The Big Why

The medication, well, we wait. I wait. To see if it is friend or foe.

It is still too soon to tell.

My hands now shake when I try to hold a mug of tea, when I try to write a check. My vision is screwy, fuzzy. I can’t get warm. I am not complaining; I am listing the facts. This is hardcore stuff, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t scare me some. Still, I hope.

Yesterday, my mother—who is sick with a wretched upper respiratory infection—could hear the panic in my voice. “I don’t have milk,” I said. She sighed, with more love than exasperation. With my mother, there are no strings attached, and my God, that is rare in this world.

“Let me put on some clothes and I’ll drive you to the supermarket,” she said.

She dropped me off at the Big Y (the Big Why?) and headed to Rite-Aid for Sudafed. I clung to a cart and made my foggy way up and down the aisles. I had a sweaty list crunched in my hand, but still, the Big Why is always misery for me.

I don’t know what to feed my children, because my children do not eat the same thing twice. The guilt of purchasing food that I know they will waste, with money that we can’t afford to spend—it is simply too much. Combine that with the haze of the medicine and simply not feeling well yet, and it is the Perfect Storm of the Grocery World.

So I inched up and down the aisles, scratching off items on my sad little list with a mini-golf pencil I had found in Mom’s car, trying not to cry, trying not to listen to the pop songs of lost love that kill me.

I can usually hold it together. I am used to putting on a happy, perky face. “Chipper,” my one friend calls it. I am the queen of chipper. This means you might not notice that I am dying inside as I put milk, yogurt, apples, white bread and two Lunchables (gasp!) in my cart right beside you.

Which means, of course, that everyone at the Big Why could be dying inside. There are many kings and queens of chipper in this world.

This is what I was thinking as I shuffled my cart into the canned food aisle. There, the dizziness struck. I lurched sideways, trying to catch my balance, and fell into a row of canned lima beans, pinto beans, beans, beans, beans. The other woman in the aisle pretended not to notice. But the humiliation of the small moment was potent. A drunk. I look like a drunk.

I gave up on the rest of my list. I checked out, cheeks flaming, head low.

“Play your game,” said the checkout clerk.

“What? Oh.”

I played the Big Why touchscreen slot machine. One silver coin, two silver coins…a gold coin. Not a winner. Surprise, surprise. Maybe someday.

I paid and pushed my cart outside. No sign of Mom yet. The wind had kicked up, and I could feel the weakness, the wooziness, taking over. I shoved my cart up against a concrete pillar to steady myself and put my hood up and head down.

“Is Kansas City close to New Orleans?”

I looked up to see a straggly, worn-looking man. He was waiting for an answer.

“What?”

“Is Kansas City close to New Orleans?”

I pondered this.

“Hm. Not super-close, no,” I replied.

He nodded and continued on his way.

I wondered at his question. Kansas City resonates for me, the home of an old friend who had struggled with mental illness. New Orleans, well, I think of rebuilding, of art, of struggle.

Not super-close. No.

When my mom pulled up, it was all I could do to get the groceries into the trunk. She offered to get me a warm latte before taking me home. The girls would be home soon.

I agreed. A takeout cup beats an open-top mug these days. I stayed in the car, shaky and cold despite her having left the engine running and the heat on.

When she came back with lattes and chili for us, I was sobbing.

“Oh dear,” she said. “You’re crying.”

She is charmingly sweet about stating the obvious.

“Yup,” I said.

She got in the car. We sat.

“I’m scared,” I said. “How did I get here? Is this my life?”

“Right now it is,” she said. “It won’t always be like this. It won’t.”

“My hands shake. I fell into the lima beans. Who’s going to hire me? What kind of job will I be able to do? I looked like a sad drunk, Mom. I’m so tired. I am so, so tired.”

“Let’s go,” she said. “I’m coming over.”

“You’re sick too,” I said. “You need to go to bed.”

“You need help with the girls. I’m coming over. And you need to EAT.”

We managed to drag all of the groceries inside. We collapsed at the kitchen table with our chili and tuna wraps.

“I’m serious,” she said. “It won’t always be like this.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know. I love you so much,” she said.

“I love you too, Mom,” I said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I want to believe it will get better, like she says it will. But right now, I can barely keep my head up. I perk up when people show up, and I wish I didn’t. It’s old habit. I wish I could drool on the pillow like I am going to do now, as soon as I finish writing this post. I wish I could say, I’m scared. Who’s going to hire me if I stay like this? No, I’m not better yet. No. Really. Yes, the medicine is still kicking my ass. Yes, it was a good day when I managed the Christmas lights. But those days are few and wipe me out. I need help, still, and don’t know when that will end. I want it to end. I want to be self-sufficient. But I’m not, not yet.

I hurt. I will get there, but the distance from here to there? Not super-close, no.