Wild and Precious Life

by Deborah Ziegler

  Brittany was still wiped out when Darcy and Mina flew home. Sarah, Charles, and Mary Iris moved into the little yellow house with us. Sarah found a massage place to soothe Britt’s aching muscles.

  Britt also began an email dialogue with the young woman in New York whom she’d met at Maudie’s wedding, who introduced her to another up-and-coming New Yorker, a video producer interested in coming to make a film about Brittany’s decision to die in Oregon.

  Mina sent a homemade book of moments from Brittany’s life. Brittany looked at the book over and over again, eking joy from adventures of the past. There was one photo in the book that gave me chills. It was taken in 2009 in Nepal when Brittany did a tandem paragliding trip over the valley of Kathmandu, taking off from a spot 6,500 feet above sea level.

  Doctors said Brittany had been living with the tumor for approximately a decade. I tried to think back. It was as though Brittany’s brain became hardwired to ignore risk; in fact, to desire it. The part of her brain that regulated behavior had still been maturing when she took that trip, since key portions of the brain involved in regulating impulsive and risky behavior didn’t mature until around age twenty-five. A tumor had been tampering with her brain since she was about eighteen. That was when doctors believed that astrocyte cells began to multiply and take over brain tissue. The astrocyte cells directly destroyed brain cells at a slow enough pace that the functions of the temporal lobe moved elsewhere. Functions like speech, emotional stability, and boldness were handled in this part of the brain. What was the likelihood that those functions moved seamlessly to another location in the brain?

  I wondered if, when Gary and I once said that Brittany seemed to be “the oldest teenager on earth,” that was what we were unwittingly noticing. Was some of the devil-may-care attitude she had about engaging in risk-taking activity a product of the tumor?

  I had planned what I hoped was going to be an extraordinary trip to Washington State. I’d rented a home with a spectacular view of Port Angeles. From the kitchen and dining room windows, we would be able to see the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the twinkling lights of downtown Victoria, B.C., and the mysterious lights of huge merchant ships and cruise ships silently moving in the dark of night. I wanted to re-create our experience in Alaska. I wanted to watch Brittany’s eyes light up with the wonder of nature’s beauty; to see her face relax for hours at a time as she was transported from her medical reality into nature’s arms. I longed to see her bent over a new insect or flower.

  I was also pleading with the universe: Is there someone/something out there pulling any strings? Could we catch a break? Could you just let this be a week where I’m doing and saying the right things? Could you guide me this week? Show me the way. Can we have this glorious week? Can I see my child’s radiant face as she finds a starfish? Can I memorize her that way? Face uplifted, arms outstretched, slender hands waving me over. “Come see this, Momma. It’s so beautiful!”

  22

  Playing House

  2009—2010, Ages Twenty-Five and Twenty-Six

  Few things we can do in this world are so well worth doing as the making of a beautiful and happy home.

  —James Russell Miller

  The new year of 2009 started with Brittany, Bella, and I bumping north on the freeway in a moving truck. Brittany was moving into our little ocean-view condo rental in San Clemente, California. She was excited to be living near the ocean again, and she was glad she’d dropped out of the audiology program. She had not gone to Paris with Mark and they had parted amicably. Britt was anxious to move on, although not sure yet what she wanted to do.

  After settling in at the condo, Britt took a temporary job teaching gymnastics. I knew she loved kids, but to my utter shock she said she wanted to become a teacher. I smiled, thinking of the time when she was little and she said she didn’t want to be like me when she grew up. She had tried sales and now was going into education; my field of work.

  Britt filled out applications forms and was accepted to the UCI master’s program. During this time she dated a few guys, but I knew she still missed Ellis because she posted a nostalgic old photo of him with his arms wrapped around her, saying it was one of the best times in her life. She started jogging, and worked up to running seven to ten miles a day.

  Britt called me one afternoon, hysterical. She suspected that she’d broken her leg doing back handsprings in the yard with a friend. I told her to get to the local ER and I’d meet her there.

