R.I.P.

My mom's best friend died Friday night.

Everyone, I think, no matter how old they are, has a friend like Kay. They're loyal, always there when you need something, always ready to include you in their plans, and you'd appreciate these sterling qualities more if they didn't have so many habits that drove you stone-cold crazy. They second-guess your driving or pick lint off your carpet or display an astonishing ability to ignore the clock and always, always arrive late. They sneeze dramatically in restaurants and blame it on the air-conditioning vent, even in high December; when they're in your house, they're constantly twitching their noses as though they smell something disagreeable, but they'll never tell you what it is.

Kay was one of these friends. I would call my mom and listen to another Kay story--what she'd done, what she'd said, how annoyed my mother was by it--and I'd know that advice wasn't what she wanted; she wanted a listening ear, someone to tell her that she wasn't wrong to be annoyed. I didn't always give her that; sometimes, if I thought she was blowing something out of proportion, I'd just tell Mom, "I find it discouraging to have absolute PROOF that--even at seventy-five years old--we never really mature past junior high." She would laugh, usually, and always add, "I shouldn't complain...she's such a good friend."

And she was. Kay had five sons and daughters; the youngest, a girl, had been in grade school a year ahead of me. Some of them lived out of town, some in the area--I never did get them all straight in my head: who was one of Kay's kids and who were the sons- and daughters-in-law, which grandkid belonged to which parent, who lived where. But all of them, when they invited their mother somewhere, almost always invited my mom too. Baptisms, birthday parties, anniversaries, First Communions--my mom was always invited to come along with Kay. ("I wonder if they think we're lesbians or something," my mom laughed once.) Kay's kids treated my mom better than her own family treated her, something for which I was always grateful.

Mom and Kay were part of a larger group, a loosely-knit bunch of older ladies. There was always drama in this group--who had insulted whom, who hadn't been properly glad to see whom, all sorts of intrigue--but at least my mom wasn't sitting home alone on the weekends. I often said half-jokingly, "Mom has a better social life than I do." They went to dinner, celebrated each others' birthdays, dressed up together for Halloween parties at the widows-and-widowers club. And once a month, they played poker.

It was at Wednesday's poker game that Mom first noticed something was wrong with Kay. "She looked pale," Mom told me Thursday when I called, "like maybe something was wrong. And then this morning when I called her...she sounded..." She paused, fishing for a description of how strange Kay had sounded. "She sounded like she'd had a few, actually," Mom said. "But I know Kay's not a drinker..." She'd had bronchitis, Mom said, and as usual she was refusing to go to the doctor. "She doesn't even HAVE a primary-care doctor! When she gets sick she goes to the Doc-in-the-Box..."--Mom's name for the urgent-care clinic in our neighborhood--"and they give her antibiotics or whatever. But she hasn't had a full medical workup in probably twenty-five or thirty YEARS." Though I share my dad's antipathy toward medical attention, even I thought a quarter-century gap between appointments was a bit extreme; to Mom, the retired nurse, it's heresy. "I hope everything's okay," Mom said.

It wasn't. Thursday night Mom called me and told me she'd had another strange conversation with Kay; she was slurring her words, Mom said, and losing her place in the middle of sentences. "I called Tracy," she said, naming one of Kay's daughters, "and I said to her 'I don't mean to be nosy or anything, but I'm really worried.'" Apparently the rest of the family was worried too, and tried to talk her into going to the hospital, but Kay was adamant. "I'll go to the doctor on Monday if I don't feel better," she told them sometime Thursday.

Friday afternoon Mom called me again, even more worried. "I called Rae-Ann,"--Kay's daughter-in-law--"and she's going over later to check on her and see if she can't drag her to the hospital. I talked to her again this morning and she just sounded terrible--like she wasn't all there!" Under the edges of the worry, I could tell she was annoyed, too. "What can you do with someone so stubborn?" she asked.

Friday evening, Mom called again, just before 7:00. "They just took Kay to the hospital," she said. "Rae-Ann and Tracy said they went over at about 6:00 and they found her on the floor, unresponsive. They called the ambulance...I told them to call me as soon as they knew anything," she said.

When it comes to illness, I am a relentless, rose-colored optimist, a slave to the literal meanings of words. To me, "unresponsive" is a very bad thing, but not irrevocable; it means "not communicating, not answering questions, not awake." "Unresponsive" doesn't mean "dead". So I expected to hear later that Kay was in the I.C.U. and would be there for a while, but she'd be okay.

