Home Is Burning (17 page)

My dad cleared his throat to speak. “I just talked about how frustrated I am that I can't do all the things I enjoy doing anymore. I miss running and walking the dogs up Millcreek. I miss drinking coffee. I miss gardening. Now all I can do is sit here.”

“I know. It's hard. Seems like you're losing your life piece by piece.”

“And she had a couple of good suggestions. She suggested I try to spend more time with Jessica and Chelsea so they're not so freaked out,” he labored.

“Yeah, probably a good idea,” I said.

“So it was a good meeting,” he said, trying his best to stay optimistic. Poor guy. He was frustrated, but still so calm and collected about everything.

Just then, my mom floated down the stairs. She was already in her coat. Sitting atop her bald cancer head was a cartoony moose hat with antlers. I had purchased the moose hat several years prior at a costume shop in Berkeley, and had dressed as a moose for every Halloween since. Apparently, my mom had spotted it and decided to wear it as some sort of joke.

“What are you two assholes up to?” she asked.

“I'm just feeding this asshole,” I said.

“Sounds fun,” she said.

It was rare to see her up and at 'em. She wasn't a morning person, and she had been rather elusive lately—sleeping all day, only getting up to take a chemo shit or to wander to the fridge for more yogurt. But today she looked perkier than I'd seen her since I'd been back home. She seemed in good spirits, almost happy and full of life. She didn't seem to have chemo brain.

She plucked a couple of yogurts out of the fridge and took a seat across from us.

“Why the fuck are you up so early?” I asked her, not acknowledging the moose hat. I like to deny people attention when they're clearly seeking it.

“I have fucking chemo again today,” she said.

“Great. Well, Dad and I are going to the office,” I said.

“I need you to take me,” she said, spooning an especially big yogurt-load into her mouth.

“But isn't a friend driving you?”

“They canceled.”

“But what about Dad?”

“Fuck your dad for a day. I have cancer. It's not all about him,” she reminded me. She always got jealous when I brought up caring for my dad. She wanted us to care about her and her cancer, too.

“But … Dad, what do you think? Shouldn't I stay with you today?” I pleaded.

He collected himself, took a deep breath, and said, “Take your mom to chemo. I'll be okay.” He was always the decisive vote in any argument, the kind voice of logic and reason in this chaotic house of shitheads.

“Get your ass ready. I've got to be there by nine thirty,” my mom interjected with a sly victory smile.

I had taken my mom to chemo a few times over the years and generally wasn't a big fan of the experience. Sure, the infusion room at the Huntsman Cancer Institute had a snack cart with bags of mini Rold Gold pretzels, Sun Chips, and Cheez-Its. They also had an unlimited supply of tea and coffee. It was a dream place from a free snack and beverage perspective. The major drawback was that you were surrounded by cancer patients—a collection of the misfortunate and unlucky, all getting pumped full of chemotherapy, all battling it out and hoping for the best as their concerned loved ones held their veiny hands.

Although I was sort of used to it, I didn't really like to see my mom have chemicals blasted into her frail body. It didn't seem right. My mom was supposed to be there to love me unconditionally, to support me, to spoil me, to help me feel safe and confident enough to pursue my dreams and make the most of my life. She wasn't supposed to be saying crazy shit and running to the bathroom every few minutes. It's never good to see your parents vulnerable, and she always looked so vulnerable at chemo.

Greg wandered in and stuffed some turkey in some pita bread. Breakfast of champions. My mom came back downstairs. She still wore the moose antlers.

“Come on, let's get the fuck out of this depressing house, Danny Boy.” She grabbed a few more yogurts from the fridge and packed them into her giant purse.

“Don't die while we're gone, Dad,” I joked as I poured his full cup of coffee into the sink and followed my moose mom out.

“I'll try my best,” he managed to joke back.

We got in my mom's Lexus RX 350. She had purchased it upon hearing that my dad had Lou Gehrig's disease. It was like she had realized that life is a long, painful journey until death, so why not drive around in something with soft leather seats and a sunroof? “I got myself a nice car before Dad dies,” she explained when she first told me about it. “It has heated seats,” she bragged. It was nicer than any car we had ever had. The best part was that my mom was able to get a handicap-parking pass because of my dad's disease. Who said there aren't perks to terminal illnesses!

