Don't Let Me Die In A Motel 6 or One Woman's Struggle Through The Great Recession (33 page)

I came to learn
that
cancer treat
ment, like
Hell
, is e
ternal.
I was put on
a new
drug
, to be taken for the next five years:
Femara. This
one
help
s
with the estrogen-positive part of my disease.
In other words, all the hormones that hadn’t been
purged
by
a
hysterectomy would now be sucked from my body.
I had to take a bone-density scan.
I had to take
3,000 milligrams of
calcium
a day
so I
wouldn't
get
osteoporosis.
I could see myself, a little old lady with a hunchback, flashing her surgical scars in the downtown L.A. subway.

And
still
t
here was Herceptin,
my pilgrimage
s
to Dr. Pilgrim
, where blood would be taken and
ports infused
.
Every time you crossed over from
what Susan Sontag called “
t
he
kingdom of the w
ell”
into
that
other kingdom
,
you were reminded of
where
you’d come
from and how bad you’d been.
Even the most
insipid
tasks – going to
99
Cents or
the car wash
– became glorious, because you saw people who weren’t ba
ld; who weren’t hooked up to IV
’
s
.
There
was
a world outside
that wasn’t
imprinted
by cancer
and I wanted to stay there forever.

In February
, I got a FileMaker gig with one of those e
vangelical churches which re
lies
on its leader’s charisma.
This Dear Leader
was so charismatic he neglected to pay me the last
50%
of the job
.
Go
with God
, my
brother
.
And may
He
strike you dead!

In March, Nig
el was staying with me (again).
I had an actual in-person interview, and drove (with the help of his
tush
, in the carpool lane) to
New York Street in
Pasadena.
There, I was questioned by two guys, pleasant fellows looking for an Access/VBA specialist.
Hey, that was me! (learned in my
WaMu
days).
Miracle of miracles, I was proclaimed the leading candidate, and
actually
hired!
This was a full-time consulting gig set to last
for
three months.

I
started
, and, despite my inability to
rise
in the mornings (I felt drugged, because – hello! –
I
was
drugged
)
I threw myself into the work, summoning all
of
the acumen I’d
preserved
from
the Well World.
I created
new database
s, link
ed
old
ones together,
and imposed
relational structure on what had been the Wild West.
They were impressed.
They liked me.
And then,
the ultimate
mitzvah
–
I was hired full-time!!
Yes, for the first time since
WaMu
,
 
I had a
real job
, with benefits!
This
search
had taken
2.5
years.
Though
I’d
d
been stopped cold by cancer, the Recession had
still
plucked me by the shoulder, lifted me
in its
crooked claw, and nearly
engulfed
me in flame.
For
all
those smug bastards t
weeting
“Get a job!” at every tale of
woe
, I only wish – and I mean this in the nicest way possible – that
your dick
s fall
off.
Then you can trawl for sympathy on huffingtonpost.com.

After my Miracle On New York Street
, Wyrd (
“
Fate
”
for you non-Nords, and BTW, she’s
a woman)
smiled
on
me
a
gain.
I was so excited to be back in the
workplace
; to have a cubicle of my own!
I practically danced through the electronically-keyed door, greeting everyone with
a
smile.
Granted, my hair looked like Elvis
post
-Army, but
who cared?
As long as I wasn’t in
the hospital; as long as that cancer machine wasn’t
rotating
over
me,
I was happy.
This was a
major
attitude adjustment from my
sullen
days at
WaMu
.
Then, I
had exuded all the joy of a stylite saint
.

In July
, I received a
n enigmatic
post
from Gigi, the
lady who’d rescued my horses
:
“Amy, your
babies
are ready to come home.”
I couldn't understand it – I thought that they’d been separated, and
were owned by different parties.

During my Cancer Days, I’d gone out to visit them, Nigel
in tow.
I had a few strands of hair, and wore my trademark scarf.
There they were.
Looking dirty and underfed, in the care of a quasi-cowboy who rented them out for trail rides.
Poor things!
They had gone from a life of luxury, from their own stalls and pastures and minimal work, to the ultimate shame for a horse:
a rental.
They would suffer
the
little
children
and riders who knew nothing:
who tugged
harshly
on the reins and
uttered not one word of kindness.
The cowboy let us ride for free
–
a
friend
, Mona,
worked there – and I climbed on
to
Murdoch with his broke
-down saddle;
fastened
my
helmet
under my chin
for the first time
in 18
months.
He was still the same good ol’ boy, but
I
had changed radically.
I was so weak and out of shape that I could barely keep my seat.

Before we left
, I fed them
some
fat carrots
and said
a last
goodbye.
It was too sad to see them this way.
I vowed never to return.

I heard from
Mona
later
that
they’d been taken back by Gigi,
since she wasn’t happy with their treatment.
Murdoch went to a fancy Western trainer; Percy to a young girl who’d just lost her horse.
The months passed, and suddenly, I received that mystery message!

“Gigi, what’s up?”
I typed.
Using Facebook was strange.
I tried to stay off if I could.
I was
uninterested if someone took a poop or
if
a high school pal had a dream
.
Yes, Virgin
i
a, there
is
such a thing as
TMI
!

Gigi
called
me
immediately.
“
The
trainer
wanted
Mur
doch for her boyfriend, but he
lost interest.”
Men
often do.
“A
nd the girl who took Percy went
in
to
Rehab.
She won’t be able to keep him.”

What was this
weirdness
?
My
horses
, in different places,
with different owners,
available at the same time?

“OK Gigi.
Let me see if this barn I like in Burbank has
anything.”

YES
!
“
In fact, they have two
stalls right next to each other!
”
Could this get any better?
Was it possib
le that for once, something
had
actually worked
out
?
 
Had my metaphysical question been answered
, the one I had
pondered
since
high school
:
Is
there life before death?

Generous Gigi trailered
my
horses all the way from Palos Verdes, and mostly at her own expense.
God bless those rich people who really do give to others.

There they were, emerging from the trailer.
My two biggest babies, reunited at last!
Percy whinni
ed when he saw me.
Murdoch, more standoffish, let me stroke his nose.
They were led to their new quarters, two adjacent pipe stalls, where they
settled in
happily.
We started riding on
trails all over Griffith Park.
They were
groomed, bathed, and spoiled like the
equine princes
they are.
A real treat for me was
to
let them loose
in a
corral
and watch them groom each other, contentedly nose-to-nose.
They had suffere
d with me in the bad times, but, as was
just
, they
were sharing
in the good.

I sai
d at the start
that
I emerged
from my trials
as
a nicer person
.
I know -- w
ith
me it’s hard to tell, but
real people are
messy
,
unlike
characters
in a novel
.
I do not exemplify a Quality, like Pride with Mr. Darcy (also, Prejudice); Passion with Jane Eyre; or Parsimony like Silas Marner. I am merely human, with as many facets as a prism, and depending
on how you refract the light
, I can be black, red, or a rainbow.

I
began
to notice
the homeless.
I was sitting on a bench in Burbank,
waiting (ag
ain) for my car to be repaired. An
elderly man, his clothes
dusty and
torn
, sat down beside me.
In
the old days, pre-Recession
,
I would have
cringed and
gotten up.
Not now.
I smiled at him weakly and stayed
right
where I was.
Without the inter
cession
of
Rachel
,
and the munificence of Washington
state
,
that
easily could have been me.

I
’ve
mentioned the crazy lady in the wheelchair who hung out by the Woodland Hills Post Office.
Before, I would have walked
20
paces to avoid her.
Now, I went up and gave her
some cash
.
Who knows how she’d gotten to this place?
Maybe there was a
WaMu
lurking somewhere in
her
past.