Don't Let Me Die In A Motel 6 or One Woman's Struggle Through The Great Recession (22 page)

The highlight was when four twenty-somethings, dressed like Goths passing as hippies
, checked
into
the room next door.
And what frolic commenced
therewith
!
What imbibing of liquors and taking of drugs!
They stayed up all night, partying on the balcony outside their door.
I was so worn out from
medical tests
that
they didn’t even keep me up.
But having drug dealers
as
neighbors was another new one on me, right up there with
befriending the
LAPD and being beat
en up on the street.
Soon
,
I would get a
Harley
tattoo and change my name to
Baby
.
Now, I just wished they would go away.

What fun there was at the Motel 6
®
!
The drunk guy who tried to pick me up by the pool; the officious clerk with acne who threatened us with eviction if the rent money (uh, room rate) wasn’t paid.
The melodious sound of the freeway just a heartbeat away.
You know you’re in trouble when
you
start to
feel jealous of
the
people
next door --
at
a
Holiday Inn
Express
.

After five weeks
,
I was ready to set fire to the bedspread
, so I explored (as
c
ompanies
say when they
can
some
one
) “other opportunities.”
I
discovered
a Marriott Extended Stay in
nearby
Thousand Oaks.
The rates were reasonable, the
facilities decent, so we packed up the menagerie and began our Stay Extended.
There were no druggies here:
just suited executives with briefcases enjoying the free breakfast (essentially Special K) with Nigel and I
each
morning.
There was even a patch of Astroturf where our Sheltie dogs could pee.
Hallelujah
!
This was living. I had pulled back from the brink.

But my delight in our new
digs
contracted every day.
The date was coming – July 19
th
–
when I
would be laid
out
on the table
.
The reality
of
cancer would smack
me in the face once
Phase I
t
began.

We had to get up really early – that was the worst part of the
day
.
I firmly believe that life itself is not possible prior to
9
A.M.
We climbed
ornate
tiled
stairs until we came to the TOSH lobby.
This was not a cable show, but the Thousand Oaks Surgical Hospital.
It was very highly rated, and you could see why:
it looked
like a non-extended Marriott
, with lemon-filled pitchers of water,
carafes of coffee, and thick-
cushioned chairs
.
As with Galpin Jaguar in
the Valley, you half expected to fi
nd a Starbucks
making
latt
és.
We checked in with the receptionis
t
–
young,
blonde and perky –
exactly
the kind I hated.
I sa
nk into
a comfy chair, waiting for my call t
ime.

My parents came through the door – they had driven from
Lake
Arrowhead to sit
Shiva
during
the s
urgery.
Also my friend Tanya, who’d flown down from San
Jose
.
She was a person you could always count on, and
that, my friends, i
s rarer
in nature
than
radium.
So treat
these types,
Dear Reader, like the living treasures they are.
Rachel was AWOL:
she was traveling in Japan or China or London,
on
business.
At least I’d scored an audience of four.
And my aunt and uncle were
coming
, so
all things considered,
it
wasn’t a bad house.

At last, the nurse came out, whisking me away to pre-op.
I think that Nigel came with me.
As I lay on the hospital
gurney,
donn
ing the requisite light
blue gown, was I terrified, Reader, at the
prospect
of the knife
before me
?

Nah
.

I had been through this
twice before,
a grizzled
veteran of the wars
.
I have to say that for a neurotic Jew, I was
a preternaturally
calm
patient.
One time I even fell asleep in pre-op.

The anesthesiologist
appeared
, introducing himself as they always do.
Like we were going to a cocktail party.
They rolled me into
the
OR
,
which was brighter than
a
film
set but with
real
medical equipment.
I saw
Dr. Candle
and felt better.
He didn’t look bad in a mask.
Then
I
had one placed on my face, and next thing I knew, I was waking up.
And coughing.
And coughing.

“Were you sick before you came in?”
As always, the nurse
s
knew.

