Don't Let Me Die In A Motel 6 or One Woman's Struggle Through The Great Recession (26 page)

I had
one piece of business (besides Aurora) that was still left
unsettled.
T
his
was to retrieve the
rest of my
stuff
from
the
apartment in Canoga Park.

Prior to
Sinaloa
, Nigel and I had gradually
hauled out
boxes.
Now I received a letter:
B
e gone
by September 1
st
.
We formed a moving party:
Rachel, and my long-suffering pals
Kim and
Larry.
The place was
a Jewish
nightmare (my p
eople, on the whole, are clean
–
sometimes
phobically so)
.
Nigel had
kept our vacuum
, and I could never afford one, so
old
bunny poop lay
on
the
floor
,
having been flung
by a bored Cotton.
David’s birds had made a mess of the walls and the bathrooms, last used by David, Aurora, and Shawna, were
unspeakable
.
Our
Band of Five
performed
well
,
especially Kim with her
powerful
sponge
.
A
m
anager came up and
signed off
, “Looks good.”

Fast-forward a week, when I received
another letter
.
The complex was not only keeping my
$1,600
deposit,
but wanted to charge back-rent of $1
,
765–
for the
time
after
I’d
been evicted!

My blood, infused with
Carboplatin
,
Neulasta,
and at least three
antibiotics,
began
to
flame
.
I told Nigel to drive to
Canoga Park
.
As
we were
buzzed into the
Office
, I underwent a
dramatic
metamorphosis, and I didn’t even take off my glasses
.
I
had become. . .
CHEMOWOMAN!

Everyone
loves a superhero, but not
Manager
Paul.
I threw the letter on his desk.

“Paul!
I had five adults in the unit cleaning for four hours, and you still take my
whole
deposit?
I could have hurled
shit
against the walls and
gotten the same
result
!
I wasted five people’s time!”

“Uh…” Paul scanned the paper quickly.
It had come from the property owners.
“Yeah, uh, they had to paint – and replace the carpet.”
God, how I hated him.
He was a
s
limeball
, the kind of g
uy who left a trail on the carpet like a slug.

“BULLSHIT!”
I could feel T and C
chasing
through my veins, with H in close pursuit.
“We were in there for THREE MONTHS.
What’s this crap about repainting?!”

“Well—“

“And
what about charging
back-rent?
You
evicted
me.
After I’d just been diagnosed with cancer.
You know, you people are lower than pond scum!”

I saw Nigel from the corner of my eye,
cowering in a corner
.
Christ, what a pussy!

“We had an agreement, Paul!
I told you every time we were here that we
were slowly taking things out.
Excuse me, I don’t have the stren
gth to play mover.
And you acted like it was fine – you
never
mentioned
charging rent.
This is fucking ridiculous!!”

I wanted to tear off my shirt, reveal my surgical scars, leap over that
scarred
brown desk
and pummel
that
little
bitch!

He looked frightened.
“I can talk to the owners—”

“You do that!
Tell them
they’ll see
their
back-
rent when
Gold Eagles
fly out of my ass
!
Even i
f I were Bill Gates, I wouldn't
pay
.
What kind of pricks
evict someone with cancer?!
Trust

m
e
--
”
I leaned in closer, “they are going
to burn in
Hell!”

Paul moved his chair back.
Nigel
readied
to grab my arm.
I exhaled, shaking with rage.
I said to Nigel:
“Let’s go!”

Once in the passenger seat of the Ion, I felt
a
sense of
real
satisfaction.
I had taken on the bastards!
I had
said exactly what I wanted
, no-holds barred!

“Jesus.”
Nigel had seen me in a rage, but
not
like this – and in public.
I
normally
hated
these kinds of
scenes.

I gradually
re
assumed my
alter-ego
: Amy, genial breast cancer gal.
But my superhero
persona
might have
synergistic
potential:

SCREEN CRAWL:

Letters RISE
over
a
DISPLAY OF WIGS
:

“
The American Cancer Society Proudly Presents:
CHEMOWOMAN!
And her
faithful
sidekick,
CANCER BOY!
”

LITTLE BOY

(pointing to two
dots
in the sky)

Tumors better watch out – assholes too!

