The ride home was quiet. Brittany repaid me every cent of the fine. She said that she would never shoplift again, and she seemed truly heartbroken about what she’d done. Later, before her death, Brittany told me that making her go to each store and look people in the eye had been the right thing to do, although at the time she thought I was a flaming bitch.
At the beginning of Brittany’s junior year in high school, she contracted a bad case of mononucleosis. After seeming to recover, she returned to school, only to relapse again. It was almost impossible for her to keep up because she slept most of the day. I picked up schoolwork and friends dropped it off, but the pile seemed insurmountable. As I tended to Britt and worried that she seemed unable to shake the mono, I began to think about other options for her. I discussed getting her transferred to the public high school, but she seemed overwhelmed by the idea of joining a junior class at a new school. She also seemed overwhelmed by trying to complete all of the work and tests that she’d missed. “Why don’t I just get my GED?” she said, falling back into her pillow. “Or sign up for continuation school and get my diploma that way?”
I couldn’t believe that my brilliant daughter was talking continuation high school. It shocked me out of complacency. It made me realize that my instincts were right. This high school had been all wrong for my kid.
I got an appointment with our therapist, who was now very familiar with our family dynamics. As I saw it, our mother-daughter war was only in a cease-fire because Brittany was so ill. Brittany seemed depressed and defeated, and I was sure that the private school was just not a good fit. I also knew that when she got past the mono, we were going to be in full-on battle again.
The therapist suggested that I consider allowing Brittany to start college early. Britt could easily pass the General Educational Development test. Once she turned seventeen, she would be eligible for the test if she met certain criteria. “I can help get a request letter from Saddleback College that will allow her to take the GED at age seventeen. If she wishes, she could sign up for University of California—approved courses and transfer to one of the ten campuses in the UC system,” she said. “It’s been done before.”
This course of action went against everything I stood for. I was a teacher, for God’s sake, who dreamed of her child graduating from high school and going on to a great college. I wished I could afford a school like Harvard or Yale, because Brittany quite likely could get accepted. I had been thinking along the lines of UCLA, UC Berkeley, or University of Texas at Austin. Community college hadn’t ever entered my mind.
Seeing my shocked expression, the therapist said, “Brittany is one of the brightest and most difficult girls I’ve ever dealt with. You need to think outside of the box.” She watched me struggle with this idea.
“Your daughter can get to the same destination by taking a different path. Depending on her class load, she could be entering her sophomore or junior year at a major university when her classmates are just graduating high school.”
My countenance must have brightened.
She smiled at me. “Honestly, high school isn’t for everyone.”
Gary was dead set against this idea. He couldn’t help but tell me this every time we talked.
Of course everyone I taught with thought it was a terrible idea. Brittany’s middle school teachers adored her, and couldn’t fathom the idea of her as a high school dropout. I didn’t even mention it to Brittany’s grandparents. I didn’t want to hear the uproar and worry that would inevitably arise from such heresy. I couldn’t even talk to my sisters, Sarah and Donna, about the idea. It just wasn’t done in our family.
I was the family member who’d already moved to crazy California and divorced twice, and now I was letting my beautiful, smart daughter run amok.
Brittany and I had lunch on the lake. She was feeling well enough to go for a short outing, and I had decided to talk in a neutral environment about what to do. First we thoroughly vetted the idea of her transferring to the local public high school. I’d already called to find out what we’d need to do about transferring midsemester, and had been told that with her straight-A transcript, the incompletes wouldn’t be a problem.
Brittany said it would be a difficult move for her. School was in full swing, and finding a group to hang with would be hard. The school was quite a distance from where we lived, and parking was a bear. “Mom, I’d be miserable there.”
I knew she was right. It would be tough, even if her health was 100 percent.
I suggested that after she was completely well, she consider working full-time until she could get enrolled at community college. When she enrolled for a full load, she could quit the job and concentrate on getting As in UC-approved courses. Then she could transfer to one of the University of California schools.
Britt met my gaze. “I never thought in a million years you’d agree to this.”
Tears flooded my eyes. “I can’t believe I am. Everyone thinks I’m nuts. But my instinct tells me that this high school is no good for you.” My lip quivered. I had so wanted to get through this meeting without appearing weak or vulnerable. “Please, honey, set your sights on getting into a good university. This is just a different path to arriving at what I’m hoping will be the same place we’ve always dreamed about.”
“Seriously, I’m not going to be a community college dropout. I’m gonna kick ass,” Britt said with a smile.
“Look ahead. Image the diploma that will hang on your wall. You want it to be from a top-rated school.”
I held my hand out across the table.
Britt grasped it and shook it. “Deal,” she said.
13
Bad Mother
January 25—February 16, 2014, During the First Weeks After the Craniotomy
I am not a bad mom. I am a good Mom having a bad day.
