The Nuclear Option

I am going to be vulgar and discuss money.

Right now, I have a very handy $1,700 in my checking account. I am also $18,000 in debt on my home equity line of credit with not much further to go than that with my HELOC. Virtually nothing in savings.

My mortgage payment is $1,200 / month.

I have Unemployment Insurance of $17,000 available to me in weekly chunks of $650, but that won't start until May 3.

I have nothing of value to sell. At the moment, I am not going to go back into pet sitting or having a roommate. If I got a part time job, that could extend the money available to me. I'm thinking retail although I know I don't have the physical stamina to do it.

So the nuclear option, the drop the big one now option, is getting rid of most of my crap, packing up the remnants and putting it into storage, and moving in with Cousin Kay in Richmond. I haven't mentioned it to her yet. I think I'm waiting for clearer signals. After all, it's only been a week. I've had three phone calls of interest (one offered me $17/hour less than what I had been making and I can't live on that, roommate or no roommate). I need to get back to them because I think the people who had been interested went with another candidate and I want to know officially if that's the case.

I have considered suicide but I won't do it unless I know the cats are squared away. And must talk with Dr. A and with a priest.

I've also done all kinds of practical things. I can go to the local food pantry tomorrow. My phone bill has been immediately sliced in half. The garbage pickup company has reduced my rate somewhat. Comcast gave me bupkis. I am considering getting rid of that but that's my only job hunting resource. Yes, I can go to the library and Panera. It's still an option.

Although it's chilly in the house this morning at 64 degrees, I have turned off the heat and told myself to like it or lump it.

I could retire in June but the money available to me wouldn't be enough to cover my expenses here. I would still have to move.

I have a good support system. My pal from the old, old workplace, Emma, the Queen Bee and especially the Prince Consort who is giving me all kinds of great pointers about interviewing techniques.

Oddly, I don't feel sorry for myself. I feel like I'm looking at things objectively. I could live like this for maybe another three months, then drastic action must be taken.

Oh, must finish my will first. Who gets how much of this piece of pathetic pie? I feel like all I would leave behind are debts.

Maybe I will drop the big one. But not just yet.

Emma - I Can't Do This Again

I talked to Emma a couple of days ago. She was beside herself, weeping, sobbing into the telephone. The medication that had helped her rise above her disabling depression has pooped out - that's an official psychiatric term, actually - on her. Her conclusion: "I'll never be happy again. I'll never have friends here. I felt so normal for a while, you know? But now even this miracle drug has stopped working so I know I'll never feel normal again."

I was immediately grateful for Dr. Yeow, who has worked with me diligently over the years to get the blend of medications just right (so far...who knows what could happen tomorrow?). I was grateful to Dr. A. for hammering away at me to get me to see that the extremes I saw weren't really that extreme, teaching me to think more rationally.

All the "nevers" I heard made me hurt for Emma. That conversation went on for an hour and a half and when we said good-bye, I'm not sure she was feeling any better.

I called her again yesterday afternoon. She wasn't hysterical anymore. Instead, her voice had taken the flat, dead properties it had when she has reached the bottom of her depression and is there, submerged in filthy water and muck with no intention of trying to get out.

I asked her if she had tried calling her psychiatrist again.

She said no, she'd already called and left a message once. Obviously it wouldn't do any good to call him again.

Obviously.

I asked her what she's been doing.

"Sleeping a lot. Watching TV and doing crosswords."

"So basically, you're at the point where you were when I came to see you for Christmas." (See Cheesehead Christmas, 2007.)

"Yeah, pretty much."

At this point, I didn't have anything to say because when I get to this point with Emma, I know there's nothing I can say to help her. And I realized something yesterday. It's not my job or responsibility to make sure that Emma's okay. She can do that to a certain extent, plus she has Sven around. It's not my job, I told myself, and I didn't feel a bit guilty about it. I can't do this again. I can't go through the whole drama of the Cheesehead business anymore.

I performed my last act of service. I know her psychiatrist's name, looked him up on Google, and left a message on his office voice mail. Knowing Emma from previous episodes, she's almost too depressed to commit suicide. She'll just stay stuck in the deep muck where she's living right now until somebody else pulls her out of it. Somebody who's not me.

From everything Emma's told me about him, he sounds like a responsive guy and I can only think that Emma did not push the urgency of her situation or that he had an emergency that required a great deal of his time.