Right after I got off the phone with Mom--"Keep me posted," I told her--my friend Debbi called. We talked for a long time, probably 90 minutes or so. We've always been able to do that, Debbi and I; we don't talk daily, but we find a lot to talk about when we do finally call. And after I finished talking to Debbi, I went up to my room and was picking up a little when the phone rang again.

"Hi," said Mom. Over the years, I've learned: volumes of information are revealed by the tone of my mother's "Hi". I can tell in just that one word if everything is fine, or if she's angry or worried....or sad. This was the sad "hi." "Kay died," she said simply. "I just got back from the hospital. Apparently she was dead when Tracy and Rae-Ann got there..."

Mom says the whole family is feeling the same guilt she's feeling: what if we'd just gone over there earlier and MADE her go to the hospital? We all knew something was wrong... "She wouldn't have gone," I tell Mom. "Maybe if three or four of her kids showed up all at once--but they would have had to pick her up and carry her to the car to get her to go." I know enough about guilt to know: it may be true, but it doesn't help.

I knew Kay through my mom's stories, through her descriptions of phone-calls and poker nights and New Years' parties. I probably couldn't have picked Kay out of a crowd, to be honest; I'd only seen her a few times. But she was my mom's best friend, and that was enough.

We both have a lot to think about now, my mother and I. "Next time you come over," she tells me, "I want to sit down and go over where everything is." "Everything" means all her important papers: the will, the insurance documents, the deed to the house, the keys to the lock-box at the bank. And other things, too; names of people to call when she dies, the list of songs and readings she'd like at her own funeral. I think about what that time will be like; realizing that unlike Kay's kids, I will face the tasks alone. I alone will be responsible for picking the clothes, the casket, the wording of the obituary. Even though I've been a part of this process before, first with my father and then with both of my grandparents, I can't imagine doing it for my mother--or even doing it without my mother. "I'll go with you," Tim says, when I tell him this. "I'll be your brother." I'm grateful for even the intent; still, it's not something I want to dwell on for long.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," Mom says. "I can't cry. I mean, it's not that I'm not sad about it, but....I don't know, maybe my brain is just wired differently or something," she finishes. My mother, the stoic; instead of remembering all the times she tried to teach me the same kind of "strength", for the first time I wonder who taught her to be this way--and more importantly, why. Who thought it was more important to be "strong" and tearless than to show what you feel?

It's a lesson that's been handed down pretty well, no matter where it originally came from. Over the phone, I try to play off the strange sound of my voice. "Oh, I'm just stuffed-up" or "it's just cold in the house, that's all." I don't tell her--even though I think she knows--that I've been crying, even if she can't, yet. For Kay, who I really didn't know; for her kids and their families; for my mom, who wonders if she could have changed things; who wonders if maybe she should have done more. I tell her You did everything you could. Even if you'd done something different, who's to say it wouldn't have turned out just the same? I tell her what she's told me, many many times--you have nothing to feel guilty about--knowing that it will probably take time for her to believe it too.

Mostly I just watch out for her, from a distance; call her a few times a day, "just to see how you're doing," I tell her. "It hasn't sunk in yet, I don't think," she says. "But it's going to be really strange without her." And though I know she's been through this before, that Kay's not the first close friend she's lost and that she won't be the last--even still, I wish she didn't have to deal with this. Like her, I wish there was something more I could do; like her, I know there isn't anything, really...nothing except to be there as much as possible, to give her as much moral support as I can. I know a little bit of what she's said to me so many times when things haven't gone right in my life: I wish there was something I could do, something that would make it easier.

And, just as when she wishes it for me, there isn't.

This Is Getting Very Tiresome

Those of you who, as requested, had your appendages crossed on my behalf? You may uncross them, for now.

I called the place where I had my awesome interview, and was told they'd decided on another candidate.

I'm not gonna lie--this one stings. I really, REALLY thought I had it. And it would have been a great fit for me, too.

I'm starting to question this whole process--like, am I perhaps being sent a message here which I'm not getting? Which, maybe, I'm choosing to ignore because I'm scared to follow it, or because maybe following it might mean changing my life in ways I'd rather not have to??

I don't know. But regardless, one of the major venerable cultural institutions in the city of Chicago? Is now and forever cordially invited to suck it. They don't know what they're missing.

I, on the other hand, DO know what I'm missing...a steady paycheck, any means of financial support, and--just for the moment--a fair-sized chunk of self-confidence.

Man, this sucks.

