Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Monday, February 13, 2006
So my mother's really sick and now she's delirious and delusional. She can't speak but over the past few days she's been able to write. Which is great, you know, she can communicate.
Except that she's on some major dope and the things she's writing are drug induced paranoid and depressed messages of confusion, fear and despair.
I know my mother's in there somewhere. Every now and then I catch a hint of her in her eyes. I'm sure I saw her flash me a knowing smirk when a new nurse named Barbie came in and introduced herself as, well, Barbie. (I know, not Babs, not Barb, not Barbara, but Barbie. Whatever lady, it's your life.) Another day she wrote me a note to remember my cousin's birthday next week. One night I showed her a dress in a magazine and she pointed to the neckline, a cut she's usually fond of wearing. She wrote "$$$? or ¢¢¢?" on her notepad.
Those are the few good moments.
The rest of the time her eyes are dull and vacant or alert but fearful. She sees things that aren't actually there. She hears things when all is silent. She thinks frightening and disturbing thoughts. Basically, she's on a really bad acid trip.
The doctors say this is normal. They tell us we should be grateful she's even conscious. They tell us if she gets better and back to normal and she won't remember anything about this. I trust them. I think/hope they're right. It's that if that concerns me.
Because if she doesn't get better she's going to live out her mortal days in fear and depression, captive in a hospital tethered to machines which pump stuff in and suck stuff out of her. I realize no one wants this to happen to someone they love. I realize a lot of people spend their final days like this. And that stinks. I don't know about all those other people, but I know my mother is not a paranoid, fearful and depressed person. I know she doesn't normally think the things she's thinking. I know she does not hallucinate. I know she doesn't hear things, voices, sounds, that aren't there. I know none of this is her, it's the drugs.
But. That's the point. She's not in her right mind. In fact she's barely in her mind at all. She drifts in and out of consciousness. I wish I knew where she goes when she's not conscious. I hope when she's unconscious she's escaping to her right mind. But I don't know. No one knows. Based on her fluctuating blood pressure I assume it's not always a pleasant place for her.
So yeah.
Fun times. Good times.
Times which make me think: This is all one huge waste of time. Spend your life being a good person, a nice, kind, tirelessly giving, thoughtful, caring, funny, sincere person and what happens? Drug induced fear, paranoia and depression.
Gee. Some great reward that is. Makes me want to run right out and be a better person.
I know, I know, there's no dignity or justice in sickness and death. The great equalizers and all that. I get it. And no, I don't think my mother's any more special than anyone else's mother. (Well. Actually. She is better than a lot of mothers.)
I knew my parents would die some day, and since last year I've felt relieved and lucky to still have my mother around at all. But that's part of the sick joke. "Ah, well, Trillian, you can have your mother for a few more months, just long enough to lull you into a false sense of security..." and then blam! "Bwa ha ha. Psych! Even funnier joke on you! And now we're going to add the fun of mental anguishing your mother! You of all people, Trillian, know better than to get too comfortable. It's not about you, it's about taking away the few people you actually like and love and doing so in cruel and unusual ways. Bwa ha ha."
My mother hates this. I know she does. Who wouldn't? The issue of the if for all of us, is whether or not she hates it enough to just let go and leave us.
I'm not ready for her to die. I know. I know. It's not about me. It's not. But. I have a bazillion things I need to do with her. We all know my life is an unmitigated disaster. My mother's the only one who can sort me out or at least make me not feel so bad about the disastrous mess I've made of my life. That unconditional love and understanding thing good mothers are so good at dispensing and all that. She's always been really understanding about the failures. I'd really like for her to see me succeed at something. I know she always worries about me. She doesn't say it but I know she's worried that I'm not married. I know it upsets her that I'm alone. I know she thinks I'm missing out on the motherhood thing. She doesn't nag or even talk about it because she's a good mother and doesn't want to make me feel worse about all that. She knows these are not choices I've actively pursued. She knows I wanted something very different, too. But. You know. It hasn't worked out that way for me. The one thing that has kept me going, albeit perhaps not the best reason, was that I wanted to succeed at something, a career, a marriage, something big and important, so that my mother wouldn't worry about me so much. I wanted her to finally enjoy a success instead of dealing with another failure. I didn't want her to go to her grave worrying about me. I know, I know, that's what mother's do, or at least the good ones, anyway. But you know. It's my mother. And it's me. And let's face it: Being my mother is not exactly easy. I'd like to give her a break on the worry thing at least once.
I don't think she's ready to die. It certainly wasn't on her agenda for this year. I know that because at Christmas she sat down with her new calendar and wrote in everything going on this year, all the events she would attend and all the cards she would send. She had plans. She bought cards. And two rolls of stamps at the new rate. People who are ready to die do not buy two rolls of stamps at the new rate several weeks before the rate takes effect. People who are ready to die do not care about postal rate increases.