But me? I'm out of this. The Dr. Becs shingle has been taken in for good.

This morning as I was writing in my journal, drinking my coffee, hanging out with the cats, I felt this unfolding in my heart. The cats were sleeping. Someone was running a power washer. The birds were chirping. The coffee was hot and delicious and it's a beautiful day.

This is contentment, I thought, so hard-won, so dearly purchased. I'm not going to risk it for anyone else, especially when I know the background of the story. I'm 58. I was miserable for so, so long. I had days when I'd lay in bed and cry all day, for no specific reasons. Now I'll lay in bed for a couple of hours just to cuddle with Dylan or rejoice in the cool weather and to enjoy the fluffiness of my comforter and the sunlight on the walls. (Usually accompanied with the thought, ha, ha! No one can get me out of bed and no one can make me feel guilty for enjoying it, ha, ha!)

I suppose it all boils down to this. I've been thinking this for a while, but now it has bubbled up to the top of my brain.

I have not just taken down my shingle. I am prepared to let Emma go. I may already have done that by contacting her shrink, but I'm not the captain of Emma's soul and I'm not prepared to go down with that ship.

A Lot About Nothing

Usually at this time of the morning, I'm dressed for work and getting ready to go. But since we're enjoying a pea-soup fog, I'm waiting until it's vaguely daylight outside.

Cousin Karen Update

I've been thinking about this hard, the whole situation. I realized that part of my initial enthusiasm in lending a hand was selfish. I have a hard time admitting when I'm lonely. It's just background noise at this point. I remembered that it doesn't take much for my gregariousness quota to be full. I'm not sure this would work on a long-term basis.

I also realized that my Cousin Danny is legally her next of kin. So I started texting him the other day. He sounded far more rational than she did. (It's not her fault.) He sounded fairly confident about the loss mitigation/mediation program they're going through, but I got no other details. I haven't been able to reach him to actually speak to him.

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Emma Update

Emma had been ill for over a week, unable to keep anything down. When I talked to her Monday evening, she sounded like she was at death's door. Sven was at home, so I told her to get dressed and let Sven take her to the tiny emergency room they have in Podunkville. Astoundingly, she did. They gave her IV fluids and sent her home with anti-barf meds.

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Boris Update

Friends, he is slowing down. He's no longer grooming himself, but he still has an appetite and still loves to cuddle. He has a jones for Whiskas Temptations. He likes to get brushed. So he gets all of these things in abundance.

Everyone else is A-OK, although I suspect Dylan has arthritis in his front paws. It's hard to realize that the youngest one, Blue is 10 this year. And kind of scary, too.

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Me Update

I'm tired of being tired. I'm very grateful for finally achieving a balanced mood, but the balance has to be carefully watched, all the time. One side effect of all of these drugs is to make me sleepy and/or fatigued. By the time I get home, I'm lucky to pour a bowl of cereal for myself and dole out cat food for the kitties. I get into my jammies, watch a movie, and fall into bed.

There has to be and is a better way. It's all very simple. I need to make myself a cup of coffee around 3 - 4 p.m. Good coffee, not that in-the-office bile. And while I normally take coffee black, in the afternoons it has to have some 1/2 & 1/2 in it. This is sketchy at work, although the company graciously provides milk and 1/2 & 1/2. I go in at 9 am and the fridge is full. I go in at 3 pm to the kitchen and there's 1/4 of an inch of skim milk left. The easy and rational solution is for me to take my own but disguise it so no one will think she can "borrow" it and no one will mind.

There is a serious misunderstanding at work of what's yours and what's mine, especially when it comes to the contents of the refrigerator. And if this is the biggest problem I have at work, I am truly blessed.

I have projects and things I want to accomplish at home but I'm getting exactly nowhere with them because all I do at home is sleep. At this point, I doubt Cousin Karen will come to live with me, but I still want to sort out the house. It's needed sorting for a couple of years now and I want to do it. Before, I didn't care but for some reason (head meds?) I care now. I see what needs to be done, have a reasonable plan in place for doing it, but when I lift a hand, it's usually to change into my pajamas. Wake up, Becs, wake up!