—Unknown
I flew home after twenty-five days of either staying at the hospital, or with Brittany and Dan at their house. Brittany assured me that I should go home, take a break, see Grandpa, and love up on my puppies. Gary had gone back ten days ago to take care of things. My daughter talked about having the second surgery and going after more of the tumor. She waffled between saying “no one is getting inside my head again” and speaking somewhat hopefully about buying more time by agreeing to an awake craniotomy. If she was operated on while fully conscious, the surgeons would be able to do brain mapping. They could find out specifically where brain functions had migrated over the last decade, and this would in turn allow a more aggressive surgery while preserving function.
I found the airport difficult to navigate alone. There were so many people, and they were all so very alive. I found myself looking at young women and thinking truly hateful thoughts, such as Why do you deserve to live? Why not my daughter?
Through my tears, the gate numbers blurred. My red-rimmed eyes flicked from one person to another. Seeing so many people coming and going made me angry. How come my family suffers a living hell, while these people walk around, many of them rude and cranky? You want rude and cranky—try finding out your precious daughter has a brain tumor!
Gary met me at the airport. He stood there in the blue cotton sweater that matched his eyes and held his arms open. I collapsed into his embrace and drew in his clean smell. “I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered into my hair.
As we walked to the car, it was all I could do not to scream. As soon as he closed the passenger door behind me, I wailed. Gary slid in on the driver’s side and held my hand. “Let it all out.”
I did. I wailed and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. Gary handed me tissues and when I slowed down, he started the car and we pulled out.
“I didn’t want to leave her,” I sobbed. “I had an anxiety attack on the way to the airport.”
“Honey, she’s coming down for a visit in less than two weeks.” Gary navigated the entrance to the freeway. “Are you having an anxiety attack now?”
I tried to concentrate on my breathing. “Clos
e,” I said. “I’m very close.”
“Do you need me to pull over? What can I do?”
“Take me to the ocean. I want to go out on one of the rock jetties and curse and scream until I lose my voice.” The answer came from some place deep inside.
“Okay. Carlsbad Beach, here we come.”
At the shore, I left Gary on the beach and slowly made my way out onto the boulders. Gray and grim, the ocean waves crashed against the rocks, sending spray flying. I looked back and saw Gary squatting in the sand, never taking his eyes off me. He raised one arm. When I could hear nothing but the roaring of the waves, I let out a primordial wail.
“Fuck you, God!” I screamed into the wind and waves. “I tried to be a good person. I prayed to you. I begged you! I got down and groveled!”
I screamed. I cursed. “Forty-five percent, you bastard! I hate you! If you even fucking exist.” I fell on my knees and shook my fist at the sky.
Unremitting gray waves thundered in my ears, complacent and unperturbed by my grief. “Love is never-ending,” they said. “A mother’s love is an endless ocean.”
“The pain is never-ending!” I shrieked. “How could you hurt her like this? How could you hurt me like this?”
I watched the waves and listened. Nothing.
“I want a fucking miracle!” I bowed my head. “I want a miracle.” My tears splashed on the rock.
“You already have one,” the ocean said. “Brittany is a miracle. Her brain has been miraculously adapting for years.”
“I want her to stay here with me,” I whispered, because in my deepest heart I already knew that Brittany was leaving me.
“She is not yours to keep.” The water hit the rock jetty and pulled sand from the cracks, creating a foamy current dragging detritus out to sea.
I got up and stumbled back to Gary. “I need to sleep,” I told him. Once we got home, I slept for twelve hours.
Gary worried about my health. He took me to the doctor, who prescribed a new cream for the hives that had erupted during Britt’s surgery and told me to drink more water. Gary took me to a psychologist, who told me to use the mindfulness tapes. “Go ahead and accept any emotion that you feel. They’re all valid.” He prescribed a tiny, white tablet to be used only when I had a full-on panic attack. Finally, Gary took me to the dermatologist, who confirmed that I did indeed have impetigo and prescribed an antibiotic that made me sick unless I ate a great deal of food.
My friend Pamela took me to church, where a prayer team prayed with me. I saw the horror in their eyes when I told them what Brittany’s long-term plan was, but to their credit they did not shrink away. They prayed over me and around me with fierce determination. I told them that I’d cursed God. The oldest gentleman on the team smiled and said in a gentle, amused voice, “At least you’re still on speaking terms.”
On February 2, Dan, Carmen, Gary, and I received a detailed email from Brittany. She spelled out specifically what types of resuscitation efforts she forbade anyone to use on her. The list included intubation, mechanical ventilation, chest tube, chest compressions, defibrillation, vasopressor, artificial feeding, and tube feeding. She stressed in the email that she was terminal, and that she wanted us to understand that she was dying. She emphasized that she wanted to finish the planning involved with moving for her disease and death because she was anxious to enjoy the beauty of the world with her family and friends. She also requested that we read an article by the American Hospice Organization that pointed out the problems with artificial feeding.
In a phone call, I asked if she knew what was entailed in each process that she’d asked not to have performed. “As his executor, I went over this list with Grandpa when he moved here,” I said. “I had to explain what each procedure involved.”
Britt’s answer was so detailed and lengthy that I was convinced she thoroughly understood the various processes. She also explained, “Momma, I’m so healthy from the neck down. My death in hospice care would take a long time. I’m not like their elderly patients. I’m not frail. My major organs are healthy; they will fight to stay functioning. My heart will keep beating. I would have a long and difficult road to death.”
