Flotsam

Dear Internets,
Gracious. This is the longest I have ever gone without posting, I think, since I began this godforsaken weblog. Not without reason, I assure you—to sum up:

Thursday: After several weeks of long hours and near death from overwork, large project at the office goes terribly wrong, leading to me calling problem-child editor “utterly useless” in shrill but withering tone before stomping to the bathroom, locking stall door, and muffling sobs of exhaustion with heel of hand. Back at my desk, phone rings—my mother, calling en route to the hospital, where they will be relieving her of her appendix. Surgery scheduled for that evening. All of this is very unexpected, as is so often the case with appendices. Surgeon’s name is Tom Jones—“It’s not unusual to have appendicitis,” I say, cleverly. No one finds this amusing save myself. Back to work. An hour later, phone rings again. Mother says in urgent and teary voice “I need you to do something for me.”
Call family? Visit hospital? Prepare last will and testament?
No.
Mother has a hair appointment for the following morning, wants to know, Could I reschedule it for afternoon?

Friday: Visit Mother in hospital—she is very drugged, and sitting limply in a chair in a hospital gown. She stares at her hands, and her face seems to have collapsed. She is a small woman—100 pounds, 5’1”, and now, makeupless and tethered to an IV, she looks frail rather than trim. She appears to be approximately 6,543 years old. My brother and I help her into bed and put pillows under her knees—her gown flies up, showing us her bits, but she does not care. We hold her water cup. I joke wildly and unamusingly about everything, as is my wont in such situations:
{Scene from Alexa’s Childhood:
Father: I can’t live like this.
Mother: I never loved you.
Alexa, aged 7: Hey! Hey! Want to see me juggle?}
Eventually I leave, hyperventilating as I walk to the parking ramp—my mother’s current state is only temporary, but someday it will not be, she will be Old. She will be Old, and in the hospital, and just like today, my brother will attempt to straighten her sheets, my mother will say “The doctor got them all tangled,” and I will ask What was he doing in your bed? Then my brother and I will move into the hall to speak adultly about what needs to be done. My mother will die. Possibly, some day, I will die too. By the time I reach the parking lot I am so panicked by the visions unfurling in my mind I am not sure I can drive. But I must—because I have approximately 17 errands to run, as my brother and I are now responsible for Christmas.
Then I am at a shopping mall on the day before Christmas Eve. For four hours. During this time I am waited on by three different pregnant salespeople. Malls suck the life out of me under the best of circumstances and, need I say, these are not them. By the time I return home I am having a full blown anxiety attack and sobbing.

Saturday: Christmas Eve. I wake up at 4am with heart pounding and mind racing unpleasantly. After dosing myself—liberally, but with minimal effectiveness—with Ativan, I proceed to my mother’s house. She is home from the hospital, and resting comfortably on the couch. She is much more herself. I wrap approximately 2 gross of presents and man the phones, occasionally slipping into the bathroom to cry for reasons unknown. That evening, I attend family Christmas dinner. Dinner is also attended by Poisonous Aunt. Our first conversation goes like this:
Poisonous Aunt: So, you’re still at Large Corporation?
Me: Yes.
PA: That’s the longest you’ve ever held a job, isn’t it?
Me: Well, no—there was Sporadic Freelance Job, remember? And my tenure with Afterschool Tutoring Company? And even my first waitressing job was 3 years…
PA: Well, the first Real job you’ve held, then.

On the plus side, I receive some lovely gifts, that evening. A handbag so stunning I can hardly stand to look at it. A gift card for a fancy dinner for me and the Nearly. On the minus side, there are many moments like this one:
Relative: Would you like a Tom and Jerry (hot, seasonal drink)?
Me: What is in them? I’ve never had one.
Relative: Oh, you had one last year!
Me: No, I didn’t.
Relative: Yes you did! We all did!
Me: But I didn’t, actually.
Relative: Yes, remember? I had just gotten these little mugs?
Me: I was pregnant.
Relative (blushing): Oh. Yes, of course.

Sunday: Wake up with my period—Merry Christmas! Report for volunteer duty at shelter.
Number of other volunteers who show up: Zero.
My job: Babysit 6 girls whilst their mothers smoke on frigid screen porch. I play checkers with a 5 year-old with a horrific temper, allowing her to win in hopes of avoiding tantrum that occurred the one time I moved a checker so that she could not jump it. My apparent ineptitude inspires first contempt, then delight, then pity. 5 year-old finally looks at me and asks “Has you ever played this before, even?”
“I think so,” I say.
5 year-old makes a clicking noise. “Shoo, I should just let you win.”
I try to play Memory with a few of the other girls, but many of the cards have long since lost their matches. Most of the other games are in the same state. We finally settle on Limbo, played with a broom—I hold the filthy bristles while the girls shimmy under the handle. I feel pressured to stay longer than planned—there are no other adults in sight, and the kids are not allowed downstairs, in the playroom, without an adult. If I leave, they will be sent to sit with their mothers in their rooms or on the porch. When I do leave, I am deeply depressed. I call the Nearly in Iowa and cry. Then I hang up and have a panic attack. I have eaten very little since Thursday, as I have had no appetite. So I put pizza in oven. Continue panic attack. Check on pizza—not done yet. Two minutes later, smell smoke—pizza is on fire, kitchen filling with smoke. Remove pizza. Open all windows in apartment and turn on fan. Burst into tears. Painstakingly remove burnt part of pizza and scrape blackened bits off bottom. Carry out towards the living room on plate. En route, pizza slips off plate and falls, toppings first, onto pair of shoes and the floor. Weeping disconsolately, I have large glass of wine for dinner.

Monday (yesterday): Still anxious and depressed, I spend most of the day wondering whether I will be institutionalized, whether I will ever be happy and calm again, whether it is irresponsible for a person with mental health issues to have children, etc. I call the clinic to schedule my day three tests. The clinic is closed. Is this a sign? The day proceeds apace.

So there you are. I am feeling less out-of-sorts today, but am still quite tense and anxious. Not about anything except anxiety, really. The Nearly returns tonight (!), and tomorrow I go in for my day 3 tests (I finally reached the clinic this morning). I am terribly behind on my blogging and commenting, but I have been reading everyone, I promise.
New (better!) entry soon,
Alas, Alack,
Alexa