Emma's Way

I like talking to Emma these days. It's like talking to what I imagine a normal person is like. She isn't complaining constantly about how tired she is, about how Sven isn't pulling his weight (no, Sven was pulling his weight and hers), about how someone had slighted her in Little Oslo, the town of 256 people.

She is actually trying to take care of herself.

She knows how hard, if not impossible, it will be to give up smoking, but she's still trying to. Her doctor told Emma that they weren't seeing any good effects at all from the physical therapy. In fact, it made Emma's oxygen saturation levels go down and that is not a good thing. At last, Emma has agreed to use oxygen when she's sleeping and she says she wakes up raring to go. This is nothing short of a miracle, because it usually took Sven threats of electric cattle prods to get her going in the morning.

I told her about the book I'm reading on Bipolar Disorder. How to recognize the manic, or rather, hypomanic (All new! Brought to you by Popeil! The all new hypomanic!) when it arrives. Usually with Edgar Winter on the soundtrack and AC/DC and Aerosmith. I know. Me? Aerosmith? Get the hell outta heyah.

I told her that the last time it hit, I was able to stop the roller coaster before it turned into the subway to Hell.

She said, "I don't have a problem with that anymore. That Lamictal stuff is just great. I don't have those highs and lows anymore. I still get irritable but that's why I've got clonazepam." All God's psychos got clonazepam.

She swore about how wonderful it is and today, I looked it up.

The Lamictal Rash.It is feared more than a full-blown manic episode. And I can sure as hell see why.

It can make your skin fall off.

Oh, yeah, we meant to tell you. And actually, we do if you read the package insert. You see, your epidermis can sometimes just slliiiidde right off the mucosal layer of your skin. Ouch!

They go one to give survival rates for The Rash.

If 10% of your skin falls off, you've got a pretty good chance of making it. Although the treatment for it may disable you. Like, if it falls off your feet, ankles and shins. It might kind of bind up your ankles.

If 30% of your skin falls off, you are in deep doo-doo. Survival rates for this are not good at all. I've seen pictures. You don't want to.

I remember Emma being concerned about it when she first started taking it. She made harsh jokes about it, which meant she was scared. But I think if your skin is going to fall off, it does it in the first couple of weeks.

Me? I'd rather just keep reading the book and working through the exercises. Although prone to wee cancers on my face, I like my skin and intend to keep it around as long as I can.

Oh - total bill for the surgery: $2,312.25. And it hasn't been approved yet.

Life is just a chair of bowlies.

Life's too mysterious. Don't take it serious. But this Lamictal stuff I'm taking very seriously.

May Miscellany

In the Still of the Night...

I've known my whole life that I talk in my sleep. People who have shared a bed with me overnight - and there haven't been so many, actually - swear that I never say anything intelligible.

To contradict them, I remind them of the patriotic night I once had, when I woke up sitting bolt up-right in bed, imaginary flag on a stick in hand, shouting "God bless you, Mr. Lincoln!"

I woke up a couple of times last night, especially as the day began to dawn. I called, "Emma? EMMA!" and woke up during the second Emma. Don't tell me there weren't instances when I slept with Xman where similar things didn't happen. I don't believe it.

I have a voice activated tape recorder. I haven't used it because I'm afraid of what I'll hear in the morning, other than lots and lots of snoring.

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And It Just Keeps Getting Better Every Day

In the 12 years I've lived here, there hasn't been a town-wide property assessment.

Guess what our asshat mayor just decided? That he doesn't want to run for office again. Or that some citizens misbehaved when they caught him doing something naughty. This guy really is on a huge power trip.

I say this with dread because long ago, I knew a woman who worked at Mighty Citadel. She was partially disabled and kept dreading layoffs because she was sure that she would be one of the chosen people.

Just as all this happened, a reassessment was decreed. Her property tax bill went from $6K / yr to $12K/yr, which was about half of her take home pay, not including her mortgage.

Lucky her - she had a sister who had a spare house (big money. Old money) on her property and asked Steph to come live in it. So she did. I've heard nothing from her since so either she's blissfully ensconced in small town life or her skeleton will lie in the Chamber of Secrets forever.

We (the royal "we") don't pay much attention to the property tax because it is a way of life in Jersey. Houses in the area where Annushka lived started the property tax at $14K / yr.

But this has struck fear into my heart. If my property tax doubles, I simply cannot pay it. I haven't got a clue what I would do. I suppose the first trick is to get the house cleaned up and out. That's always a good place to start from.

