Week 8 - Authorial Presence (Problem/Situation)

I still can’t even count how many times my mom has attempted to do something outrageously dangerous and I’ve had to stop her.  She’s always been an advocate for pushing her limits and proving she’s still just as tenacious as ever.  I don’t doubt her either but I also don’t believe the right way of going about it is to, for instance, lift things that are exceedingly too heavy, or walk briskly across a glare ice driveway wearing shoes with no tread whatsoever.  It causes me to worry often, especially given the unforeseen nature of what inevitably occurred.  

It was a beautiful summer’s afternoon; the heat and humidity were just right. The breeze rolled through the opened, screened-in windows and I could smell the lilac bush and freshly cut grass coming in from the outside as my sister, Amber, her girlfriend at the time, Jen, and I sat in the kitchen with my mom.  Amber and Jen lived with us for a short time in order to get back on their feet, so it was a typical day-to-day happening to all be seated around the kitchen table at that time, especially considering it would be getting close to dinner.  Jen had two kids from a previous relationship that also lived with us, and they were contently playing in the living room watching SpongeBob Square Pants.  The conversation wasn’t anything I found especially disconcerting, that was until the topic of the dreaded child’s swing came up. 

“So,” My mom said, and I could feel what was to follow, “It’s a beautiful day, why don’t we hang up the children’s swing in the tree outback?”

My face instantly looked as if one of our many cats had come into the room and shit under my chair.  As if it weren’t bad enough the last year she hung the children’s swing in the front yard and apparently had to get on the roof of the porch to do so; suddenly it had to go in the back yard where the closest branch for a swing was, in a rough estimate, 16-20 feet in the air.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, really,” I said as if it should be obvious to everyone that it was a horrible idea.

“Why not? I hung it by myself last year”

“Yeah…I know.  That’s not really compelling me to change my opinion, rather the latter - Because it’s safe to be doing that shit by yourself, Mom.”

“Pfft…whatever, stop treating me like an old lady, I bet I can run laps around you!”  This was another fact I did not doubt at all.

“I’m not challenging you; I just think it’s a bad idea, that’s all.  Do what you want.”

Amber and Jen sat quietly until the conversation finally changed to something other than the spat my mom and I were having.  After a few minutes, as I knew it would, the conversation turned back to the goddamn children’s swing again, only this time my mom felt differently, sort of.

“Look, I’ll just go into the garage and get the kid’s swing out, I won’t hang it yet, I’ll wait for my contractor Steve to come here next week and he’ll hang it.  He has a ladder,”   Mom said as if this was a consolation. 

“Ok Mom, Do what you want.”  I knew she was going to do what she wanted anyway, so after simply obliging, I went to the bathroom.

Within moments I could hear over the running water of the bathroom sink that she was recruiting help for something - something that clearly wasn’t simply going into the garage and digging out a swing.  She fully intended to get up in that tree, even though we didn’t have a ladder and the ridiculous height was dangerous in itself even with a ladder.  I came out of the bathroom to find Amber sitting at the table, drinking a beer. 

“Where’d mom go?” I asked.

“She’s outside with Jen, I’m not sure what they’re doing,” She said as she took another swig.

Suddenly and faintly in the distance I could hear someone screaming and it caused my stomach to sink to my feet.  The inevitable had finally happened and mom had met her match.  I ran out the back door and into the back yard to find Jen visibly shaken, paralyzed by fear.  It took me about a second to realize what had happen:  My mother had fallen the 16-20 feet from the tree and was lying on her side on the ground, motionless.  I ran to her and immediately attempted to get her to come back to consciousness without moving her.  Jen stood there, staring, until I screamed at her to go call 9-1-1 and it was at that point my sister came out to realize what had happened and ran over.  Jen immediately pulled out her cellphone as I managed to get Mom to open her eyes and say something, anything.  Mom instantly started to try and move but I managed to talk her into remaining still, something she already knew from her 22 years of nursing.  Even significantly injured, she was still going to prove somebody wrong.

