The Mean Reds

There’s a scene in Breakfast at Tiffany’s when Holly Golightly explains to Paul Varjak what it is to have “the mean reds.”  It’s not like the blues, she explains. The blues just mean you’re sad. But with the mean reds, “Suddenly you’re scared, and you don’t know what you’re scared of.” The only thing that works for Holly when she’s feeling that way is to jump in a cab and go to Tiffany’s. Well, I’ve got a nasty case of the mean reds,  except all of my fears are completely identifiable.

My mother has been in the hospital for over two weeks now. She was diagnosed with stage one ovarian cancer. They were supposed to take out the mass and she would be home a few days later. It hasn’t gone that way. The “mass” turned out to be one of her ovaries, swollen nearly to bursting with 2.5 liters of fluid inside. They did a complete hysterectomy. Given that my mom is well into her 70s, she didn’t much mind that. But complications arose. The day after the surgery, she started slurring her speech and forgetting her name. She was poked and prodded and tested for everything under the sun. It turned out to be a nasty infection that required aggressive antibiotics.  Her kidneys failed. Her digestive system started working in reverse. I prepared myself for the worst. Well, I tried to anyway.

I kept dwelling on the fact that I never gave her a grandchild. I never bought her a nice car. I took and took, but I don’t feel that I ever gave. I lost my dad several years ago very suddenly. He had a heart attack in the middle of the night. I wasn’t ready to let him go. I suppose no one is ever really ready to lose a loved one, no matter how it happens. But now with the prospect of losing mom too,  I find myself caught between grief, fear and dread of the future.

There’s a complicating factor. I have a special-needs sister. She’s high functioning, but she can’t live alone. She can’t earn a decent living. She needs help. Until now, my mother has been that help. These past few weeks have shown me a glimpse into my future as her care-taker. And honestly, it’s okay. Except for the fact that I’m not ready. 

A couple years ago, I had the bright idea to quit my job in marketing communications, sell my condo and go to film school in Vancouver. I loved it, and felt I’d finally found my life’s calling. Since then, I’ve been working in production and trying to carve out a path for myself as a screenwriter. I was doing okay, too. Until that damn tumor came in to our lives. I’ve spent my savings. I’ve given everything I have to try to make a go of this film thing. And it was working. But I’m not there yet. I can barely support myself, let alone someone else. I was supposed to be moving to Los Angeles this summer. I was supposed to be getting my first job in a writer's room this summer. Instead, I'm chauffering and grocery shopping and constantly tidying up during the few hours a day that I'm not at the hospital.

So here I find myself at home on a Friday night with a bad case of the mean reds. I feel so selfish for even having these thoughts when there are so many other emotions to process and my mom is enduring such terrible things. I can't afford a therapist right now, so for the time being, you ladies are it!  Before I sat down to write this post, I wondered what my life-affirming message or statement would be at the end of it. Right about now, I’m figuring out that it’s the writing that’s cathartic, not the pseudo-inspirational Confucianist message.

Even though I don't have the sweet little coda to turn this story into something inspiring, there is some good news! Mom appears to be on the upswing. A second surgery seems to have smoothed out a kink in her small bowel and she seems to be coming back this way. Time will tell. Time will tell about all of it.