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 Cousin Karen and the Sleep Study

It looks like this will not come to pass. The co-pay - the co-pay - is $500. She's had all kinds of stuff done already, an EEG, an EKG, a MRI and several more scrambles in the alphabet soup. I guess they weren't quit so pricey.

I don't know why she needs to have a sleep study because Cousin Danny and I can both attest to the fact that she wakens frequently in the night and will sometimes struggle to sit up. I saw her do this after taking a nap on my couch.

I have a feeling this visit is not going to happen and until the pain thing is resolved, am not much in the mood for entertaining.

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Cheated

I had worked for three hours on Friday, then I left for the emergency room. It turns out I have been docked a day's vacation for this.

Learning this did not make me happy.

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The Stink-Eye

The HR director is a cute - well, she would be cute if she smiled - tiny brunette who wears capris and high heel espadrilles and I've never know anyone who could out-stink-eye me until I met her. She scares me. I know I could take her, but she scares me. Oh, I'm sure the rest of our "non-gossip" office knows why she is so melancholy or angry or whatever it is that she is. Really, what is her problem? Does she give everyone that stank or is it just reserved for me?

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Doctor, Please. Some More of These

Oh, I do like my new drugs. Thank you, Dr. Pain. The weird thing about it is that this enormous load of tranquilizers and muscle relaxers lets me concentrate and work more than I've been able to in years.

Have I been in this much pain for X years and not known it? Surely not.

High As Kites

Cousin Karen posted to Facebook last night that during the day, she had forgotten:

1. Where she lived
2. That her mom had died in 1997 and she couldn't understand why no one would answer the phone when she dialed her mom's number.

To her credit, she realized it was time to get very, very serious. She hasn't (sigh) followed up with the neurologist since her stroke nearly a year ago. Oh, maybe once or twice, but not like she should have been. Nor has she been taking the proper medication she needs to keep herself in line.

We IMed during the day. I managed not to be overbearing, but suggested that she take Cousin Danny with her to the appointment. I know he's got the full story on what she's being doing, not doing, and forgetting. I said she should write down her questions before the appointment and Danny would remember what got said at the doctor's office.

She said she would and once again, I told her she always has a home with me. Although I have to admit, I didn't figure caretaker would come into this, it just might.

I'm asking myself if I'm willing to do this and so far the answer is likely so. I know, what commitment! But this is not something you agree to lightly.

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I talked to Emma for an hour and a half yesterday. Her mother's memorial service was held last week. Emma took Mary Rose's cremated remains and walked along the edge of a park / prairie her mom had helped restore, scattering ashes here and there. "I broke the law," she giggled and I said, "So what's new?"

And then the weirdest, most bizarre stuff started coming out of Emma's mouth. Oh, her mom had been really happy as a child and even up until the time of her death, had dozens of really close friends in Milwaukee, that her mother had cut her loose at an early age (five?!) because her younger sons were severely brain damaged. And that Emma understood all that now and well, she went on. And on. Talking about how nice her mom was, how lonely her mom must have been after her dad died and that was why she committed suicide.

My jaw dropped and wouldn't let me say anything and I realize that was for the best. But I wanted to say, hey? Don't you remember that your dad used to tell you kids to shut up because your mother was suicidal? And you couldn't have been more than ten, and yes, your dad was still alive. Don't you remember how many times your mother threatened suicide when your dad was alive and kicking?

But even though I am a bit of a social dullard, I managed to catch on to this pretty quickly. Emma sounded not happy but relieved and peaceful and I am hardly the one to harsh that buzz.

I hope that this attitude remains firm and fixed. That she doesn't wake up one morning and start having hysterics that her mom committed suicide because she was a nutty old bat to begin with. I hope this useful illusion has been super-glued into her psyche, because I think she needs it and I think she needs it to be permanent.

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Oh, as I get older, I see more things from my mother's perspective. I also know that she suffered from a serious brain injury and was in chronic pain nearly every day of her life. I also know that she was bat-shit crazy. And dangerous. But the human part, I understand more of. The bit about trying too hard to be loved, trying so hard and demanding so much of people that she scared them and drove them away. Yeah, I get that. Along with her cluelessness about what had happened. What? What did I do?