The ambulance arrived promptly and put her gently on the stretcher.  None of us were able to ride with her because they needed all available room for staff to immediately start helping her.  I panicked the whole way to the hospital, riding behind the ambulance.  It wasn’t until we got to EMMC that I started to relax; once she was in Triage but as if it couldn’t get any worse, they put her in the same triage room my father was pronounced dead in.  Ominous feelings filled the room as I tried to remain calm and get into the mindset of being her medical proxy, not her daughter. Amber and Jen went out to the waiting room as the head triage nurse came in and immediately tried to administer Dilaudid for the pain. I was told she needed it because it was too soon to get into MRI and X-ray, the doctor still needed to assess her and the pain would cause her blood pressure to skyrocket.  The problem with that was the nurse clearly didn’t examine her charts beforehand, otherwise she would’ve noticed that not only is my mother allergic to MSG, she’s highly allergic to Dilaudid, Morphine, Codeine, Aspirin, Acetaminophen, Sulfa Drugs; basically you name it, she’s allergic.  I immediately deflected the nurse’s attempt to sedate my mother and sent her back to check her charts.  Moments later I was told to leave the room so they could perform something, and my mom said she was okay with it.  No sooner than I left did that nurse slip back into the room and administer the Dilaudid anyway. 

Soon enough my mom was put into a triage transport waiting room and was violently puking from an adverse reaction to the high powered narcotic.  I managed to get it under control before she was transported, via some whole milk, and we managed to make it to the third floor where she would be staying for an extended period.  After she was moved to her bed, it was about 8:30pm and I was informed that none of us were allowed to sleep in her room. 

“You going to be okay here overnight?” I said optimistically, hoping it would only be a night but knew it wouldn’t. 

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” My mom said also lying.  She hated hospitals for good reasons, and in some way she was trying to make me feel better as I was to her.

We all then went home and called it a night.  The next day I was there as early as they would let me, and I found out that mom had broken her pelvis, several ribs, her sacrum, and other various bones.  The only good part is that every doctor told me there was no reason she wouldn’t fully recover, but the downfall was they slated her to be there for three weeks.  My mom’s expression instantly dropped; although they managed to regulate her pain with something and I attributed her statements to it, she was adamant that she would not take that long.  The doctors insisted she stay bedridden until they felt she could get up, to prevent further injury, and told her the drugs would make her feel as though she was better.

Every day I went and visited her, and the progress seemed to be unrealistic.  I couldn’t understand how she was able to move about as she was, even in her bed and having the pain sedated.  It wasn’t until I caught her venturing to the bathroom that I realized she was back to her old habits; defeating the odds and maintaining her resilience. 

Week 7 - Person (REVISED)

Matt is the second oldest of five children, and comes from a large family of people who were religious in some way and did not drink whatsoever.  He attended a local high school and graduated with a good portion of some of my present friends; many found his behaviors to be odd or of ill-repute, but gossip is only words, not fact.  As the years went on, Matt found himself working odd jobs in random kitchens around the area shortly before moving to Portland in 2006.  It wouldn’t be until years later that he would move back to the Bangor area.

I first met Matt in the summer of 2008 while frequenting his apartment to visit other people I knew; his daily routine consisted of racing to the bottom of a fifth of Jameson’s and trying to remain straight enough to buy another.  He would stagger around, sometimes happy, sometimes ornery, but always somewhat inebriated.  It became obvious after a few casual visits that the occasional drinks at night turned into daily events and evenings turned from afternoons into the late hours of morning.  On occasion, there would be others partaking in this self-indulgent drunk fest, but the others slowly started to dwindle away as I noticed his drinking starting to spiral out of control.  I often wondered if he could see exactly what was happening to him even though I was right there with him entertaining drinks myself. 

