stuff at the apartment. No rent was paid for October; they'll send the keys back, but without a forwarding address. It's hard to believe that the landlord will do anything other than jump for joy: it's on the border of the Village and Chelsea and hasn't changed occupant since 1977. (Well, aside from my moving out in 1980.)
My duties will include making sense of any paperwork I can find -- bills, bank statements, figuring out who Ray's doctors are and how to get his records sent on -- and deciding which photographs must be destroyed, and to carry out the destruction.
I'll stay out in Weatherwood at Nanna's.
I know how startled everyone was when their parents suddenly got e-mail. Heck, I'm still startled to see my mother-in-law hovering on my buddy list, in between students whose usernames might as well be pierced and tattooed. But to get e-mail from Ray's little brother (yes, the one who is willing to take him in, but lives in a tiny apartment and has lung cancer) who I most remember from a long ride in a VW bug in about 1978, coming down from Humboldt State Park back to Marin, 5 adults and 3 kids all in the bug because the minibus had broken down... well, at least the style doesn't jar those memories in the slightest.
Hello Emma:
I have such fond memories of you as a child, it blows my mind to check out your present incarnations, websites, et al., Emma. And also, congratulations on the creation of Tabitha. Yes, Ray's a Grandpa, isn't he? Tee hee, tee hee. My gal has a 3 year old granddaughter who refers to me as "Grampa" and it is so very endearing. And we all know how Ray absolutely adores little girls, as well we all should!!
So Emmy, without getting into the dynamics of your present relationship with your Dad, your response to all this has been so suddenly heartwarming and refreshing. As regards rental costs, once anyone gets shy of either coast, the monthly output decreases. Ray receives an automatic deposit to his bank account of about $900 or so monthly. I would like to assure you, Emma, that neither Jon nor myself had anything concrete planned as yet. No airline reservations have been made and no movers lined up. Lots of ducks hovering just above the water, ready to get into a row. Yet fowl have been known to suddenly change direction without even skimming the surface of the water and fly off in formation for a different place altogether.
Here where I reside, is the home of a State University, we have a wonderful new library and so it seemed that Ray might be somewhat stimulated, albeit it ain't no Manhattan. We were all at a loss for where Ray might like to reside and just exactly what kind of care he really needs. And yes, as I type, we are still awaiting the state ID for purposes of travel. Regardless, I am still available to travel to NYC to assist in any way I can.
This really is all about Ray and where he could resume a more struggle-free lifestyle and rejoin his natural joy of nature, birds, life and love. I leave you with the words of John Lennon who once wrote, "...there's nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be, it's easy. All you need is Love", Ken
I've been pricing apartments, thinking about what's really within walking distance, trying to find out about services for seniors. And panicking.
I talked with Ray yesterday. He sounded better than Barb and Jon had made him out to be; perhaps our conversations have had so many omissions for so many years now that I just couldn't tell. He was vague and abashed. Everyone said he can tell when he's having short-term memory problems, and it's true, he can. He says he noticed his hand tingling as he was walking past St. Vincent's and went to the emergency room. They only kept him one night. No one can tell me how long ago that was.
I can't tell how solid the plan to move in with his younger brother Ken is. I haven't spoken with Ken. Barb pointed out in email today that, even if they have a plan, it won't do much good if Ken up and dies. There seems to be a functional deadline of the end of the month. Ray can't fly until he gets a state ID, and that's when it's expected.
I've done a little poking around for information on rentals here. Barb seems very interested. I was afraid to even mention the possibility to Ray. Jon thought it would overwhelm him, after all the effort that's gone into convincing him to go back to California.
Meanwhile, I tried calling Nana. She refused to come to the phone. Uncle Ricky sounded depressed and angry as he told me that her palpitations have been getting worse and they're taking her to her cardiologist on Monday.
------------------------
Oh, and Beaker got called away on a business trip again -- two hours between the call and when he got on a plane to California, maybe back Saturday, more likely Tuesday -- and Miss T. has a cold and is covered in horribly swollen mosquito bites, most noticeably around her eyes (think bar fight aftermath).
Tomorrow is her second birthday. For which she'll get early dropoff, late pickup, and cupcakes made from a Betty Crocker mix, all at Box-o-Tots.
Here's the e-mail I got from Ray's half-sister yesterday:
Hello Emmie:
I tracked you down on the Internet. I hope you and your family are well. It's been a long time.
I wanted you to be aware of what's going on with Ray. He had a stroke a few months ago. He is OK, but definitely slowing down. His balance is off and he has difficulty maintaining thought patterns. Obviously, he is no longer able to live in a 5 floor walkup. Unfortunately, he had to stop his freelance work and thus is struggling financially. His friend Jon has been to visit him often and to help out. We have decided that there is no other solution than to move him to California...which he has slowly and resistently resigned himself to. We are looking for low income housing for him. We hope that he can continue to live alone, but this is difficult to access until we see him. Ken will be flying to NY in late September to accompany him back to CA.
My best to you....and sorry for the difficult news about Ray.
Love,
Barb
Jon is an old old friend; they worked at the same small publisher for a long time. Ken is another half-sibling, much younger, but with lung cancer himself.