  It was a bad break, a spiral fracture of the tibia. I brought her south to our Carlsbad home in a cast and with pain medication. She was not to put weight on the leg for at least a month and I thought the condo stairs were too much to negotiate. We set alarms through the night to make sure she got her meds every four hours. Britt screamed in pain on each bathroom trip. We took Brittany to an orthopedic surgeon, who recast her leg and reminded her that it was a serious break that would require surgery if she didn’t follow instructions and stay off of it. The pain didn’t diminish, so we went back again. Another cast. More pain meds.

  Britt posted on Facebook that I was a saint for taking care of her, but that sentiment didn’t last long. Five days later, she blew up at Gary for not giving her pain medication before it was due.

  I heard an earful about Gary’s insensitivity when I took meds to her at o-dark-thirty. The next day, a friend of Britt’s arrived to pick her up. “I don’t like the way I was treated last night,” Brittany said over her shoulder as she hobbled out to the car on her crutches.

  After that, I had to drive an hour to pick Britt up in San Clemente for her orthopedic appointments near my home, then drive her back. She managed to find a collection of friends to help with errands. She suffered from cabin fever, and did a great deal of self-reflection. In mid-April, I brought Britt to our house for dinner, where she announced that she and her friend Amber had planned a trip to Machu Picchu in a month.

  I argued with her, saying she’d be lucky to have her cast off by then. “Tickets are purchased. Done deal.” Britt balanced on her crutches. “I want to go home.”

  “Relax, Brittany. Have some dessert,” Gary suggested.

  “I’ve had quite enough, thank you.” Britt hobbled down the hall.

  “Would you like to drive Her Highness home?” I asked Gary.

  When he returned from the two-hour round trip to take Britt to her condo, we discussed her behavior.

  I defended her. “Have you read about a spiral fracture?” I asked him. “It’s one of the most painful breaks. I think she truly is in a great deal of pain.”

  “Then taking a hiking trip to Machu Picchu is, as you said earlier this evening, nuts!”

  “I know. None of this makes sense, does it?” I shook my head. “I’m worried.”

  The cast came off May 1, and Britt left for Peru on the 15th. The girls had the time of their lives, and the photos they posted were hilarious. Ten days of ceviche, finger puppets, crazy taxi and train rides, llama hats, beer, whitewater rafting, and of course Machu Picchu itself.

  Gary and I picked up Britt at LAX and took her to dinner. She was exhausted but radiant. “I thought big thoughts there. I stretched my mind and my life’s goals. Traveling is in my soul now, part of my DNA. You two have to go, Momma.”

  Soon after her return, Britt had orientation for her fifteen-month master’s program in education. In June, she started classes. She complained of insomnia, which had set in since she broke her leg. (Later, I read that insomnia is one of the first signs of a brain tumor.) Britt worked hard at her master’s program that summer and came down to our house every so often. We didn’t push her to get a job while pursuing her degree, as it would have been difficult to do well at both. The teaching job market was very impacted by the recession, so it was important that she graduate at the top of her class.

  Brittany had started seeing Dan again. By the end of August, she told us that he was moving into the condominium with her . . . “just so you know.” Dan’s parents traveled to So Cal for a
friend’s wedding, and we invited them over for dinner. I liked Carmen and Barry a great deal.

  “Gary, why do you think Britt is so harsh with us?” I asked one night.

  “Because she can be, dear. Britt knows that you and I are forever parents. She vents with us because she knows when all is said and done, we will be there for her, no matter what.”

  “Don’t you think she’s a bit over the line sometimes? I feel like we haven’t made that much progress since her teens.”

  Gary laughed. “Then you can’t see the forest for the trees. Remember, I was there, on the outside looking in during her teens. She has made progress since then.”

  After they had been together a few months, Britt told Dan to move out, in a scorching breakup scene that set neighbors’ tongues wagging. She even helped move things along by tossing Dan’s mattress and clothing off the one-story roof of the garage.

  Britt planned a Christmas trip with her neighbor, who had also just broken up with her boyfriend. The two young women took their dogs to a rented cabin in the mountains. They built a snowman, had a fire in the fireplace, soaked in an outdoor Jacuzzi, and walked their dogs along country roads. Britt told me there was nothing like being in nature to help one move on.

