by Jo Barney
She raises her eyebrows, and I answer her unspoken question. “I’m not sure I can.”
“You can. And you will.”
I hope she’s right. I need a new path, away from the secrets and the worries of the one I’ve been traveling. If my son has the courage to choose the unknown, so does his mother. We’ll be in this journey together.
“Fine, Gladys,” I say. “What are the next steps?”
Gladys and I spend the rest of our time together planning how the move will go and when it will take place. I tell her that my husband may soon be receiving treatment at the VA and I’d like to have Jim here for a few weeks longer. For my sake. I need to get ready for both changes in my life. But, yes, we’ll start packing.
I close the door on a smiling Gladys, a woman I hope to grow to trust, and wonder whether this is the time for a glass of vodka. I decide no. I will be meeting a son with good news, a schedule and list for packing, and somewhere in there, a husband will arrive with his own news, good or bad. I’ll try to be ready.
37
Hank sees that the waiting room is full of people as usual. He is wary of approaching the desk, but a different person is behind it, so he explains to her that he feels he is in danger of falling apart and he needs help. A half hour later, a woman calls his name, and he follows her into a small room.
“What’s happening, soldier?”
He likes that she calls him that, sees it as a sign that she may know something about how he is feeling. “I’m crashing. Flashbacks lately, another one this morning.”
“Nightmares?”At his nod, she continues, “Been angry a lot?”
“For a long time. Since Korea.”
“Anything else?”
“This morning I looked around the house for something to kill myself with.”
“Did you find it?”
“Not sure. Can you kill yourself with antifreeze? Found some in the garage.”
“Not a pleasant way to go. Vomiting, stupor, paralysis, kidney failure. Wouldn’t suggest it. Let’s talk a minute. Anything else on your mind? Things in your home, job?”
Hank finds himself telling this soft-spoken young woman with serious blue eyes his story again, about a son who is defective, a wife who doesn’t love him anymore, a job that went into the sewer last week. “My life is a pile of shit.”
“Uh huh. Anything else? The nightmares?” She hasn’t stopped looking at him.
He isn’t sure he can tell her about his nightmare. He hasn’t told anyone. His lips are dry and he licks them. The words form in his throat, scrape out. “It’s about a red T-shirt on a small Korean boy.”
“A threat to you—or you to him?”
“I killed him.” Hank presses his palms against his eyes to stop the burning. The quiet woman across the desk from him allows him a few moments to collect himself. “Can you help me?”
“Maybe, but you can help yourself even more. It will mean time and some manipulation on my part, but I may be able to move you up on the list.” She opens a file, runs a finger down several pages of names. Then she looks up. “Bingo! You have an appointment, with me. Next week. A good friend of mine made it for you a few days ago when she heard I was coming back to work. Didn’t you know?”
Hank remembers. “I didn’t think I needed it. I asked her to cancel it,” he lied. “But I do. What day?” He probably should also tell her about the last time he blew up right here in this office, the meds he’s taking. “I think Dr. Perine also has a file on me, a prescription.”
“Good. I’ll find it. Next week, the eighth, ten o’clock. This may mean two to three meetings with me each week, a pill or two to help you get yourself together, a willingness to talk about your life as it is now, and maybe even to bring your wife in a few times.” When she smiles, her eyes soften even more.
He hopes he can do all this. “I had a friend here for treatment, and he was hospitalized for a while. Will I have to be?”
Mrs. Amy Linquist, the sign on her desk reads. She shakes her head. “I doubt it. Only if you decide to self-medicate with antifreeze.” She grins, offers her hand. “But you won’t, I know.”
Before he heads to the gas station, Hank decides he’ll come back to Amy a few times.
He can tell Eleanor has been waiting for him when he comes in. She points at a chair at the table and says, “I’m having ginger ale. Need something to drink? I’m trying to cut back on the alcohol. The bottle is almost empty, on the linen shelf.”
He finds it, pours a glass, sits down next to her. “What’s happening?”
“You first.”
