Wild and Precious Life

by Deborah Ziegler

  Married Lady

  September 2012—December 2013, Ages Twenty-Eight and Twenty-Nine

  There is no spectacle on earth more appealing than that of a beautiful woman in the act of cooking dinner for someone she loves.

  —Thomas Wolfe, The Web and the Rock

  Brittany threw herself into being married with her usual energy and resolve. She was a great cook, and Dan enthusiastically ate her meals. Carmen was a good cook, too, and Dan wanted Brittany to learn some of his mom’s recipes.

  Christmas was upon us before we knew it. Gary and I flew up for a few days to celebrate with the newlyweds. My father had hernia surgery scheduled on December 27, so the visit was short. Daddy did very well for a ninety-one-year-old.

  In January, Brittany and Dan left for a belated honeymoon in Patagonia, where they hiked and kayaked. Gary and I started planning a trip for May with another couple, to the Piedmont region of Italy and the Catalonia region of Spain. We found that caregiving was both rewarding and draining. We needed a vacation dangling in the future, something to look forward to.

  Brittany made plans for a mountain climbing trip because Dan was working full-time and was also remodeling their new home after work and on weekends. Bored and restless, she took flying trapeze lessons and went on hikes. In late February, she took off for mountaineering school in Ecuador, with plans to summit Cotopaxi, at 19,348 feet the world’s tallest active volcano. She got some bad food in Quito and went down for the count for an all-night vomiting session. When dawn broke, Brittany noticed that her vision was blurry; in fact, she couldn’t read the clock. She had been taking Diamox for altitude sickness, so she thought perhaps the blurry vision and nausea were from the drug, not bad food. She stopped the Diamox, but couldn’t go on the first hike. Within another twenty-four hours, her vision was back to normal and she rejoined the class.

  Brittany was determined to learn the self-arrest technique, rappelling, rope management, navigation, roped glacier travel, and ice-climbing techniques. Her class did an acclimatization hike to 14,100 feet, and the next day, with eight male climbers and a couple of male instructors, Britt climbed to the glacier at Cayambe. At midnight on February 28, they left to summit Cotopaxi. The twelve-hour climb became an ice climb as the weather took a turn for the worse. Meanwhile, I went for a bike ride at the beach, braked too hard, and flew over the handlebars, breaking my arm. Brittany and I saw the irony in this.

  Mina met Britt in Guayllabamba, Ecuador, where they hiked another active volcano before heading to Galápagos National Park. My daughter was euphoric about this leg of the trip, which was such a switch from the terror of the ice climbing. She summed it up on Facebook.

  Our Galapagos trip was AMAZING! Swam and played with dozens of friendly sea lions, snorkeled with giant sea turtles, saw giant 100 year old tortoises, marine iguanas, blue footed boobies, and woke up to blue skies and water everyday [sic]. It’s a beautiful world.

  Back in the States, Brittany visited us and then went out for St. Patty’s Day with Mina and Colette. She talked a lot about wanting to get a Great Dane. Of course, I thought, it would need to be an extremely large dog.

  When she returned, Britt had to adjust to being home alone most of the day. She volunteered to teach an English-as-a-second-language class at the local library, and she also volunteered at the humane society. I knew that Britt was not easy to live with, and that Dan was very busy with the remodel. What none of us knew was that by this time Brittany had a deeply rooted brain tumor that was about nine years old.

  On April 9 Brittany purchased a Great Dane puppy. Charley was an adorable, wrinkled, blue-gray Dane with every allergy known to mankind. He was also a picky eater, so Brittany tried various foods and coaxed him to eat from her hand. Deciding to take a break from the construction zone, she rented a cabin at a nearby lake for two weeks. Dan’s parents drove out to visit her, and a friend visited the cabin to keep her company.

  In mid-July, Britt flew to visit Mina. In August she flew to Southern California to visit Maudie, and I drove to Santa Monica one evening so we could go to dinner. In September, Brittany was back on the flying trapeze with a friend, and planning to do a white shark cage dive off the coast of California. Gary and I were very worried. Our daughter had just spent a good portion of the first year of her marriage traveling and away from home. It didn’t seem to bode well for the newlyweds.