  A new young man sought Britt’s companionship in January of 2010. He was the climbing, jumping, bicycling, adventurous type. Cash enjoyed the thrill of outdoor activity and hard work. One of their first dates was skydiving. Brittany admired the fact that Cash was a self-made man. He was intelligent, loyal, exuded energy, and enjoyed living in the moment.

  When Gary and I met Cash and Brittany for sushi, it was obvious that they were physically very connected. I liked the fact that he met our eyes when he spoke. He and Gary were both from the Midwest, and Gary thought Cash’s admirable work ethic came from those roots.

  At spring break, Britt took off for Los Cabos with a girlfriend because they were so burned out from their grad program. Mina and Britt cemented a forever friendship while kayaking and Jet Skiing.

  Returning from Mexico, Britt and Cash went hiking, took dance lessons, and attended music festivals. While Britt finished up her master’s degree, she moved in with Cash and seemed content but was increasingly harsh with me. When we met them for dinner one night, Britt embarrassed me with a cruel critique of work I’d done on a website for Gary. I left in tears, and we didn’t speak for weeks. On the other hand, Cash and Brittany’s relationship was on fire. Gary and I privately called them “Brash.”

  In June, Britt graduated at the top of her class with a master’s in education. She had worked hard and thoroughly enjoyed student teaching. I wasn’t invited to the ceremony, as we were still avoiding each other. Perhaps because she’d paid for her master’s, she felt all the more entitled to celebrate it with Cash and friends instead of her parents. Unfortunately, it soon became obvious that with the latest round of budget cutbacks, there were no teaching jobs. So Brittany took a job preparing students to take SAT exams, and also did tutoring on the side. She had met some fine young women in her master’s program. Their love and loyalty would be the most valuable gift from the experience because some of those relationships carried her through some tough days.

  Brash went to Hawaii to celebrate Britt’s graduation. Things looked pretty serious at the six-month mark. With time Britt and I resumed communication, and one day she and I did a smack-down house-and-yard cleaning of Cash’s two-story home in Orange County. Cash loved it—or at least he had sense enough to act like he loved it.

  The adventure continued. In July, Britt and Cash started a vegetable garden, went deep-sea diving, entertained, and were joined at the hip when not working. Cash seemed content to let Britt travel without him, because I saw no resistance to her plan to climb Mount Whitney or travel to Kathmandu.

  Cash began preparing for a big road trip that would last for almost two months. Britt planned to go along, but after a few days on the road, she concluded she wasn’t cut out for touring with a hard rock festival.

  When Cash returned in October, they threw a big Halloween bash before leaving for a tropical island vacation. When they returned, they sent out invitations to two dozen people to have Thanksgiving at their house. Then “Brash” hopped on a jet and visited London, Stockholm, and Berlin. Brittany sent photos of the two toasting drinks in an ice hotel.

  At Thanksgiving, Brittany told us that she was planning a spectacular Christmas. She wanted Gary and me to stay with them in a rented house in Colorado. Gary and I drove there with our Cavapoo puppies, for the best Christmas ever.

  There were signs, and I missed them. Isn’t that what every mother thinks when their child ends up in trouble? If only I’d . . . done something sooner, stronger, better, my child wouldn’t be sick or dying. Mankind’s powerful, instantaneous, primitive amygdala response. The animal mind seeks links between our parenting and the well-being of our child, looking to assign fault. What did we do wrong? How can we avoid doing it again? This is human nature; protecting our species. When push comes to shove, we revert to animal instinctual behavior. For mothers, this is self-blame; an instinctual response that leads to guilt, sorrow, and endless pain. It is perfectly normal, and absolutely useless.

  Cash and Brittany took us sledding, snowmobiling, cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, and on a horse-drawn sleigh ride. We mixed cocktails at night, played games, and engaged in lively discussions. Bella curled up on Cash’s jeans in the laundry pile, having accepted him as the alpha dog in her life. The couple wore matching Christmas onesies on Christmas Eve.