He hesitates, confesses. “I yelled my way into an appointment at the VA. A counselor, Patsy’s friend, I think, will be scheduling appointments for the next few months. She’d like to see you once in a while, too.”
“Sounds good.”
Eleanor isn’t looking at him. He knows she wanted him to go to the VA. What the hell is wrong now? “You don’t like the plan?”
“I love the plan, but I have something to talk with you about. Not good stuff. Are you up for it?”
Hank has just spent an hour with a pretty young woman who listened to him. He will try to extend the same courtesy and empathy to Eleanor. “Go for it, sad, angry person.” He is surprised when Eleanor gasps, her eyes watery. This is not his wife’s usual response to problems.
“Jim is asking to move out of our home and into a group home with four other people who are handicapped, but not all like him. Everyone is different.”
“And who overlooks this home? Or is it a free-for-all?” Hank can’t imagine it. But at the same time, he feels something inside him lighten. He feels like shouting “Thank God!” He doesn’t. The look on Eleanor’s face means he cannot celebrate right now. “Have you looked into this place? Is it safe? Does it cost money? How do you feel about it?” He didn’t need to ask that last question, because she was reaching for a paper napkin and blowing her nose even before he spoke.
She wads up the napkin, tosses it into the sink. “It’s a safe place, with what seems to be a good group of people. One like Izzy, grown up; a bright girl in a wheelchair; a young man who can’t seem to stop jittering; and a young woman they are hoping will find a job and help pay her way. She seems like someone who may never have found a place anywhere. They make her do the cleanup chores, which everyone else hates. But they are kind to her, let her watch the TV she wants until she’s outvoted by a majority.”
“So what’s the problem? Sounds good to me.” Wrong question. Eleanor seems to be choking. “Eleanor. This is a good thing. Isn’t it?”
“For everyone else but me.” She heads away toward the bedroom but stops as the back door opens and Jim bounces in, grinning.
“You talked to Gladys. She said you think that my moving is a good idea! I hoped you would.”
“I’ll miss you.” Eleanor seems to be whimpering as if she’s in pain, her lips quivering. She doesn’t look at Jim.
Hank speaks for the first time since Jim charged in. “Come on, Eleanor. Jim needs encouragement, not guilt.” Hank wonders where that idea came from, certainly not the counselor whose card is in his pocket. Maybe the way she listened. He’s been listening too. Maybe that’s the secret. “I’m going to the drugstore. Anyone want ice cream?”
He hears two yesses—one enthusiastic, one muted—as he steps out onto the porch, feeling pretty much okay for once.
38
The hardest part will be telling Sarah. She will want to be the matriarch she’s been for years, taking control of her babies, old and young. But there is no control in this case, the doctors, each of them, have assured her, solemnly, one blinking away tears.
They’ve told her that pancreatic cancer is rarely cured, mostly because it exists and grows outside the knowledge of its host. Silent. Painless. Symptom-free until one notices a rash, a slightly yellowed cheek, brown urine…and, of course, weight loss for no good reason.
Patsy probably shouldn’t be drinking from Ray’s last bottle of b
ourbon. However, she thinks, what is alcohol for, anyway? A way to blunt the truth, at least for a few moments. A way to find a few moments to deny everything, including one’s imminent death. Be sensible, Patsy. Get started on the many lists you need to write before it’s too late. The water turnoff is in the basement. The oven heats up thirty degrees too low. Don’t buy vegetables that are plastic wrapped; they’re really old. The maroon sweatshirt should not be washed with the whites. Izzy will not eat anything green. She needs to spend time on her little pot until she figures out what it is for. Cook pork all the way through. The list will go on long after I’m gone. My mother will be here, of course, but she’s old, not up to the challenges of a three-year-old special child. And will Ray be ready? Alone? He’s never really liked her, has he?
She pours another bourbon and water. It is very difficult to leave one’s life. So many things to organize. Probably be easier to be hit by a bus. Boom. Done. Someone else has to handle the details. She is drunk, she thinks. Maybe Eleanor is too. She dials and hears her friend’s hello.