  Brittany took a part-time tutoring job with a company near her home. She was making a difference with children again, and that gave her a sense of fulfillment.

  In October, I flew up to spend some time with her. While hiking in Redwood Regional Park, we came upon many thousands of ladybugs. Brittany and I watched in amazement as they converged for their winter hibernation. When Britt was a little girl, I’d always told her that if a ladybug landed on her, it would bring her good luck. On this day my beautiful girl was surrounded by ladybugs, and I hoped that they were blessing her with a happy marriage and children. That moment will live in my mind forever.

  Brittany had been to see a neurologist about her on-again, off-again headaches. At first we’d thought that they were from allergies, or maybe the remodel had stirred up some toxin that she was reacting to. But now the house was all put back together, and still she had these terrible headaches. The doctor had told her that sometimes women stopped having headaches after they had children.

  On November 1, I was so concerned after a sad phone call from Brittany that I wrote her a very heartfelt email. My daughter seemed depressed and unhappy, and I advised her to seek professional help.

  Brittany was not open to my suggestion; indeed, my comments had offended her, and she retorted that she didn’t need professional help. She was right about one thing. She didn’t need to be treated for depression; she needed treatment for a giant malignant brain tumor. No one—least of all Brittany—knew that her moods, quick temper, unhappiness, and headaches were side effects of a tumor.

  Britt started ordering locally grown organic produce. She was eating as healthily as possible, hoping to alleviate the headaches. She planned to celebrate her twenty-ninth birthday in San Francisco. She booked a hotel and massages for Dan and herself, and planned to meet some friends for dinner and see a documentary.

  On November 18, the eve of her birthday, I posted a baby picture and wrote this on Facebook:

  At about 10:00 in the evening on November the 18th in 1984 I went to the hospital in Anaheim, California. My baby wasn’t due until Dec 17th. Turns out—the doctor told me—it’s happening now. I watched the operating room clock. At about 10 minutes after midnight, they held up my daughter. Brittany Lauren.

  Before she was conceived . . . I wanted her. Before she was born . . . I loved her. Within seconds of seeing her face . . . I would’ve died if it meant saving her life. That feeling remains the same today.

  This miracle happened to me. I am forever grateful.

  The birthday weekend seemed to go well, because Brittany posted a happy message on Facebook.

  Thank you friends and family for all of the warm birthday messages! I am very grateful to be entering this final year of my 20’s beside my hard working, smart, funny, and loving husband, Dan. We are blessed to be supported by our wonderful family and amazing friends both near and far. We couldn’t ask for better parents in Deborah, Gary, Carmen, and Evaristo. Feeling truly grateful for all of the blessings and opportunities the past 28 years of life has brought forth . . . and looking forward to 29.

  I flew up again to see Brittany after her birthday, then she returned to Southern California with me. On November 21, after a surprising rain shower, there was a gorgeous rainbow. I pulled over to photograph what I thought was a sign of God’s promise to me that my child, my one and only girl, was at last going to be well and happy. I thanked God for that promise, and later I posted the photos and these words:

  Have your [sic] ever prayed about something and then God answered. We don’t get these often here in Carlsbad, CA. And God, I got the message—loud an
d clear.

  Britt helped me move my father from assisted living care, where he was semi-independent, to memory care, where doors were locked and the caregiving to resident ratio was much lower, and helped me turn a fairly institutional-looking room into an inviting home. She also spent time with Mina, her “sister that life gave her.”

  When Brittany returned home, she was still having headaches. I sent her an early Christmas package of warm pajamas and other goodies to try to cheer her up. In the meantime, I was extra-involved with my father as he adjusted to his more confined life on the memory care wing.

  In mid-December, Brittany said that she was having insomnia and difficulty sleeping. She was planning on hosting us for the holidays at her house and wanted to have a white-elephant gift exchange. I decided that I would win this gift exchange challenge by finding the most loathsome gift of all.

