Don't Let Me Die In A Motel 6 or One Woman's Struggle Through The Great Recession (29 page)

“It may disappear after treatment is completed.
It’s hard to say at this point.
”

So besides a burned breast and surgical scars that looked like the Battle of the Rhone, I would be left with half an esophagus.
What next?

This would happen
at Dr. Pilgri
m’
s.
Don’t think
that
I was done with
him
–
oh
no
.
Every
three weeks, I
marched in
for
Herceptin, the wonder drug that had saved so many lives.

Unfo
rtunately, one of his
staffers made a
newbie
mistake.
While I was
in the lab, talking away, I didn’t notice, but it would have grim repercussions:
she was taking blood pressure
on my left arm.

“No, no, stop!” I yelled.
Too late.
Between this and
Sina
loa
, I still have
constant buzzing in my arm.
Kids
,
don’t let this happen to you: wear a medical bracelet! (I do now).

While at Dr. Pilgrim’s, I brought up
yet
another side effect.
Whenever I looked down, I would get a huge blood rush in my throat.
The other day, I’d been driving, looked down, and WHUMP! – I felt the blood pumping in my thighs!
This
reminder
of my circulatory system was
not
how I wanted to live.
I was sent to a cardiologist.
She said my heart looked pretty good – for my age.
Also, that I should try to exercise
more
.
Dr. Heart,
you
try to exercise in the midst of radiation, with a buzzing arm, crazy blood rushes, half an esophagus and the energy of Harry Reid.
In fact, , just
driving
to your office was a major victory for me.

You might be asking yourself about now:
what
was happening with Aurora
while
cancer took over my life?
My only non-medical appointment was with her social worker, whom I met
every
month.
This was Daniel Gold, an O
rthodox Jew who
wore
a
yarmulke
,
a long beard, and a prayer shawl.
Of course, we got along famously.
Daniel never saw me upright.
By which I mean, every time he stopped by, I
was
supine
in
my
bed.
He knew my situation and was really
nice
about it.
I held my party line:
I
would
not
reunify
with
Aurora.
I felt tha
t if she were re-introduced in
my life, she would kill me.
Nigel, of course, continued his
monomania.

In court that first time
(I did not attend
), three days
after she’d sought sanctuary with the
s
tate,
Aurora was in full Thespic mode, shaking and crying when
she spotted Nigel.
One thing about
him
:
he didn’t know when to get offstage.
He would pursue someone who
disliked
him (me; Aurora) oblivious that he
wasn’t wanted
; that his advances weren’t sought
.
The social cues that a non-As
pie
would
catch
whizzed by
his head
like
a wayward asteroid
.

He
sought reunification
despite Aurora’s
charges
of sexual abuse
; despite the handcuffs; despite the profane emails she sent telling him to suck his own dick
.
My family thought he was crazy.
Ditto my friends.
Ditto
his
family.
But a fanatic cannot be deterred,
even by a charging elephant
.
And so the madness continued.

Nigel wrote emails two and three times a day to
everyone:
his lawyer (never has a public defender worked so hard for so little); the court
Commissioner, standing in as
judge; D
aniel; Daniel
’s supervisor; t
he
D
CFS is Washington; his
clueless
coterie of supporters in
Seattle
.
Each
missive
was
roughly
the
length
of
Thackeray’s
Pendennis
– if it could be said in a sentence, Nigel used a paragra
ph; for a paragraph, the first B
ook of a novel.
He actually gave
logorrhea
a bad name.

He compiled enormous files on the case:
several
six
-inch binders bursting with document
s
(most of which he’
d penned
)
which he’d wheel around in court.
As always, he could not control himself there.
The first time,
per Aurora,
he had to be restrained by bailiffs.
The Commissioner
kept
telling him to shut up,
and not to make faces.
Hit
by a
No Contact order, he’d
actually
stormed out
.
Recently, when
Aurora
won
a Restraining Order against him, his curtain spee
ch
to the court
was memorable:
he compared
the Commissioner to
a monkey.
The fact
that
he’s walking the streets shows
that
she must have a sense of humor
.

Now,
people without DSM
’
s
,
what would
you
do
if you want
ed
something from
another person
?
Are you polite and professional, or do you damn them in fiery Miltonic prose, making your
disdain
clear?
As a result, the C
ourt
hated him;
the lawyers (including his own)
hated him; the social workers hated him; and most importantly,
there was Aurora.

From my bed,
I
delivered useless lectures, like Obama at a Tea Party conference.
“Nigel,
why
do you want
custody of somebody who hates you?”

“
She doesn’t hate me.
She’s
being manipulated by the
DCFS
.”

“She’s told me over and over that she hates you.”

“That’s the bi-polar speaking.”

“Uh huh.”

“She needs a parent in her life.
Someone who has the
will to see this through.”

“
Are you serious!
?
You can’t even take care of a dog!”

It was true.
Nigel was too
jacked up
even
to
put up with
Wee:
he was too hard to walk; he barked too much; he wasn’
t suited for apartment life.

Which brings me
(to quote the
bassy
voice at Disneyland’s
Haunted Mansion) to this chilling challenge
:
H
ow could this man, a lunatic,
be put in charge of
someone
also crazy
?

Reader,
it nearly happened.
After spewing vitriol for two years, Aurora
sent this email
in November
‘10
:

Nigel:

I have come up with a compromise.
I will move back to WA with you.
However, there are a few conditions to this.

1) You have to learn how to give me some space.

2) I must go to
Chief Sealth
HS.

3) You cannot be over obsessive with
me.
You
have to let me live.

4) You must be APPROPRIATELY dressed at ALL times.

I have already emailed my attorney of this, and I have already told the main people that need to know about this decision.

Also, if you possibly can, GET A JOB!!! (And keep it)

Aurora

Nigel was, to put it
mildly
, over the moon.
The lover reunited wi
th
h
is beloved!

“Nigel, you do know that she’s using you, right?
She
doesn’t like
Albert Hall, and you’re her meal ticket
out
.
She
’s
playing you for a
sucker
.”

“No, you don’t understand!
She’s finally come around!”
His voice had a
high
manic quality.

“Mm
m
hmm.”
Even though I was lying down, my feet were
still
on
terra firma.
I looked at his excited face.
His bliss would last until
April
.

As Dickens said
(ironically, in
Oliver Twist
,
an orphan’s tale
)
, the law is an ass,
and in
L.A.
Children’s Dependency Court
,
that would have been a compliment.
They authorized
Nigel
to have monitored
visits
with Aurora.
She made him
festive
cards and
painted
T-
shirts
with the words
, “I Love You
, Dad
.” L
ike a good politician, she
knew
how
to stay on message.

But
in those days
Aurora
had
no
logic
, and
concomitantly
no patience
.
When the court
’s
timetable
didn’t
jive
with
hers
,
she took action.
It started in February
‘11
, with her AWOL-
ing from Pico Pico
High
.
This
continued
over the next two weeks.
What she’d been doing was drinking and drugging at the apartment of an older guy.
On February 17
th
,
she took a cue from
Houdini and escaped from Albert Hall.

I have
put
together
what happened next
f
rom her
account,
the police
, and
physical
evidence
:
it was pou
ring that night ( a rarity
) and Aurora set out on foot, holding two suitcases filled with her
best possessions
.
Finding them heavy
, she
put them down on the street,
walked away,
and of course, they were stolen.
She stopped at a Taco Bell – met a nice
South American
man.
He bought her cough medicine – offered to give her a ride
to Seattle.
Her ostensible plan was to
run to her sister Britney.
Whatever the case, s
h
e got into that car – willingly.