No one knew why, but she would just have these spells where she couldn't get up, she couldn't do anything, she'd cough, she'd be sick for weeks.
She went to see a lot of doctors and someone had mentioned an autoimmune disease was a possibility, but she felt still there was something else going on.
When my dad lost twenty grand gambling in Atlantic City and we got evicted, we moved in with a friend of theirs, into their small guest house and suddenly, my mom felt infinitely better.
It was a big mystery until she looked into it more and discovered that she had a very bad allergy to mold. The other house we’d lived in had a huge mold problem, but it was right behind the walls, so none of it was visible except for in the basement.
Things had improved a lot since then, but that's what taught her to always take care of her health and prioritize it over almost anything else.
“So, tell me about Allison,” Mom says, standing up and peering into the fridge, offering to make something.
At first, I say no, but then the thought of some fried eggs and toast draws me in.
"Nothing new, hung out with her new boyfriend or whatever their official status is."
"Sounds good. How's her job?"
"Very busy, working crazy hours like always."
"Well, I'm glad that you went out, had some fun. You know, it's important to have fun at your age."
There's more veiled language there.
I know that she's concerned about me and “the choices” that I’m making.
"I'm going to make you eggs in a basket. Remember? Michael's favorite."
I smile at the corner of my lips. The thing that's the hardest about losing him is that there are memories of him everywhere.
On one hand, I want to remember, and I want to hold him with me and keep him safe.
But on the other hand, I'm afraid. There's this pain that comes with remembering him and talking about him and it cuts me to the core.
Sometimes it's easier to just not think about him and to not let that pain in.
"I got the acceptance packet for the experimental treatment," Mom announces as she flips the eggs and the toast over with the spatula.
"What?" I gasp. "Wait, you did?"
We've been waiting for these documents to arrive for months, and for her to just announce it so nonchalantly, it takes me aback.
"Listen, it's not a good idea."
"What? No, this is the only thing that's going to work."
She shakes her head. "I've thought about it. It's just going to be too much of a burden."
"What are you talking about? Where are they?"
I leave the kitchen and walk around the dining room. When I don’t find them there, I head to the console table behind the couch where we usually pile up all sorts of envelopes and papers, which I keep meaning to get to.
Searching through everything, I find nothing. When I get back to the kitchen, my food is plated and she's holding a big thick envelope in her hand.
"I'm going to show you this, but I want you to put it in perspective, Jacqueline."
"What are you talking about?"
"The costs. I want you to consider the costs of all of this."
My face falls. It was such a long shot for the doctor at the Mayo Clinic to even take on my mom as a patient for her breast cancer diagnosis. But I hadn't considered how much it would even cost or how we would pay for it.
I grab the folder from her, rip into it, and scroll past the congratulations and all that welcome stuff to about the tenth page where they mention the costs.
"$250,000," I say, looking up at her, "a quarter of a million."
She nods.
"Are they insane?"
"There's a surgery involved and as you know, the cancer has spread somewhat."
"But you already had chemotherapy and radiation and all that stuff."
"Yes, exactly. And if you remember, I already owe about $150,000 in bills for all of that treatment."
"Okay, so we pay for it and that's it. What's there to think about?"
"Pay for it with what money, Jacqueline?" Mom asks, crossing her hands.
I feel like she's talking to me like one of her third grade students.
"I don't know, we put it on the credit cards like we did with the rest."
"The rest of the treatments were pay as you go. I took out some additional Medical credit cards. We maxed out all the others. We took a loan against the house."
I nod. I know all of this.
Suddenly I feel incredibly guilty for the fact that I don't have a good paying job to help pay for all of these expenses.
"Look, I'm not saying any of this to make you feel bad. This isn't your burden."
"Of course it is, you're my mother."
"All I'm saying is that we're pretty tapped out for all the medical bills that I have already paid, okay? And Michael's funeral, that set us back a good $10,000, so I just don't think this is in the cards for me."
"So what are you going to do, just give up?"
"I can do more chemotherapy or radiation here, but ..."
"No, if the Mayo Clinic and the doctors there think that you have a chance ..."
"Everything's experimental, okay? There are no guarantees."
"I'm not just going to stand here and watch you die, Mom."
"I don't think you have a choice. Eat your food,” she says and walks out, slamming the door to her room shut.
I melt into the chair and I pick up the fork and stare at the food before me, trying to figure out what I’m going to do.
10
Jacqueline
I can't sleep all night. I toss and turn and I try to figure out a way out of this mess. I take the packet to my room with me, read it over and over again looking for loopholes or options. They mention that they have their own financing, but financing requires credit reports, and both mine and Mom’s are pretty much tapped out.
I could get a job, but I'd be lucky to find something that pays $40,000 a year, and that's not going to get us any closer to paying off this quarter of a million dollar bill.
And the thing is that the paperwork here is convoluted as well, so they're dealing with terminally or almost terminally ill patients who will probably not be successful and will probably then not be able to pay the bill. Somebody else has to be the co-signer, and the majority of the money is paid upfront.
I go online and check my credit limits on all my cards. I can probably get another one. Everything is almost tapped out because I had been helping my mom pay down her other medical bills.
If she or I declare bankruptcy, these other bills will go away, but so will the credit cards for more money that can be borrowed.
I'm stuck.
I don't want to admit it, but she's right. We can't pay for this, and if we don't pay for this, then the chances of her living another six months are pretty grim.
I get up and pace around the room. My legs feel tense but weak, and I slip on a pair of yoga pants and my lightest jacket and go for a run, mostly to get out of the claustrophobic atmosphere.
I run down my street and around the corner past the diner that's just opening up for all those older people in the neighborhood who like to get their fresh bread and coffee at 5:00 a.m.