  On December 11 Brittany was over the moon with excitement because she had ordered a Jeep. She would make monthly payments from her tutoring salary because her personal money was depleted from travel and the wedding.

  When Gary and I arrived at Britt and Dan’s, she had made her home a Christmas wonderland. She made a beautiful and delicious Christmas Eve dinner, and afterward we played games. The next morning she had a full breakfast ready when everyone got up. We felt pampered and loved. The smell of cinnamon buns in the air was a strange and wonderful role reversal for me.

  I don’t remember Brittany complaining of a headache at all over the holiday. She was a gracious vision of Christmas delight. I watched Dan walking around with Bella the beagle in his arms, showing her this and that. I dreamed of grandchildren, and Brittany and I joked about what they would call me. We settled on “Mimi,” although Brittany thought the name was absurd. “What’s wrong with Grandma?” she asked.

  I smiled, knowing that I’d answer to whatever a little one called me.

  Dan and Britt were going away for a couple of days for the New Year to Healdsburg, California. I thought perhaps they would get pregnant.

  It was a lovely, relaxed Christmas. The promise of a new year, potential grandchildren, and a happy, more settled marriage for Britt danced like sugarplums in my head.

  29

  I Want Her Back

  October 25—November 1, 2014, the Last Days Before Britt’s Death

  “Yes, Mother,” she says simply, embracing me. “I can see you are flawed. You have not hidden it. That is your greatest gift to me.”

  —Alice Walker, Possessing the Secret of Joy

  When I got back to my own bed in California on October 25, I crawled under the covers in a fetal position and slept.

  When I woke up, it was midmorning. I had slept for over fourteen hours.

  Gary fielded angry text messages from Brittany.

  “Where’s Mom?” she demanded.

  My husband told me it was best that I not read the messages.

  “What could hurt me more than what already happened?” I asked.

  “Well, for starters, she wrote that next time you ask someone to hit you, to expect it to be harder. She only used a fraction of her strength this time.”

  I held my stomach, thinking I might be sick. “And?”

  Gary sighed. “And, you are not invited to the funeral. It is invitation only.”

  “And?” I insisted.

  “Deb. Stop.” My husband held me in his arms.

  In a few days, my daughter was going to take a prescription and die. I thought about the fact that in spite of all she and I had been through together in the last twenty-nine years, Brittany had said I was a “fucking selfish cunt.” I cried ceaselessly. I cried while drinking, eating, showering. The well of tears was bottomless, and the act of crying was something I didn’t even think about. I cried when Gary took me to the doctor’s office, I cried at the pharmacy while they filled a prescription, and I cried while I put a tiny white pill between my lips and swallowed it. Then I slept again.

  When I woke up, Gary tried to talk to me. “Deb, this is going to be just like when Brittany said you hadn’t knocked mothering out of the ballpark, and you made her a memory photo book based around that very theme. She didn’t get it. She didn’t remember saying anything about baseball.”

  “I think she needed to cut the cord,” I said. “I think she chopped at everything that bound us together. She’s already left me. I don’t think she wants me there.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be there,” Gary said. “Maybe it would be easier for Brittany if you weren’t there. Have you thought about that?”

  Those words, heavy with pain—Gary’s pain, my pain, and Brittany’s pain—made me realize that I had to be with my daughter, no matter what. But I didn’t know how I could experience her leaving, her passage, and not scream and cry. “I don’t want to hear people crying,” Brittany had said repeatedly, looking specifically at me.

  How would I stop myself from slapping the cup out of her hand, as I’d once slapped a syringe out of her hand as a child when she’d picked the filthy thing up at the beach? How I could refrain from knocking the poison all over the room—I didn’t know. How could I keep myself from getting down on my knees and begging her not to drink it? How could I keep from grabbing it and downing it myself? I wanted to know why I couldn’t go instead of my girl who still had so much life to live.