I haven't seen Ray since we visited when Miss T. was two months old. We've spoken maybe three times since then. I've tried calling today, but Jon tells me that he's screening calls because of bill collectors... or maybe he's just out birdwatching, this lovely afternoon.
November 21, 1997
Envelope: the outside envelope from a phone bill.
Paper: pieces of the phone bill itself.
Ms (R. M.) Raynaud:
I do hope you'll put me
on the bank's Easter mailing
list - yep, I know its too too
late for Christmas.
Here's my address:
[what follows is half her childhood address, crossed out, replaced with most of her then-current address, except that she's put New Hope, PA -- then crossed out the PA and replaced it with an NY]
A.M.
November 22, 1997
Envelope: the payment envelope for a phone bill. A slip of paper has been taped to the inside so that Ray's address is visible.
Paper: a shred of a New York Times bill.
R.M.
Today on GMA, Paul
Simon says:
Bridge Over Troubled
Waters was
originally
conceived as
a tribute to
a drunk +
his moll.
Fancy that
A.J.
November 24, 1997
Envelope: a photograph print envelope (remember those?) folded over and taped down to letter proportions.
Contents: half of a picture from my wedding. Beaker's been cut out, except for the hand I'm holding and the end of his nose. Plus a negative strip; I think the three pictures are of me and her last dog, on the balcony of Nanna's apartment.
June 19, 1998.
Envelope: letterhead from ZZZ Hospital, which I didn't know she'd ever been in.
Paper: a yellowed "about the author" page from a Marion Zimmer Bradley novel.
R.M.
Take the number XXX train
to the end of the line.
(YYYth St.)
Then walk 1 block
west to ZZZ Hospital.
Ask for Me in
Ward 2 North
Love,
A.J.
For as long as I've known her Marina has said that her daughter Emma (inconvenient, eh?) will be applying to colleges soon. Usually Marina stresses that Emma would like to go to school in England, but is considering the U.S. as well, which I always hear as snobbery. I think I sent a Peterson's once—it had decent summary information on how the application process works, too.
Emma is actually graduating this year. I found out when uncle Ricky called in a panic a couple of days ago. Some school I'd never heard of ("Saint Hilda's—it's part of the University of North Minnakota," he said) was demanding that Marina wire $3000 to some small bank in some small town in Minnakota IMMEDIATELY, or Emma wouldn't be able to register, and he was worried it was a scam. Emma hadn't even gotten an acceptance letter!
A couple of hours later I talked with Marina directly. Ricky had been batting facts as well as he usually does—St. Hilda's a Catholic school, actually, and not only had they accepted Emma, they'd offered a substantial tuition scholarship—but they were requesting a bunch of money very soon. I said I'd call and see what I could find out. While I was still on the phone I found a web page explaining the deposits required of international students. They want the money before they'll start the visa process, but it's all credited to the fall term bill.
I also found out that Emma had applied to three schools in the U.S. A major historically black university, an academically undistinguished private university in New York, and St. Hilda's. Marina said Emma had chosen these schools as the best places to "do pre-med," and that she'd said she'd go to the first one that accepted her, and St. Hilda's was the first. I couldn't get Marina to say yes or no to the question of whether she'd gotten rejection letters from the other schools. I'm not sure she understood my question.
The next day I called Student Accounts at St. Hilda's. They're nice people (as the residents of Minnakota so often are). They confirmed that their policies are as described on the website, and wished me a nice day. When I called her, Marina said she's send the deposits right out.
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Notice when Ricky and Marina got in touch with me, their relative in the business, about this whole college thing. When there were about to be problems with money. They worry a lot about money. It's what they think they need help with.
But what's the important, the potentially life-determining issue for young Emma? Where she goes to school. That's where my background, my experience in the industry of higher education, could really have been helpful. When she was choosing where to apply. Marina couldn't see that. She's got common sense, but she doesn't know crap about U.S. higher education. And Ricky, despite having been raised in Weatherwood by a professional family, doesn't know crap about anything.
It's really a cultural capital issue, eh? They don't know what they don't know.
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Meanwhile there's an eighteen-year-old in Trinidad who's got the guts to be setting off to frozen St. Hilda's. I thought about raising a stink, especially since there may be some issue of her application to the HBU having been incomplete, and perhaps never completed. And, and—not applying to any public schools in New York City? When money is so much of an issue? (And she did apply to the one school in NY, so avoiding her mother doesn't appear to be a requirement.)
I don't know what her SATs or grades are actually like, and I don't know what peculiar algorithm she used to pick those three schools. But she chose them, by gum. St. Hilda's looks, from its web site, like it's not a bad place to get an education. Not so different from Granolan, aside from the God thing and the lack of reputation. They do make a point of giving grants to international students, and she's got one of the biggest.
What I will do: send a $300 (or perhaps $500) L.L.Bean gift certificate, with hints on what it might get used for. And try to open up direct communication, once she's in the U.S. If she is all that, maybe she can transfer. Or maybe she can be a big fish in a small pond and then go on to great things.
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