These are words I've said myself, so yeah, I get it.

But no amount of understanding will beguile me. The distance between us expands and expands and I am very happy to keep it that way.

Emma

Emma told me the other night that she has been diagnosed with COPD.

She is 56 years old.

And she still smokes.

Miss Sympathy here is so furious at her that I don't know what to say.

But I do remember a July day in 1997 when I said to her, "Emma, I beg you, please stop smoking. My mother just died of lung cancer. My aunt died of lung cancer. My grandmother died of lung cancer. Please stop smoking."

She said no.

And now she says she has to stop. Isn't it just a little too late?

Oh, I know something else could get her in the meantime, but just looking at some of the autopsy pictures on the innerwebz has made me want to weep. And I am so angry that she did this to herself.

The Amateur Psychiatric Convention

Convened during the trip RCW and I took to the Culinary Institute last Friday. (Egads! Almost a week?)

We talked about Emma. Emma did not and does not know about BecsFest.

Emma's formal diagnosis is bipolar disorder. But RCW and I have been pondering the very real possibility that Emma has Borderline Personality Disorder.

Last night, I looked up all kinds of articles on it and since they are on the innerwebz, they must be true. Yes, Bipolar and BPD look a lot alike. Where the difference begins is that drugs for Bipolar work and can control it. As with all personality disorders I've read about (even in real books), you're pretty much stuck with it. If you can manage the symptoms some of the time, you're lucky. You're lucky if you're even cognizant that you're exhibiting the symptoms.

BPD scares me. People with BPD can be very dangerous without meaning to be. And as any good cyberchondriac, it made me afraid that I have it, but there are differences. As far as I can tell, Emma doesn't have any friends out there on the lone prairie. I learned this weekend that I do indeed have friends. There are people in the world who love me. (A curious thing to realize in the midst of being broken-up-with by the ever-absent Anonymous Boyfriend...)

Dr. Becs and Dr. RCW put their darling heads together and came up with a diagnosis that rings very, very true for Emma. It's not easy to see her in this light, but I think that's the only bulb that's lit on this string.

Not Even Asking

Soon after I invited RCW to the grand soiree, she asked tactfully if Emma would be coming.

I said that I'd thought about it but my conclusion was that if Emma came, it would all be about Emma. It would involve watching her and being scared she would explode or implode. I knew, too, that she would expect to stay at my house.

The few times Emma has stayed at my house, she has completely disregarded my rule against smoking in my house or car. Emma is a chain smoker. Three packs a day is her average. There was a time when I was used to this, but not anymore.

Emma has also damaged things by dropping cigarettes.

The one time we shared a hotel room together - I paid for it - it was a non smoking room and she smoked. Luckily, this was back in the day when people were expected to cheat and no one enforced the "you will pay this much money if we have to get rid of the smell of cigarettes." And I knew she would kick up a fuss about not being allowed to smoke in the park. ("WTF? It's fucking outdoors!" she would say.)

Plus there is the usual Emma baggage and I knew she would want to talk about it, but I've had my quota for a good long while now. Lately whenever she begins to complain, I shove her in the direction of her shrink. I'm too tired to deal with it anymore. She asks for my advice and then she never takes it. So... why ask again?

I don't have the energy to deal with her. Honestly, I don't know if I will ever want to see her face to face again.

RCW phoned yesterday and we laughed our asses off for about half an hour (alas, my ass came back). And then Emma called. In that dead voice I dread, she said, "Oh....hey...it's Emma. You know....today's my birthday."

Mine was in June. What a coincidence!

I wished her a happy birthday and asked if Sven had taken her anyplace nice. It seems he had. Nice. And apparently her crazy mother hadn't interfered with it, which is a gift in and of itself.

"You know...I was thinking...Maybe if I could scrape together some money, I could come visit you in October."

Noooooooo. No. No. Nichts. Nein. Absolutement non. Don't even go there.

"Maybe, I don't know, Columbus Day weekend?"

Okay. Who squealed?

And I decided the "these are not the droids you're looking for" approach would work best for me. I said, "Honey, it's a real problem of time. If I don't work, I don't get paid."

She sighed. "Yeah. I figured that would be problematic."

We moved on from there. She told me about a woman in their little town that Emma thought liked her. "I thought we were friends. But she won't answer my phone calls. And I just found out that she'd been telling everyone she was going to Japan to teach English for a month while her daughter's visiting her boyfriend in Ireland."