CHEMOWOMAN

(pu
shing
a huge marauding tumor)

Take that!

VOICEOVER

Be sure to come early – diagnoses are handed

o
ut
strictly on a random basis!

CUT TO
:

INT. INSURANCE OFFICE – DAY

CHEMOWOMAN
BURSTS THROUGH THE DOOR

CHEMOWOMAN

(punching
execs one by one)

POW!  BAM!

CANCER PATIENT

(in tears)

That one’s for me!

VOICEOVER

Coming soon to an oncologist’s office near you!

(beat)

Now showing in Port-A-Vision and Chemorama.

IV trees sold separately.

While prostate at Sinaloa,
I had come to one conclusion, and I refused to budge:
I would
not
have any more chemo.
Dr. Pilgrim was disappointed.

“Wel
l, we can certainly reduce the dosage
and build back up gradually—“

“No.”
From
my hospital bed
, I was adamant
.
Do
not
argue with
anyone
who’s had blood taken at 5
A.M.

“This may reduce your odds—“

“I know.”
And I did.
“But I will not be this sick again – ever.
It’s just not worth it.”

“I understand you’ve been through quite a lot.
Much more than most of my patients. I can only urge you to reconsider.”

One thing about me:
I
can make
a
decision
and stick to it
.
Even if it’s
dumbass
stupid, like building
a barn
for the landlord.

“I’m sorry Dr. Pilgrim.
It’s not a lack of faith in you.
It’s just that. . .chemo is going to kill me.
It
nearly did.”

He respected my
choice
, sinc
e it had been well thought-out:
between the stabs of needles, multiple runs to the bathroom, blood pressure readings,
and thermometers to the ear.

Now,
present and future cancer patients (and
I pray
that none of you are):
please don’t take my decision as yours!
Remember,
I was a glaring exception, th
at
one person in thousand
s who couldn't tolerate
the
drugs
.
If I could have completed the
full
six weeks, believe me, I would have.
So don’t decrease your odds.
Fight on with
the ferocity of wolves
.
Like Susan Hayward
in the eponymous film
,
shake your fist
to the skies
and
yell
, “I Want To Live!” Then
do whatever it takes
to
get there
.
End Of
Cancer
Sermon.

August 30
th
.
I’m sitting outside some medical building, waiting for Nigel (
no doubt
on
some
Aurora-related
errand
).
I feel a strange sensation on
my scalp and I look down at my hair.
I see that the ends have become twisted tendri
ls,
moving w
i
th a life of their own
.
I don’t think too much about
it.

August 31
st
.
Exactly fifteen days after my first (and last) chemo
treatment
.
I wake up late –what do I have to get up for?
I lift my head from the pillow.
There, on the
cheap
white cotton, I see spaced-out wisps of dark hair, each about an inch.
I try to stave off terror.

In the shower, I use special gentle shampoo (along with my special deo
dorant, which can’t contain
aluminum).
I even had
special toothpaste since chemo attacks the
mouth.
I try to rub in the
shampoo gingerly, but it really
doesn’t matter.
In my hands is a wad of hair.

“Goddamnit!”
I yell, half between anger and tears.
I get out and look in the mirror, and see the beginnings of baldness.
Over the next few days, instead of tears on my pillow, there are hairs.
They waft out like feathers, landing softly on that
cheap
white cotton.
My scalp
tingles
w
ith
electric pinpricks,
like pixies dancing on my head
.
From one hair there are a hundred, a thousand.
I start to look like Moe from
The Three Stooges.

“Shelley, can you help me?”
Me and my hairdresser go way back.
When I returned
to L.A.
in ‘08
, she actual
l
y spotted me
cash
so I could
go
pick up my Paxil.
She’s
a Power Seller on eBay,
and
unloaded some
signed pictures and a treasure
for me
(a poster of
Harry Potter
with 23 autographs
!)
so that I could
eat.
W
e formed a secret club, more mystic
al
than the Masons:
“Jews Helping Jews.”
Our handshake was
thumb rubbing against forefinger.
Soon, they’ll make a movie where Michelangelo has carved this
sign i
nto T
he Moses’
beard
.