“Hi, it’s me. Me, drunk for once, rather than you, but I’m hoping you might be a little whacked out and ready to join me. To get a little more whacked out.”
“You sound sad. Are you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ll be there in a second.”
Five minutes later, Patsy hears a knock at the back door. Eleanor pushes in. “When are you getting the screen door fixed? I nearly broke my…” She stops. “This is serious, isn’t it?”
“Yes, black-out drunk serious. I’m not quite there yet.” She pours a glass of bourbon, hands it to her friend. “Will this go with whatever you’ve been drinking? Last bottle left by my recovering alcoholic husband.”
Eleanor tips her glass against Patsy’s. “Here’s to the dissolving kaffeeklatsch, and to the new Drunken Ladies Club. What’s happening, Patsy?”
This is it. She must say it out loud to make it real. Patsy sets her glass down on the table. “I am dying.”
“God, Patsy, don’t joke, even drunk.”
“I’m not joking. I have pancreatic cancer.” She swallows, goes on despite the look of horror on Eleanor’s face. “It’s metastasizing as we speak. There is no cure, except for surgery, which is not often successful. I am choosing to go out of here on my own. No stents, no chemo, only maybe a little relief to the pain when it arrives. A few months at most.”
“Patsy, this can’t be. Are you sure? What does your mother say?”
“You’re the only one who knows right now. I need to get things organized, my files, my bank account, my home, but mostly my child. I need to know that Izzy will be loved and taken care of.”
“Ray?”
“Ray is taking care of himself. I don’t know where he’ll be when he is sober. I have to know she is all right, forever.”
“Stop, Patsy. Your blood sister needs to know that what you are telling me is the whole story. Is your cancer inoperable? Are chemos not available like they are for every other fucking cancer in the world? Can I donate a piece of my pancreas like they do for a kidney or liver? Really, Patsy, have you researched this? How about Mexico? They claim they can cure anything. And Switzerland. I read they are doing research on cancer that no one else is.” Bourbon slops in between anxious questions, wets the front of her blouse.
“This is my cancer, Eleanor. There is no cure, only a possible prolonging of the inevitable. I’ve spent a number of days getting used to this idea, that I am dying. I was reminded of a friend who told me that she couldn’t believe her husband had left her. Every morning she woke up and said to herself, ‘I’m divorced,’ until she finally accepted the truth of it. That’s what I’m doing, except I say, ‘I’m dying.’ I’m finally believing it, and I accept the truth of it. I will not prolong the process. I can’t do that to my mother, to my husband, and especially to my little girl, who I hope will be able to remember me as a laughing, happy mother, not a ghost in a coma. And I need your help to do this with grace. Will you help me?”
Eleanor hesitates, her lips curve in quiver of a smile. “Blood sisters, to the end.” She drains her glass. “Of course I will. When do we start?”
She sounds brave, but her voice is a whisper. So is Patsy’s. “Tomorrow.” I hope I can do this. “Tomorrow,” Patsy says. “We can do this.”
Patsy is taken aback when Eleanor knocks on her door the next day: Her friend looks horrible. “Girl, looks like you drank all your way to morning. Coffee?”
“Yes, please, and no, I went home, said I wasn’t feeling well, and sent Hank and Jim out for pizza after the ice cream. Then I went to bed, covered my head with a pillow, and cried until I ran out of tears. I sent a little prayer out into the solar system, thanked whoever is out there for giving me you. I finally went to sleep. Hank woke me up getting into bed, complaining, ‘What the hell…? My pillow’s wet.’
“I told him I was sorry and that I thought it was my pillow. Then I handed him the dry one, wished every problem was that easy to solve, moved to the sofa, and avoided any more questions. If I look terrible, it’s the sofa’s fault.”
Patsy spreads out her lists on the kitchen table. “This is where I am so far. I hope you are up to running around all over town. I’m a little tired these days, not sure I should drive.”