I can't tell you how many of these little friendships Emma's been through.

She is so completely in the wrong place. I know she loves her land and her garden. I know she loves the critters, from the ducks to the wayward cattle. But I don't think she's in the right place. She's surrounded by stodgy elderly Norwegians who once voted on whether or not anyone not of Norwegian extraction would be allowed to live in the town. The recession hurt the little boomlet of artsy fartsy people moving in. And even most of those, she didn't get along with for one reason or another.

I can see Emma and Sven owning maybe ten acres or so outside Madison or Lacrosse, someplace that still has a kind of hippie chic going for it. I think it's dawned on her that she's not going to bea able to keep the 100 acres they have, that in about five years, it's going to be way too much for them to handle.

So. In case you were wondering, Emma will not be at the party.

Is There Work Today? / Emma the Tedious

Hm. We'll see if the gates of TRU are closed to me today.

I'm at the point where I will actually be disappointed if they aren't. I've got a lot to do.

I considered emailing Wes in warning, but knowing that he already worries and fusses to excess, I decided to wait until things were sorted out.

Nonetheless, I am going in. And if denied, will hang around until I get the few remaining bits and bobs from my cubicle.

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Emma

Emma is calling me a lot lately. I tend not to answer and when I do, I keep the conversation short. Her subject matter is limited. I get to hear about her political campaign, in which I am callously disinterested. I get to hear about how hard she's working. This gets no sympathy from me. And she always plays the Mom Card. Since her mother now lives a four hour drive away, this doesn't elicit any sympathy from me, either.

This Emma has been in place for about four years now. Gone is Emma The Creative, who was an excellent photographer, who painted watercolors, who read. This is Emma The Grim.

I understand now why my former friends fell by the wayside. I'm trying to de-Grim myself or at least be wildly amusing when I am.

I found I got miffed at the message she left me yesterday. "I'm over my Christmas depression. Maybe we can have a real conversation now instead of these twenty-minute things."

Actually, there was a tiny little explosion in me. Emma's conversations always hit the 90 minute mark. I have not been pining away, waiting for Emma's whatever baleful mood it is this time to dissipate.

In truth, The Cheesehead Christmas irrevocably damaged our friendship.

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I thought about waiting around until the temp agency opened before heading off to work (or not). But no, I must be up and showering.

Stay turned to the same bat channel.

The Party To Whom I Am Speaking

When I got to work today, I discovered that Emma had tried to call me there over the weekend. Twice.

I knew she would probably call me again later in the day, and she did.

In the meantime, I got back the properly distant email from Xman, thanking me for letting him know I was okay. I wondered why it mattered to him after he had done such an effective job of running me off eight years ago.

Emma called in the afternoon. Her voice sounded dead. "Is this it?" she asked. "Are you not my friend anymore? Are you not speaking to me anymore?"

Cautiously, I said, "I won't be for awhile. I need to think about some things."

"I'm sorry you had such a horrible Christmas." But her voice was only weary. Then she told me her 84 year old mother had attempted suicide again this past Saturday. I said nothing.

This sounds cruel and horrible of me, doesn't it? But I know better. You're coming in on this at the end. You don't know about the several times she called me to tell me good-bye because she had just taken handful after handful of tranquilizers. Or the time she called me up, screaming and hysterical, threatening to slit her wrists. A thousand miles away, I was nearly helpless. I told her to either get Sven to check her into a psych ward, or I was calling the cops right now.

Three years ago when I was desperate for security of some sort, of any sort, she promised me three acres on her two hundred acre farm. When I went out to visit her that year, we walked up the rise to my theoretical three acres.

"So this is mine, huh?" I said. For the first time in years, I felt a tenuous little thread of hope and security sneaking out, like a tendril on a grape vine reaching for the fence.

Emma said brusquely, "Oh, no. No. We decided we'd only rent it to you. And you can't put a trailer on it, you know."

"Oh. So I would build a house on land I didn't own?"

"Yeah."

Quietly, I said, "I think things are going to work out just fine in Jersey." When I didn't think any such thing.

I have gone as far as I can here, for now. I don't know if I can go any further. But I do know I've gone beyond any call of friendship. And for now, I've had enough.