Small...Okay, HUGE...Victory, And a Scalp Full of Goobers

(Click to embiggen)
Evidently, not all bureaucrats are entirely evil. I had my unemployment appeal hearing over the phone last Thursday morning, and Monday afternoon I got this letter. The length of time it took for me to get the letter suggests to me that the hearing officer made her decision right away--like it was a no-brainer. (Which is what I'd said all along.)

Of course, because nothing should be 100% simple, I had to go to the office to fill out a basketload of forms*, and of course it will be at LEAST a couple of weeks before I get my first check...but if my math is correct, I've got a nice little assist coming by the beginning of February or so.I also did my taxes this week, and thanks to e-file and Direct Deposit, another little windfall should be coming my way within a few more weeks. I only wish I could take it all to Ikea or Menards or someplace...or, more likely, just stick it into a savings account and hold on to it-- instead of using it to pay off a whole mess of late bills. If I actually HAD a job, I could finally get myself on solid financial ground with these two checks; since I don't, I'm going to have to use most of it to clean up the big mess that the last three months of my life have become.**

I'm desperately hoping that these two things together mean that things are looking up, that they're not just a brief respite (though heaven knows I could use THAT, too!) and that a job--hopefully THE job, though I'm becoming doubtful--is forthcoming.

I also had my second sleep-study last night, the one where they test out the CPAP machine (that stands for Continuous Positive Airway Pressure, in case you're ever hard-pressed for cocktail-party chatter). The machine is a little toaster-sized box with a long hose, ending in a mask that goes over your nose and is tethered to your head by means of a system of Velcro straps. Apparently it works by keeping constant air pressure inside your airway, which keeps your soft palate/uvula/whatever from collapsing and blocking the air flow, which is what happens in sleep apnea.*** I don't know how well I'm going to adapt to it; I mean, I slept okay, but when I woke up I had dents all over my face from where the mask was sitting, and it felt very, very strange. The nurse had to come in a couple of times at night, too, because the mask had slipped up on my face and was leaking air around my eyes. All in all, it wasn't intolerable, but it was weird and awkward, and I don't know how it's going to translate into home use (though I'm glad I no longer have a human bed-partner; I'd hate to be seen like that!)

The worst part of the whole test, however, won't be a problem at home because they're only used for the initial testings: namely, the electrodes. To test the depth of sleep, the nurse puts electrodes on your legs, your chest, your face, behind your ears, and on the sides and back of your head. The electrodes that attach to skin are no problem; the next morning, they peel right off and you're none the worse for it. But the three head electrodes...they have to be attached to the scalp, at the base of the hair. To do this, they use this...stuff. It's like half jelly, half cornstarch paste, half Crisco, and half Krazy Glue. And it Does. Not. Come. Out. I tried to wash out some of it before I left the hospital, and then the first thing I did when I came home was hit the shower to wash my hair. I washed it twice, then one more time with a fine-tooth comb to make sure I'd gotten out all the globs of stuff...and as I wrote this post, I reached up to brush a piece of hair out of my face and guess what I found?? More adhesive-goobers. I can find two spots I missed--one small, one not-so-small. And if I try to take another shower before tonight, my entire face will shrivel up into a little dehydrated pinkish raisin with eyes, so I'm stuck for the next few hours with goop in my hair. You'd think medical science would have advanced beyond the goop-in-the-hair point, but apparently not...Now if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with a comb.

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*"basketful of forms"...Initially, I applied for unemployment online. They sent me a letter telling me what my date was to call in and "certify" using their automatic system, which I did. Each time I certified, I was sent another letter with another date, on which to call the next time. You know what my second date in December was?? Christmas. Now I ask you--who's gonna remember to call Unemployment on CHRISTMAS?? Seriously. And of course, since I missed my certification date, I didn't get a letter telling me when NEXT to certify, so I didn't. When I called to ask what to do, they said "just go into the office and fill out a form". What they didn't tell me was, the "form" was essentially a whole new application to cover the time I'd missed, and it came with a lecture from the harried, Alan-Ginsburg-looking staffer at the front desk, giving me hell about not calling. "I was very diligent til Christmas," I informed him; it cut no ice. Of course, this is a man who, faced with three piles of papers and looking for mine, ignored my statement that "It's in the basket" and shuffled through the other two piles, then threw up his hands and ignored the basket entirely, whereupon I had to pull my own paper out of the stack and hand it to him. Oy.