“I’m ready.” Eleanor looks over the lists, each written by a not-so-steady hand. The one with her name across the top reads:
1.Does Ray have my power of attorney for finances and medical decisions? If not, find out how to get it for him, and one for Eleanor, maybe Mom.
2. Find a lovely cemetery, have someone explain to me how all that works.
3. Look at the day care centers that are capable of working with Izzy. Take me to the best-sounding ones.
4. Where do I hire helpers for me, when I need them? How much do they cost? Will our insurance cover any of this?
5. Find out whether a living will is possible in this state. If not, I will write a statement of my intentions for the end of my life.
6. Be with me when I tell Mom. Include her in some of these arrangements. Ask her opinion. She is a mother first, everything else next.
7. And whatever else comes up in the next few months.
“Where do you want me to start?” Eleanor wipes a finger across her eyelid, seems to be trying to smile.
“How about we make some snickerdoodles? We’ll talk and plan while we stir.”
An hour later, the kitchen smells of sugar and cinnamon, and a new pot of coffee is brewing. Eleanor bites into a warm cookie, chews, asks, “What is a living will? I’ve never heard of such a thing. What does it do?”
The cookie crumbs still lingering on her lips, Patsy explains, “I read about it in a medical magazine. It is a legal document that tells my doctor that I do not want heroic means used to keep me alive at the end.” She sips at her coffee and tries not to notice Eleanor’s wide eyes. “Tubes, for instance; surgery that will make a difference of a few days or weeks; medicines that will make me sicker than I already am. Our hospital may not yet have the legal forms. That’s where you come in. I’ll dictate, and you will type and witness.”
Eleanor reaches for another cookie. “This is going to be difficult, this list.”
“This is what my mother calls a work of love.”
“Yes.” Eleanor leans across the table, kisses Patsy’s hollow cheek.
39
I check the list Patsy has written. I’ve collected forms for a living will and a power of attorney, a list of nursery schools who work with developmentally challenged children, the phone number of a hospice that could recommend a caregiver, a list of cemeteries nearby. This afternoon Patsy and I have an appointment at two mortuaries. Patsy has questions. I will listen to the answers, take notes.
As long as I have a to-do list in front of me, I can ignore the sad cloak that wraps my hours. I will stay busy. It’s the only way. I call Patsy. “Pick you up for our trip to some lovely spots, Patsy, and we have appointmen
ts at two and three o’clock.”
“Advisors?”
“Family service and preplanning specialists.”
“I see. I want to be cremated. Do these places have nice urns?”
“We can choose one today.”
We walk the green grounds, admire the landscaping, examine the mausoleum, and then meet Marilyn Eggers, who walks us through the planning process. I jot down notes and figures as the two of them talk.
“This place is just fine,” Patsy says at the end of the tour. “I don’t want to go through these questions again, since I won’t be here to enjoy it anyway.” So, somehow, we choose a pink granite urn, a shelf for it, a plan for placing it on the shelf, leaving spaces for Izzy and for Ray, if he wants them.
Patsy smiles at the specialist and me and reaches into her purse for another list. “Invite just a few people. I’ve got a sweet old preacher in mind to eulogize, Amazing Grace, a small jazz combo, maybe a little music at the end, under a white tent on the lawn. After I’m put in my place, a little wine, cookies, and if people want, they can talk about me. My mother will insist on that.”
My jaw aches from clenching my teeth, but I manage to smile at times, and when Patsy says, “Thank you,” on the way back to the car, I am glad I am here.
“This is nice.” Patsy takes one more look at the grassy hills and stone buildings. “If you like this sort of place. Fortunately, I guess I do. Shall we stop for coffee?”
Patsy is still thinking about her list. “Mom is with Izzy this afternoon. Maybe this is the right time to tell her?”
“There will be no right time, Patsy, but if you still want me, I’ll come in with you.”
Sarah is holding a plastic prescription container when we walk into the kitchen. “What is this?” Her fingers shake as she hands the container to Patsy.
“Sit down, Mom. I have something to tell you, and if Izzy wakes up, Eleanor will go get her. I want you to hear all of what I’m going to say.”