“I don’t want that for you, either,” I said in a soothing voice.
“People with brain tumors become restless, confused, they try to get out of bed, they fall, shake, and have hallucinations. They can be delirious, have involuntary jerking and seizures. This can go on for weeks before they finally become semicomatose.” Brittany sounded terrified. I was scratching the hives along my hairline in abject terror.
“I’ll read every word. I promise,” I told her.
“Momma, please, you and Gary cannot try to keep me alive using these heinous processes when I’m going to die anyway. My friend’s husband lost his father to a brain tumor. He said his father became enraged and threw his own shit at the family. They have to live with that memory. I don’t want to go that way.”
“I understand you. I will honor your wishes no matter how hard it is, Brittany.” I’d caused the hives to bleed again.
“Promise me. Swear it.”
I took a deep breath. “I swear. Now, let’s talk about going to Palm Springs for a few days and getting some sunshine and rest.” Before I left, she’d said she’d like to visit me in Southern California and plan a getaway. Brittany chose Palm Springs for our girls’ trip because something had changed in her body since the craniotomy and she was cold all the time. “Have you told the doctor that you can’t get warm?” I asked.
“He says sometimes your senses reset after brain surgery. I can hear things so clearly now that I want to hit loud people. I just want to smack them.”
“Wow. We should bring earplugs, because you never know what the noise is going to be like in a hotel. Also, I’m going to order you a heated mattress pad.” I was already searching the Internet, my fingers clicking on the keys.
I picked Britt up at the airport. She got in the car talking very fast, telling me that she was freezing. “Momma, if I get really sick, if for some reason I lose the ability to speak, will you always make sure that I’m warm? It scares me that I’ll be unable to tell people how cold I am.”
I assured her that I would always make sure she was warm.
Brittany pulled an envelope from her purse. “This has my POLST in it. I’ll have this with me at all times. If for some reason I have a violent seizure, or pass out, do not call an ambulance.” She was showing me a pink form, just like the one I’d filled out for my ninety-two-year-old father: Physician Orders for Life-Sustaining Treatment.
“My POLST says no medical intervention other than comfort-focused treatment. If something happens to me, if we are in a car accident . . . whatever . . . let me go. No intubation. No CPR. No tube feeding. Keep me out of Intensive Care. Momma, I need you to promise me that you will not call an ambulance, because this form won’t be honored by EMTs. Ambulances are not legally bound to follow my wishes, and they won’t.”
“Okay. I didn’t know that about ambulances. I understand, honey.” I was concentrating on my driving, but nodding that I understood.
“Momma, I need you and Gary to be onboard with this. It worries me that he’ll talk you into calling an ambulance.” Brittany was talking so fast, it was hard to keep up.
“You have to calm down and have some trust, sweetie. Gary, Dan, and I will support you and take care of you. We are going to follow your wishes.”
It was a balmy and beautiful mid-February evening in Palm Springs when we checked into the hotel and went out for dinner. At the restaurant, we saw a family with two children. Brittany frowned. “Stupid little brats. I don’t want to eat near them.”
“Brittany, you’ve always loved children! What are you talking about?”
“Well, I don’t love them anymore. They remind me of everything that I wanted and can’t have.” Britt’s voice was loud enough that I feared others might hear. “Little kids talk too loud. They hurt my ears.”
“Sweethear
t. You don’t know for sure that you can’t have children. Your surgery was successful, and the doctors may be able to resect more of the tumor. What if they buy you more time?”
I tried to comfort us both with hope. This amount of sorrow turned outward in the form of anger was painful on so many levels.
“Listen to me,” Britt said. “I’m not bringing a baby into this world. I’m not setting a child up for loss. I’m not having a baby, even if the best-case scenario plays out and I survive this bastard in my brain for three to five years. That dream is over. Done.”
I put my hand up. Stop, I involuntarily thought. We locked eyes. Hers had shifted from silvery sage to sea-green.
“Momma, get mad. Get angry. God just took away your only hope of grandchildren. You have figured that out, haven’t you?”
The words were like a punch in the stomach. They humiliated me, made me feel stupid. I’d been so focused on praying for a miracle for my child that I hadn’t given enough thought to the fact that Brittany had wanted three children. She had been longing for her own child. These words walloped my solar plexus, my soft spot, and yes, my dreams of being a grandmother.
Just this past Christmas—only seven weeks ago—Brittany had made unmerciful fun of me when I’d said I wanted to be called “Mimi” instead of “Grandma.” I’d felt foolish and vain for trying to come up with an alternative name, but I was definitely enjoying the thought of grandchildren. So much loss, so much selfish pain, washed over me at that moment. I’d thought about this. Of course, I’d thought of this, but my overriding emotion had been the inability to accept that I might lose my daughter. For the first time, I took the loss further and thought about the loss of not only my child, but my grandchildren. I thought about the enormous shattering loss of Brittany’s dreams of being a mother.
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