  I wanted to let go of this burden of loss and pain and grief. I wanted to escape. Run until I couldn’t breathe. Run until my heart burst for lack of oxygen. Run into the ocean with stones sewn into my pockets and let the water pull me down.

  If I could have struck a deal with Satan himself to keep my daughter with me, I was selfish enough to do it. I would take care of her, read to her, help her to the toilet, give her endless massages, if she could just stay here on earth with me.

  I texted Brittany. I asked her to forgive me for the times that I might have caused her pain or let her down. I told her that I was grateful for the gift of being her mother, and that I was thankful that as a parent I had learned so much from her. Finally, I told her that I forgave her for hitting me and calling me horrible names.

  I told her that I would be returning to Portland on October 30, and that I would promise not to cry if she wanted me to be with her at the time of her death. I wish I’d said that one does not cry tears of sadness, only tears of joy, when a caterpillar morphs into a butterfly. I wish I’d been that wise.

  While I was curled up in a fetal ball in my bed or crying endlessly, Brittany took a walk with Dan and her friends, and had another seizure in the woods. She fell to the ground among the trees she loved so much, and jerked and shook. She also had more uncontrolled rage. This time the target was the New York film director and the nonprofit who’d released the YouTube video. Brittany was furious because she felt they’d cut and spliced the film taken on October 13 and 14 so that it seemed like she was changing her mind about the day she would die. To make this worse, one of the top networks took the video and spun it out with a headline something along the lines of “Terminally Ill Brittany Maynard Changes Her Mind.”

  Brittany completely lost all control, raging at Dan, her friends, and various people on the phone.

  In Southern California, I naïvely thought that they might be trying to protect Brittany by misleading the media to keep them away from the yellow house on the day she planned to die.

  When I came back to Portland on October 30, two days before her planned death on November 1, Brittany was still upset about this misleading release of information.

  We went for a walk on October 31. We were a party of eight people and two dogs. I studied the dogs’ soulful eyes. Did they know they were about to lose their momma? I think they did. Brittany wrapped her arm around my waist and told me that she was glad I was there. She said, “I just could not apologize, Momma.”

  “Nothing to worry about, love.” I put my arm around her, and we walked a short distance together in this way.

  Britt wanted a night out on the town, so Dan, Gary, and I hosted Brittany
, three of her friends, and my dear friend Sherri for dinner in downtown Portland. It was surreal. A last meal out on the town was too much like a prisoner’s last meal before execution. How does one step out of the shock, denial, dread, and fear, and “be there” at the dinner of a child who will be dying the next day? It was an out-of-body experience. I simply wasn’t there.

  November 1 was a mild day for Portland. Gary and I joined the six young people staying at the house. Some people were gathered around the table having brunch. After breakfast, we went for a walk. Yes, my child walked through the woods on the day that she chose to slip the bonds of this earth.

  Did Brittany take no medication, less medication, more medication, or a different combination of medications in those last hours of her life? Or was she perhaps simply blessed with equanimity before death? My sweet girl marveled at nature’s beauty as a group of friends and family wandered with her through trees that were over a hundred years old. We switched places by her side, rotating in and out, everyone longing to be close to her. Tranquil and serene, on the razor’s edge of death, Brittany took in the loveliness of her last day. To decide to notice beauty, to decide to be the most that she could be—and then to leave before everything that defined her was diminished—made Brittany the bravest and most intelligent woman I have ever known. As I walked next to her, I told her that if she wasn’t ready, it didn’t need to be today. It could be tomorrow. Or another day.

  “No, it will be today. People need to get back home on Sunday. I’ll be ready later today.”

  The lump in my throat was so big that it was almost impossible to swallow. “Okay, darling.” I allowed Gary to take my spot next to Brittany, and I hung back and walked with Amber for a while.

  Brittany had been very specific about how she wanted her death to be, who she wanted in the room with her, where she wanted them to be, and what she wanted to hear. Britt was especially worried that she might lose consciousness and yet be able to hear us for some time afterward. She specifically instructed us not to weep, make sad noises, or discuss her dying until everyone was sure that she had expired.