“You want your seat heated? This car comes with that,” Mom proudly reminded me.

“Fuck yeah,” I said, loving all the luxuries of my life.

She pushed a button and twisted a knob, then did the same for her seat. I could instantly feel the heat on my spoiled ass.

“So, did you notice anything new about me today?” my mom asked while adjusting the moose antlers.

I looked her over. “Let's see. What could it be? It's not that you don't have cancer anymore, because you look like you're about to die and I'm driving you to chemo. Oh, are you trying a new brand of yogurt?”

“No, same brand. Do you notice anything else?” she said, now pointing up to the hat with her beloved yogurt spoon.

“Did you do something different with your hair?”

“I don't have any hair. It's the moose hat, you smart-ass. I'm wearing your moose hat.”

“I thought that thing was just a side effect from the chemo,” I said.

“I found it in one of your boxes.” I hadn't completely finished unpacking. Part of me thought that if I didn't entirely settle in at home I'd get back to the good life in L.A. faster. I clearly hadn't fully accepted this situation yet.

“You sure you really want to embarrass yourself with that hat up at chemo?”

She got a little defensive. “For your information, the nurses get a real kick out of me,” she said. “You might not think so, but your old mom is actually pretty funny.”

We pulled up to Huntsman—a new state-of-the-art cancer treatment facility complete with gorgeous views and valet parking. “I've got to shit before my chemo,” she said. “I'll meet you inside.” My mom scurried out of the car to run to a bathroom.

I handed the keys over to the valet guy. He was around my age. I wondered what other people my age thought of me. I mean, here I was pulling up in a rich-bitch car on a workday, so I figure they thought I was a piece-of-shit loser still sucking off my parents' collective tit. But, on the other hand, I was accompanying my dying mom to chemotherapy, so maybe they saw me as a hero (of sorts). Or maybe they were just as confused by the whole thing as I was. “My dad also has Lou Gehrig's disease. I gave up a real job to do this, so stop judging me,” I wanted to yell at the valet unprovoked.

I entered Huntsman's lobby carrying only the notepad I had brought along so I could scribble down some poignant observations about life and dick jokes while my mom got bombed by chemo. I was directed to the infusion room up on the second floor. I took the elevator. Fuck stairs. The elevator was full of nurses, doctors, and even a couple of cancer patients. “So cancer, what a piece of shit disease, am I right, you guys?” I wanted to say, but instead I just stood there looking sad like everyone else.

The doors dinged open. I walked through the waiting room—where a few tired caregivers distracted themselves by putting together puzzles—and toward the infusion room. I thought I'd see my old mom already curled up in a chair asleep, dreaming about being young and healthy again and having a husband who wasn't on the brink of death. But instead, there was a group of nurses and doctors all circled around her, laughing their asses off.

“I'm so fat I probably look like a real moose,” she joked. They all roared with laughter. She had lost a lot of weight, partially because of the chemo and partially because she was only eating yogurt, but she still called herself “fat” for some reason. She wasn't actually fat. “I told Bob that if he stays living, I'll give him a blow job in the moose hat to cheer him up,” she added, sending the crowd into even bigger fits of laughter. I was disgusted, picturing my mom sucking my dad's dying dick, the antlers bobbing over his crotch like a moose trotting through a forest.

“Oh, Debi, you are just too much,” giggled one of the nurses. “What a sense of humor.”

I sheepishly approached. I'm always a little shy around strangers. I especially didn't like being around my mom and strangers because she loved to embarrass me. I'm a big blusher, and she got a kick out of watching my face turn red.

She spotted me and smiled.

“This is my son, Danny. He went to Berkeley but moved home to help since Bob and I are now dying, bless his little heart,” she proudly said. I waved and managed a shy hello. I was thankful she had introduced me with the good items on my résumé instead of the bad. She didn't embarrass me. My face remained its normal color.