**..."three months"... I have never before in my life, except when I was an active heroin addict, been out of work for three months straight. Even then, I generally had SOME sort of job. What most-especially chaps my hide about it all is this: had I known it would be this long, I would have spent the time more wisely--would have done some massive projects around the house, like refinishing the kitchen cabinets or levelling the floor in the upstairs bath. But because I was always thinking that a job was just around the corner, I figured "why start what I can't finish?" Lately I've been thinking I should probably re-evaluate my entire world-view.

*** the CPAP machine...It blows air up your nose, essentially; I had a fun time opening my mouth as though I was going to take a breath, then feeling/hearing the air rush OUT through my mouth with no effort of my own. When they send me home with my own machine, the first thing I'm going to do is go out and buy one of those plastic kid's piccolo-type things, to see if I can get the machine to play it for me.

Brief Updates

Since I'm in a consistent state of hibernation these days--cloudy Chicago mid-Januaries can do that to a girl, especially one who's prone to hibernation anyway--a few brief updates on everything...

--Mom: Out of hospital since Tuesday. Currently attempting to recover from the shock of finding that the medicine she was prescribed for the asthma she didn't know she had will now cost her upwards of $200 a month. Not thrilled with that, nor with the prognosis that she's going to just have to learn to deal with the cardiac arrythmia that sent her to the hospital in the first place--apparently she's a rotten candidate for any and all of the known treatments.

--Job: Qualified optimism. As you probably figured out from my "cross your appendages" post, I had an interview two weeks ago today, about which I promptly heard...nuffin'. For, like, EVER. As of yesterday, I was prepared to resign myself to the worst; I braced myself and called Place Where I Really, Really, Really Want To Work Because They Are Unreservedly Awesome, ready to hear "Oh, I'm sorry; that position is filled." Which was precisely what they did NOT tell me. What they DID tell me was "We have one more person we need to interview, and they cancelled last week so we're hoping to get to them this week, and in a week or so they should have their decision." The sigh of relief I let out at that news probably blew over irrigation towers in Kansas...You guys, I did SO AWESOME on this interview. I've been trying not to say anything about it because I don't want to jinx it, but that was possibly one of the best interviews of my life. I was set to meet with two people: the HR woman, and the person who would be my direct boss. SHE was so impressed that she took me to meet HER boss, and HE said I "presented myself very well." I mean, come on, who WOULDN'T be encouraged??? To say nothing of the job itself, which only sounds PERFECT for me. I'm gonna leave it at that, but please--if you've already crossed all your appendages, please start crossing the appendages of your relatives, friends, acquaintances and pets, would you please??

Everything Else: Either rolling along nicely, or completely irrelevant. But oh, man, am I broke.

(That was brief enough, wasn't it?)

From the Files of "If It Ain't One Thing, It's Probably Two Things"

I am Not. Having. A. Good. Day.

At all.

The most frightening part of it is, it's barely 8:00 AM.

A few days ago, in a spasm of productivity, I called to have someone come out and look at my windows, which don't latch properly. They said they would be out this morning between 8 and 9. Shortly before 8, I heard what I thought was my gate opening and closing. I moved the curtain to see if it was the window guy, but it wasn't.

What I DID see, however, was my truck, parked across the street where we'd left it Tuesday night.

Except, on Tuesday night?
It didn't have a boot on the rear tire.

In Chicago, you can be booted for 3 or more unpaid parking tickets. I knew I had reached this point, because they -did- send me the letter that said "Hey, you better pay these, or else." Unfortunately, they sent this letter in November, which put it squarely in the realm of Gets Paid Later.

There was another reason I placed it in that category, as well, one more psychological than practical: two of these tickets--the most expensive--belonged to LJ, not me. If HE'S not gonna pay them, I'M not gonna pay them, said my oppositional little brain.

But the Chicago Department of Revenue doesn't understand interpersonal difficulties OR popular psychology: they understand "three tickets and you're booted".

NEXT time, I will remember this.

THIS time, however, that's water completely and utterly under the dam. Or under the...

"*&)%@)@)#*&$@*)$&)*)*&!@#!*&@#*!_*(*!@*(#!$@$", which is what I said, several times over, as I picked up the phone to call my mom.

Mom's had a cold for a few days, and I've been calling her twice a day to check on her; last time she had a cold like this, it turned into pneumonia, and she spent a week in the hospital. She also mentioned that she's been having more and more incidents of arrhythmia lately--which usually resolve themselves, but they still scare her--and even more so because they've been happening more often.