Always a worker, Matt had many jobs throughout the times I spent with him.  After several trips of bringing Matt to work, it became clear that he was only able to make it through these jobs by drinking while on the clock.  Sometimes even after work, I’d pick him up and even though he had clearly had numerous shots of whiskey and other random liquors at work, it wasn’t enough.  He would then request to go to local dive bars and down some beers and even still to no avail, he would request to stop at a store to buy more to consume.  Often, I would make random comments: “It’s only 11 am, why don’t you wait a little bit longer first?”or “You shouldn’t mix the beer and liquor, that always makes me sick…”  Still, he felt that as long as he could hold a job his drinking was not an issue.  Eventually the constant intoxication began to take a toll on his jobs and one after another, he started “quitting” and “walking out” on fairly lucrative jobs, when truthfully, he was being fired for gross negligence for being drunk at work. 

A year into our friendship, Matt wasn’t able to pay for the rent at the apartment where he had been living, and I invited him to come live in my house for a substantially cheaper rent; he would also have his own room.  It was at that point that he was working at what would be his last job around the area, considering he had exhausted about every option and jobs were scarce for those without education past a high school diploma or GED.  Life was cohesive for the first few weeks, but I had been previously warned by his ex-roommates that until I started living with him, I would have no idea who Matt really was when he was drunk. Ignoring their remarks, I welcomed him in - I should’ve had a more objective opinion.

Matt’s father was someone that no one in the family liked to talk about.  From what I did gather, he was a loving man but rarely showed it.  He also suffered from various ailments that took a toll on the family life and their dynamic.  It didn’t shock me, given those facts, to hear many interesting stories throughout my time knowing Matt - some of which I am still unsure about.  Apparently there was a time during his teen years where he decided that he was going to be a skin head, and marched through school dressed as such; rebellious nature seemed to fit the bill. But there was this one disturbing story another of my male friends who went to school with him mentioned. When Matt was in his early twenties, my friend went to visit him one afternoon. Upon reaching his apartment, my friend walked in to witness gratuitous, fetish porno playing full screen on his desktop monitor.  Apparently, Matt was showing it to one of his other male friends as well, who looked equally as disinterested. 

Within two weeks after Matt moved in, it became obvious that he was drinking a lot more than I had anticipated previously.  He would come out of his room at 8am every morning clutching a Pabst Blue ribbon can of beer, slugging it down on his way to the bathroom.  I noticed that this was a trend of his that I had previously overlooked at the old apartment he lived in.  There were a lot of things starting to surface that I hadn’t noticed.  Matt seemingly liked to get volatile at a certain point in the night, clearly once he had had one too many.  Being that he was into his thirties, I thought he could handle himself and didn’t need a babysitter when it came to drinking, but that was disproven immediately.    

It wasn’t until he decided to attack the stairway banister with a knife after a long day of belligerence and ire that I decided maybe my house wasn’t the best living situation for him, or anyone residing there.  The following morning he was asked to leave and arrange to live elsewhere; although my behavior might’ve been subpar, his was becoming exceedingly dangerous.

I haven’t seen much of him since that day, especially in the past years, but I’ve kept him in mind, hoping he’s found some kind of resolve as I have.  The last thing I had heard from him, he had found some sense of sobriety, was married, and moving into a new home.  I wished him well, and that was the extent of our conversation.   As of recent, my mother was reading the newspaper and found an article about a man who got combative in the middle of a fast food restaurant.  After further inquiry, I found out it was none other than Matt.  The cops discovered after patting him down that he was smuggling a bottle of whiskey under his jacket.  A few weeks later, Matt posted a message on Facebook about how he and his wife were divorcing.  It makes me wonder how we could’ve been so content living destructive lives way back when.

Week 6 - Autobiographical Slice

I remember the first time I realized that there was something different about me.  I was five years old and had just eaten lunch 30 minutes prior to the vicious migraine that came on out of nowhere.  Hell, at that age I didn’t even know what a migraine was, let alone what was causing it to happen to me.  I don’t even remember what I ate but I do remember one thing; it was the first time that I would have an allergic reaction to Monosodium Glutamate.  My mother and I shared a lot of common things, though the most common things we shared were allergies.

My mother was the sixth and last child in her family to be born.  Born May 23, 1957, she had a long road in front of her.  Right off the bat she was afflicted with health issues, including a defective heart, something she would not discover until much later in life.  Spending most of her early childhood in and out of hospitals and incubators, it’s a miracle she’s here today and that I am as well. As she grew up and entered into adulthood, she slowly began to realize that something was amiss regarding her body and sure enough, she discovered that she was allergic to not only MSG but every pain killer and analgesic on the market, among various other things.  It wasn’t until I was born that she realized it could be passed on.