But then there she is: Suspiciously eyeing one of the nurses. Blinking her eyes and wincing at something only she sees and hears. Paranoia, hallucinations and depression certainly weren't on her agenda, either. I would have noticed those on her calendar. I would have told her in that case let's not worry about getting stamps at the new rate.
Nope. All I saw were birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, grandkids' school events, some church stuff, a couple of trips, a few doctor appointments, the oil change dates...nothing about whatever it is that's happening to her now.
You can't plan life, I know. She knows that, too. But I'm hanging onto the hope that she's not accepting this change of plan. When she's lucid she seems, you know, okay. Ish. Considering.
I use these fleeting moments of semi-clarity to quickly try to explain to her what I learned from the doctors, hoping that if she understands everything that's happening she'll feel more in control when she's not exactly in control of herself. So far that theory's not really standing up to clinical testing. So I've been adding more stuff like dresses in magazines and gossip from the church ladies and putting the "good" lotion from home on the few bits of her hands which are not covered in IVs and "good" lip balm (also from home) on her lips. I have to make sure she sees me hide these in the closet when I'm finished, though, because even in her most lucid moments she fears someone will "borrow" her good lotion and balm and not return them. I have to admit, that's not paranoia but rational precaution. The personal grooming products in hospitals are seriously lacking, um, well, quality. Not that anyone expects spa products, but still. You'd think they'd give patients hand lotion which actually soothes and moisturizes, or hypoallergenic soap which doesn't dry skin to a chaffed leather state, or lip balm which soothes lips, not turn them into dry sponges. I'm just trying to make her feel as normal as possible.
When I was young and interested in biology I toyed with the idea of a career in medicine. Research, DNA, that sort of thing. My mother, as usual, encouraged me to pursue it, check it out, see if it fit. My mother's always saying that about everything. "Try it on, see if it fits you."
Obviously a career in medicine didn't fit me. I'd gotten out of actual dissections with conscientious compassionate objection notes and subsequent lengthy reports written from text books explaining more than I ever would have learned in those dissection lessons.
But then in another biology class I was told the time had come for me to decide if I was going to face the fact that biology is not always pretty and always involves dead things which were once alive or run like a sissy girl to my mother because I didn't want to cut open a dead animal.
I ran like a sissy girl to my mother.
I was in college. Living a long way away from my mother. It was not exactly a proud moment for anyone involved. My mother didn't care that I'd wasted a lot of money on a college course in biology because I couldn't stomach dissecting a cat which was already dead. My mother understood. She told me to try to drop that course and add that photography lab I enjoyed so much. "Formaldehyde, stop bath, you can still get your hands dirty and breathe in toxic fumes," she said. My mother knows a lot about a lot and she's really practical. I was always glad she didn't get mad at me for dropping that class and wasting the money on what I always knew deep down I couldn't do.
Now I'm regretting being such a sissy girl and running to my mother. If I'd toughed it out I would have gone into genetic research. I would have learned about DNA. I would have tried to find ways to prevent icky diseases. I would have been able to help my mother. But I didn't. Because I'm a sissy girl who runs to my mother. And she has to get through this because I haven't quite got the hang of life and I still need to run like a sissy girl to my mother. Yes. I'm scared and paranoid and confused and depressed.
Like mother, like daughter.
Except my mother has a good excuse. Her emotional issues are drug induced. I'm just completely inept.
Which is probably the core of her concerns about me. So I spend the time I have when she's resting trying to formulate some sort of plan for being more adept. Or at least less inept. Give her something to ease her mind about me. So far I'm not coming up with much. That career in medicine is not exactly appealing right now. Oh sure, there are some cool gadgets and now more than ever DNA is cool and funding is high, but, um, well, you know. Med school. It takes a lot of time and money. Oh. And. Brains. And animal dissections. And yeah. No. I don't think that's the way forward for me. I( tried it on and it didn't fit. I could marry a doctor. Actually, no, I probably couldn't. Doctors always marry really cute nurses or at least really cute girls. And do I really want to face a guy every day knowing I married him because I couldn't be a doctor myself and figured this was the closest I was going to get to a career in medicine? Oh sure, the medical journals and academic conferences would be fun, but do I want a husband or a subscription to the New England Journal of Medicine?
And there we go. Right straight back to the paranoia, fear, confusion and depression. I can't even figure out a plan for being less inept much less actually be less inept.
Meanwhile, my mother's not getting any younger and the drugs aren't getting any weaker. And I'm still a failure causing her concern and worry.
Oh sure, it's possible my ineptitude is keeping her going. "I can't die, my inept daughter can't even figure out how to be less inept. Where did I go wrong? Surely by now she should have succeeded at something. But no. She can't even find a man to marry her. What's she going to do? What will become of her? I can't die, who's that sissy baby going to run to when I'm gone? I created that monster and I need to stick around and deal with it." In which case my ineptitude is actually aptitude at keeping my mother alive. But I'm not that clever. Totally accidental if that's what's going on inside her head.
This is why they tell you to take breaks from the bedside of a sick loved one.