So I called her this morning, to vent about the booting (and also for some financial assistance to deal with it) and she sounded AWFUL. I told her what had happened, and she told me she was going to call the doctor as soon as his office opened because she was feeling really rotten. A little while later she called back to tell me she was going to have one of her friends drive her to the E.R., on doctor's orders, to get checked out. (And of course he sent her to the farthest possible hospital.) I told her I was going to get the boot off my car--fortunately I still have some money in my account, thanks to a check which hasn't cleared yet--and that I'd wait to hear from her whether they were going to admit her or not. I'm fairly sure they will.

Needless to say, it was NOT a good time to drop my financial crap on her head. But of course, the minute I said I was booted, she knew. "How much do they want?" she asked.

"Seven," I mumbled.
"HUNDRED??? Jesus, Gladys!"
"Yeah, yeah, I know..."
This was followed by a series of dire warnings as to what will happen if I ever, ever take up with another moocher like LJ again, ever. "Strangle" was a word which appeared more than once, just for an example.

So now, I am off to the Department of Revenue office...Oh, what? You thought I could pay over the phone? Yeah, no. Once you're booted, you have to pay IN PERSON. I explained to the person on the other end of the phone at Revenue that in fact, they were making the demand for in-person payment on the group of people who were most likely to be unable to fulfill that demand--those people with immobilized vehicles--and they informed me that I could pay the TICKETS over the phone, but the $60 boot fee had to be paid in person before they could un-boot me.

Next time I'll remember--it's the Department of REVENUE, not the Department of LOGIC.

Of course, next time I won't be in this situation, because next time I'll have a JOB, and no mooching jackass boyfriend who parks in front of hydrants with an expired plate. (The other two tickets are mine, but they total $200, to LJ's $440. I could pay $200 fairly easily...$700 is a little harder. Tim says I should call LJ and tell him that if he doesn't come up with the money, I'm going to let them tow the truck and turn it into scraps; though he's right, I don't see it as a workable plan. Besides, I don't even want to talk to LJ right now--the stoopid crumb.)

So after I take the bus downtown and part with a large wad of cash, and after I get my car unbooted, then I get to worry about the fact that my mother is in the hospital and feeling crappy. The only thing that could POSSIBLY salvage this day is if the place where I interviewed last week would call me and offer me a job.

Otherwise? Today is officially a washout.

UPDATE, 9 PM: It could have been worse. The Department of Revenue let me set up a hardship payment plan, since I'm jobless, and so instead of $700 all at once, I paid $220 today and the rest over the next few months. Sometimes even a bureaucracy works, it seems.

Mom has been admitted to the hospital, which I'd pretty much expected. She's feeling tolerably well, but she's running a fever and the doctor wants a CAT scan of her chest to see what's going on with her lungs and her heart. Needless to say, she's not thrilled. I was able to visit her, though--by the time I got home from my trip downtown, the parking guys had already removed the boot.

There was even a little good news--I figured since I was in the neighborhood, I'd stop by the tax assessor's office and see about the refund they owe me for the last two years of overpaid property tax--seems I was entitled to an exemption I didn't get for '04 and '05. After going through the usual round of paperwork, I was told that in about four-and-a-half months, I should see a check for just about $1100, which is nothing to sneeze at.

Of course, hopefully I'll have a JOB by then...

Request

I'm not going into details because I don't want to jinx anything...but if any of you have any appendages you're not currently using, I'd be grateful indeed if you'd cross them for me.

Further Proof That Time Flies

Today marks one year clean for me. It was last New Years' Eve that I decided to try, one more time, to quit heroin--which I'd been trying to quit for at least a few weeks before, and would have succeeded were it not for the ceaseless puking. In fact, that was the only reason I did any heroin on New Years' Eve last year in the first place--I was so sick I couldn't stand, sit, rest, think, or sleep without retching. It was not at all enjoyable, and I so wanted to be done with it, I promised myself that if I got out of it, I'd never go back. (That may sound like typical junkie's promises, but I don't believe I'd ever said "never again" any of the other times I'd quit--it was always more not for a long while...) I remember days and days of being really nervous after I quit, thinking Today might be the day I get sick... and being grateful each day that I didn't.

This blog helped. It got progressively harder, each time I'd screw up, to come here and admit my screwups. In some cases that would have meant I just would have stopped writing altogether, rather than face the discomfort of admitting what I'd done--but I couldn't do that either. Even if I was writing nothing else, I could always say Hey, at least I'm writing something, and sometimes that was consolation enough. I knew THAT was better for me than the heroin.

And so a year later, here I am: still writing, still clean, still waiting for my ship to come in--though just at the moment, I'd settle for a small dinghy.