“Yup.
A little.”
I’d had a sor
e throat the week before, but
didn’t want to postpone
my date
.
It had been long enough
–
six weeks since
that first diagnosis.
I wanted that cancer out of me.

I was wheeled from post-op into
an enormous
hospital room.
Honestly, Roy
Scheider
,
playing Bob Fosse, could have invited a party of fifty after his heart attack in
All That Jazz.

My smallish
minyan
was waiting.
My parents, looking worried:
despite everything, they
really
cared.
Tanya, always there; and Nigel, hovering like a hen.
Tanya told me months later that the only thing
he’d
talked about
was Aurora:
it was an endless loop from Hell.
Likewise, when I’d called to tell him I had cancer, he’d broken down and sobbed, alarming my friend Joe
so much he feared he’d
kill himself
.
The
actual reason for the breakdown:
d
isappointment that Aurora wouldn’t be
joining me for a “family moment
” in Seattle.
So don’t get too teary-eyed, Reader, at his
role of compassionate caregiver
.
He had a dual agenda, like a double
-crossing
agent whose loyalty
lies
on one
side
.

I got to stay overnight.
They were concerned about my coughing.
I felt that in TOSH, I could order
champagne and
a movie
: maybe a
Maine lobster
.
And the best perk of all:
a
morphine
IV
drip that could be
tripped
by pressing a button.
If only we could walk around with one permanently
attached
!
Boss being an asshole?
CLICK.
Kids won’t listen?
CLICK.

I went home (to the Extended Stay) to recuperate.
This surgery had been tough – much worse than the first time.
Dr. Candle
had removed the
tumor
– plus thirteen lymph nodes – from the left.
And the
benign
lump
on the right.
It was equal-
opportunity hurting.

I’ve always
had
an
extreme sensitivity to drugs.
If I
took
an
aspirin
,
the top of
my head
started
buzzing
.
But by this time
, I’d been on Paxil for a decade
:
I’d gained 50
pounds; my
hands were constantly
throbbing
; my mouth felt like Bed
ouins
camped there
.
But as I’d sa
id
in my
routine
:
Better fat than crazy.
I thought that was a good name for a tour.

I
also
had
high blood pressure.
Su
r
prise
!
I was on something called
Metoprolol,
seemingly more addictive than smack.
Who knew that this common pill could inspire
visions?
If I ran out and
had no refills
,
I
saw Jesus on Judgment Day.  And I was
not
at his right hand. . .

Added to
my stash
was Vicodin, which they’d given me for the pain.
I couldn't understand
its
attract
ion to ad
dicts all over America.
All it did was make
me sick, and once, even with my leg in a
cast, I’d lay
down on the floor
after taking it
,
not knowing how I’d get up.
Post-surgery, I gobbled
them
like M&Ms, impatient for the clock to move
so
that
I could take the next one.
Dou
ble breast lumpectomies involve
some deep hurting.
Let me describe the feeling:
parts of your breast and underarm feel alternately numb and knifed with pain.
Two
-and-a-half years later, I still have this sensation.
Then there was
The Drain.

A Filipino nurse would come in daily to change this lovely device, attached to the surgical site.
I tried not to look, but when I
did
, I saw blood in the plastic tank:
lots
of it.
I was
then rewrapped like The Mummy after my blood offering was
given
.
The nurse
made
notes on my output: “Monday –
.3 pints
.”  I don’t know if she was happy or dejected when there was nothing left to record.

Besides becoming a
near
Vicodin
addict, the four-week period after surgery was not a good time.
Still, Phase
One
was the pleasantest part of my
treatment
.
Compared to what was to come,
I’d gladly return to TOSH and
donate a couple of organs.

My
days of lassitude
commenced.
They
would
last for a full
ten months.
I lay in bed all day, sometimes getting up to eat.
I was never a daytime TV
fan
and
was too drugged to read.
What I did was
to
get on
the Web,
surfing
news sites
to pass the time
.
Before long,
I
could have taken on Hilary Clinton.