Throughout the majority of my childhood and adolescent years, I had to refrain from eating everything that I found appealing; my god, what I wouldn’t have done to eat Doritos at lunchtime like all of the rest of the kids, and the smell of ramen noodles made me salivate instantly, even though I had no idea what they tasted like.  If I even as so much as sampled the slightest bit of food with MSG in it, I would be in for a hellacious night.  Tylenol wouldn’t even touch the migraines that MSG would cause.  I’d have to sit and writhe in pain, hoping for relief, or anything to make it stop. 

The migraines were insane.  Picture this:  Take the worst migraine you’ve ever had, and magnify it by ten-fold, and that’s what it felt like when I was poisoned with food tainted with the dreaded food additive.  Nothing could quell the insidious ache it would cause, not even mass amounts of water.  Within an hour after ingesting it, I would be puking and crying because the pain would escalate to outrageous levels.  It didn’t take me long to realize that despite how good any food smelled or seemed, it wasn’t worth being thrown back into that kind of heinous torture.  And although I avoided food with it in it at all costs, there was always those times MSG would go undetected and I would get it by accident.  It’s funny, because there are many names for MSG one wouldn’t even think about:  Hydrolyzed Soy Protein, Soy Protein Isolate,  Autolyzed Plant Protein, Sodium Caseinate, and the list goes on.  No wonder as a child it would get slipped into my food, thanks to the FDA. 

It wasn’t until my mother suffered a heart attack at age 36 from the chemical that I really considered keeping my diet in check, I was only 6 and I knew I never wanted to live that reality.  My mother has mitral valve prolapse, and MSG directly triggered her valve to stay open, allowing bad blood to flow backwards into the heart.  Given how many allergies we share, and that both of my parents have bad hearts, I am not excited to see my mid 30’s.  I never thought that I’d be able to enjoy take out or fast food like other kids.  But that all changed when I turned 13.

I was sitting in the cafeteria one day in Leonard Middle School and again, the ever alluring Doritos were being eaten by just about every one of my friends.  I sat and stared longingly as I always had at their snack size bags, hoping for just a little taste but knowing what was to come.  Eventually, I couldn’t control myself any further, and I asked for a chip; just one whole one.  My friends looked at me puzzled, for they knew what happened when I ate the stuff, but I insisted and one of them obliged.  It was a bag of Cooler Ranch, and the one chip I had was delectable.  I know most people don’t think “delectable” when it comes to chips, but being that I was restrained from having basic junk food like that, it was amazing.  The bell rang to go back to class and I immediately began regretting what I had done.  We still had another two and a half hours of school left, and it would only be a matter of 30-45 minutes before I would be in my own personal hell. 

I sat through Social studies, staring at the clock and expecting the worst to come.  Then I sat through Pre-Algebra, also waiting for the inevitable.  It wasn’t until the bell rang to go home that I realized I wasn’t getting sick at all, not even a minor headache.  I left school and jumped in my mom’s car, but decided not to mention my little test of my allergies.  We drove home and as I walked in the front door I still felt nothing.  It was as if I had been absolved of my hereditary issues, but how?  I couldn’t be sure, but slowly after that day I began trying lots of things with MSG, in small amounts at first.  Within two years, I was able to eat anything with MSG, no matter how much of the food additive that was present. 

My mother to this day cannot eat Monosodium Glutamate, and she’s never lost any of her other allergies either.  What frightens me is that I know eventually, this demon is going to come back to haunt me.  It’s only a matter of time before my body switches back over to being highly sensitive to the additive.  But in the meantime, I am going to stuff in as much Chinese, Doritos, and everything else under the sun with MSG in it so when that time comes, I don’t feel like I’m missing out so bad.  It’s probably the worst thing I can literally do, but we only get one life and I love food, so even though its cliché, I’d rather have loved and lost then never loved at all.