  It was on this wonderful, memorable Christmas trip that I mentioned two things to Gary. I asked if he thought Brittany’s frenetic level of activity seemed strange.

  “Gary, think of this past year. It’s crazy! She parachuted from a plane at fifteen thousand feet. Scuba diving lessons, trips to Los Cabos. Dance lessons with Cash.” I raised my eyebrows. “Their main problem was that she led!”

  I started ticking things off on my fingers. “Hiking Muir Woods, ziplining, scuba diving.” I took in more air. “Wine tours. Las Vegas. Maui. Del Mar races. Could it be Cash’s influence?”

  Gary laughed. “If anyone is influencing the other, I’d guess she influences him. Our girl is a whirling dervish.”

  I felt myself winding up. “London, Stockholm, and Berlin. Now she’s planning a solo trip to Nepal. Doesn’t the pace seem frenzied? It’s like she can’t stop. I get tired just thinking of all she packs in.” I sat down on the bed. “It’s like she can’t stay busy enough. She’s impulsive and volatile. She’s taking too many risks.”

  “She’s young and in love!” Gary drew me into his arms. “She’s thinking about marriage, sewing her oats, going for the gusto.”

  I pushed away. “What about her eye?”

  “What about her eye?”

  “When we were discussing healthcare reform, and she started lecturing us. One eye was heavier. Didn’t you see it?”

  Gary thought back to our discussion. “I know what you’re talking about. I think it’s an affectation she gets when she’s on her high horse about something.” He hugged me again. “I can assure you, she won’t appreciate you pointing it out.”

  We put it out of our minds and went to bed. I had been worried about Brittany all year. But I was a worrywart. I came by it naturally. There were a long line of worrywarts in my family. Non-risk-taking, careful, penny-pinching people who didn’t kayak, zipline, or scuba dive their way through life.

  There is no way to know if in December 2010, three years before Brittany’s diagnosis, her six-year-old astrocytoma was causing personality changes, or causing one eyelid to droop infinitesimally when she got worked up. But there were two red flags, two mournful blasts of a foghorn, two yellow flashing lights. And I missed them.

  23

  Love You Hate You

  August 2014, Seven Months After Craniotomy

  The opposite of love is not hate; it’s indifference.

  —Elie Wiesel, U.S. News & World Report, Oct
ober 27, 1986

  In early August, Brittany and I settled into the yellow house while Dan and Gary both returned to work for a while. Friends sent flowers, candy, and food. Brittany loved answering the door to a package from friends and family. It meant someone was thinking of her, supporting her, rooting for her. Every week my sister Sarah and her husband sent an exquisite bouquet from a nearby boutique florist.

  Britt’s friends began to stagger visits. Sometimes I felt like I was running a bed-and-breakfast. My compulsive cleaning never ended, as the only thing in my life that I felt I could control was dirt. Brittany posted many wise sayings on Facebook. She was in a reflective period in her online persona, while at home and about town she carried a huge Ziploc bag of pain medicines that she self-administered. God forbid if anyone asked how much time had elapsed between pills.

  “What? Is someone afraid I’ll become addicted? Who gives a rat’s ass! I’m dying in a couple of months. So what if I’m addicted to pain meds?”

  She had a point.

  Dan and Gary returned, and I planned a road trip to Washington State. In daily life, conversations got pretty rough. Britt continued to take most of her wrath and frustration out on Dan and me. We packed the Jeep and headed for the ocean-view home Gary and I had rented in Port Angeles.

  Britt’s childhood friend Jen joined us. She arrived carrying a homemade bouquet, a delicate jumble of fragile beauty in a simple glass jar, along with fresh-picked berries. We hadn’t seen Jen since her early teens, and I took a moment to take in the blond beauty radiating goodness and love.

  Our first night in Washington, we watched the lit-up ships gliding through the strait. The next day, we all went to Crescent Lake for lunch and a short hike to a waterfall.

  That evening Britt and Jen were sitting on the couch chatting while I started dinner. Gary and Dan had gone to get some ice cream to eat with the berries.

  “Momma,” I heard Britt call out. “It’s happening again.”