The incoming call ruined my bath and interrupted a TikTok about aliens at Area 51.
Mom never called that late.
“Byron, I have nausea and I’m sweating and I called 9-1-1 and I’m having a heart attack and paramedics are here and I’m going to the hospital.”
She hung up and the TikTok resumed playing—“They had nine spacecrafts in the hangar”—but now, who cares?
Leaving California, rushing to my childhood home in Louisiana, I cried a little at the airport.
Poor Mom.
I cried for me, too.
I caught myself thinking, I don’t want to do this. That’s the exact thing I said to myself before I had chemo. That’s what the task ahead felt like—hard, consuming, emotional.
I also did want to do it, to try to be Mom’s hero. I’m good at problem solving. Staying calm. Being steady. When you’ve been Carrie Fisher’s assistant and held her hand through electroshock therapy, you can do anything.
Two stents later, doctors praised Mom’s heart, but saw she had difficulty walking. Her knee had given out weeks earlier. They sent her to 20 days of inpatient physical therapy.
I started deleting more from my calendar, sending apologetic emails. Replies came back: “No problem! You’re a great son!”
If I was being a great son, I wasn’t loving it, living in my mother’s rural cottage. Isolated. Rain. Extreme cold. I had to run water so the pipes didn’t freeze. No tofu at the grocery stores.
I cared for Mom’s chatty bird, JuJu, and sweet dog, Belle. I drove Mom to cardiologist and orthopedist appointments. I felt the weight of a wheelchair for the first time.
I learned everyone’s name at Mom’s rehab. Hello, Miss Clara—she had a fall recently. Hi, Mr. John—always holding his face to an Alexa speaker and asking it to play Lawrence Welk over and over.
Belle kept me warm every night. Other family members and neighbors gave me hot meals and king cake. A friend visited from Los Angeles for a weekend. I bought local New Orleans coffee with chicory for the cold mornings.
20 days turned to 30. Doctors wanted Mom to move permanently into accessible housing. She says it was the hardest decision she’s ever had to make. But she found bright spots—the fountain outside her window, the cappuccino machine in the lounge, excellent jambalaya.
I signed paperwork I didn’t understand. I wrote her name in all of her clothes.
When Mom was settled and content, she sent me home, but not alone.
Coffee, Coke Zero, and Belle were my companions for the fifty-one-hour drive back to California in Mom’s old Toyota Corolla, stuffed with keepsakes she asked me to protect for her, including Belle.
I crossed state lines. I crossed time zones. I crossed back into my old life.
When I got home, Steven, Raindrop, and Shirley welcomed Belle and gave me kisses like nothing had changed.
But something had.
No more waking early to turn off Mom’s pipes. No more long commute to her rehab to bring her an iced mocha. No more Miss Clara and Mr. John. No more organizing and scheduling and sorting her medications.
My body didn’t know I was home, waking at 4:30am every day. Even the dogs stayed in bed—including Belle.
I had work to do but couldn’t open my laptop, couldn’t think about making art, couldn’t brush my hair or get out of my sweats.
I hate calling it “depression.” I feel like I haven’t filled out the proper paperwork. Maybe it’s not even the right word.
Pensive? Sure. Malaise? Definitely. Melancholy? If that’s the thing from 1842 that’s treated with leeches, then, yes, probably a lot of that.
Mostly, it felt like collapse. Purpose collapsed—writing a book proposal was lame compared to the real life stakes of helping Mom. Hope collapsed—seeing how the healthcare system treats seniors, and one day, who will haul my yearbooks and treasures in the back of their Toyota Corolla?
I tried to honor appointments.
The dentist said to smile. Absolutely not.
The pilates instructor said, “Use your obliques.” I don’t even want to be alive right now.
Some hero I turned out to be.
I should not be collapsing. I should be grateful. I should be back to normal. I should be strong. I should not need rest. If I’m not productive, I’m worthless.
4:30am again.
Then, another day, 5am.
Then, another day, 6.
Eventually, the dogs decided 6am was reasonable and joined me. All three.
It was a week before I could open my laptop. My battery recharged.
No moment of enlightenment. Nothing superhuman, except I stopped trying to be it.
Sometimes feeling depressed requires more. I’m grateful this time it required less.
Finally, one day: 7am. And a smile.
Belle snoring beside me.
Palm Springs light on the mountains.
The last of the chicory coffee.
My phone lights up with my mom’s name.
This time, it doesn’t interrupt anything.
I answer.
Beautifully written, Byron! Thanks for sharing these thoughts and especially the dog photos. They are healing.
To answer your q about turning heartbreak into art: my friend is having a birthday party soon where he wanted people to do a mini presentation on something they find fascinating, in front of all the other attendees. Despite my crippling fear of public speaking, i’m starting to draft a powerpoint presentation on how people who feel too much (and therefore feel paralyzed) can still have a tangible and long lasting effect on politics without making it their identity. It’ll be kind of an ambush because I bet most people are going to present silly stuff. But reading about how hopeless things are right now is the main way my heart keeps breaking, and I don’t know any other way to heal it than to look for purpose. Wish me luck!! 😬
"I signed paperwork I didn’t understand." -- That line really gets me. I hope you can go easy on yourself, Byron. You've just been through a whole hell of a lot. xx