“This is the son who ate his own shit out of his diaper when he was two.”

My face turned traffic-light red as everyone burst out laughing.

“Jesus, Mom, stop,” I said.

But she was just getting started. “We were playing hide-and-seek, and I couldn't find him, but then I found him under his crib with his diaper opened, eating his own shit with a GIIIIIIANT smile on his face. Hadn't ever seen anyone that happy.” Everyone laughed harder and harder as I wished I could disappear into nothingness. The crowd was getting bigger, all centered around my mom. It was as if we were suddenly in a comedy club. I half expected a microphone to shoot up out of the floor and for waitresses to start shelling out overpriced drinks.

“Another funny shit story. Danny had some trouble with potty training, so my dad told him that he'd give him a dollar every time he shit in his little potty-training toilet. My dad even made him a little box where he could keep his money. He called it his ‘kaka box,' because my parents are Basque and ‘kaka' means ‘shit' in Basque. And Danny, bless his little heart, would wait for a large crowd, then he would pull out his little potty-trainer, then he'd take a shit in front of everyone.” The nurses were in stitches as my mom continued. “Then he'd go around with his kaka box and collect a dollar from everyone. He was making twelve dollars a shit.”

My face was so red it was about to explode. “All right, let's get some chemo in you,” I said, reminding her why we were there.

“Maybe one of the nurses can find you a potty-trainer and you can make some money, Danny Boy. Should've brought your kaka box,” she said. All the nurses laughed.

“Sooo funny. And I just love your hat. Oh my goodness,” said one of the nurses.

We finally got situated in one of the chemo chairs. The infusion room window looked out on a hill, maybe to metaphorically remind patients that their fight with cancer was an uphill battle. Parts of the building were still under construction. The windows were tinted, so occasionally a construction worker would come piss against the building, not knowing that there were dying cancer patients on the other side.

“I wonder if we'll see a pissing construction worker today,” joked my mom. “I like to think it's good luck. Like seeing a leprechaun or something.”

The nurses giggled as they got her comfortable. They started hooking IV things into her port. She had had a port implanted in her chest because her veins were so shot to shit from all the chemo. She was in her fifteenth year of treatment, after all. They gave her some pain pills, and she curled up in the blanket, her moose antlers still intact.

Just as it looked like she was finally cozy, I said, “You are such an asshole.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, digging some yogurt out of her purse, her eyes now half closed. It looked like the chemo and pills were already fucking her up.

“All the shit stories. It's embarrassing,” I said.

“Oh, please. It's not half as bad as all the horrible shit you say about me,” she said. She had a point. I was always really hard on my mom. That's the thing with parents: you can act like the worst piece of shit on earth and they still have to love you. It's their punishment for bringing you into this world. I had always taken advantage of this rule with my mom. We were always extremely close and loved each other very much, so we knew we could get away with bashing each other.

“Still, Mom, I didn't come home from California so you could tell strangers that I ate a diaperful of shit,” I said.

“Whatever, Danny Boy, you did it. You should embrace it,” she said. “It was really impressive, actually. A little boy eating that much shit.”

I shook my head. “I'm going to track down the snack cart,” I said. “Does your cancer-ass want anything?”

“If they have yogurt, grab as many as you can carry,” she said as she deep-throated a bite of her own yogurt.

“Do you eat anything besides yogurt anymore?”

“Well, I was hoping we could stop at Shivers on the way home. I usually get a Diet Coke from there. It's my chemo treat.” Shivers is a little shit-in-a-box local fast-food restaurant that my mom loved for some reason.

“Maybe. I don't know if we'll have time. Should probably get back to Dad, since I love him more,” I said.

“Fuck you and fuck your dad. We're stopping.”

“Probably not,” I said as I got up.

I found the snack cart with ease. If nothing else, I'm great at hunting down snacks. I grabbed three bags of pretzels and a bag of Sun Chips, because why the fuck not? I also made myself a tea. As I did, I noticed a few of the nurses eyeing me and giggling. “Sorry we're not serving diapers full of baby shit,” I expected them to say.