Art is on 02 (oxygen). It happened after a visit to the pulmonologist on Friday where we discovered his oxygen saturation level was 86! Eighty-fucking-six! That’s as low as it was when he was admitted to the ER back in August. (High 90’s is normal.) We were delivered a big old oxygen machine and with a 50 foot tubing. Art can go from the bedroom, to the living room and the kitchen without being unhooked. I turned up the 02 today, he is still gets breathless and we'll be damned if we are going to the ER.
Somewhere in the jump from good days to this set back I lost my ability to cope. Too bad to cause it also happens to be Langston’s birthday as well. I did manage to pull it off, but only because I sent the kids packing to friends houses, called another friend sobbing who came and picked me up and drove me to the places I needed to go to get Langston's gifts.
The anger builds in me. I ran outside after these parents road by with helmeted kids but no helmets themselves. It was as if it were my head that were unprotected. I told them that I hope they have a really good life insurance policy plus someone who they know will do just as good a job at raising their kids as they will because when they ride around without helmets that’s what they seem to be saying. My parting words? "Vanity could kill you."
I’m angry at my friends who don’t call or email because it feels like they've forgotten. I’m angry at the kids who seem to have an endless sea of needs. I am angry at my body for not fitting into my clothes. I am angry at Bush and Obama. I am angry at all those people who have that stupid “support our troops stickers” on their car when probably all they have done to support the troops was buy the sticker. I am mad at myself for forgetting to send my monthly care package to a troop. I’m mad at not being able to catch the breath I need in order to get the help I need. I’m mad at Carvel Ice Cream for their “artificially flavored vanilla ice cream.” I’m mad at how sick Art looked when he came the Ezra’s baseball game with his 02 tank. I’m angry at how sick he looks all the fucking time hooked up to that stupid nasal cannula. I’m mad at his cough. I’m angry that I still need help. I’m angry that when help arrives what I really want them to do is live my life. I’m mad that I get answering machines when I need to talk. I’m mad at everyone who is afraid to call because they don’t want to “bug” me. I’m mad at the phrase “This is nothing compared to what you’re going through!” I’m mad that I can’t/won’t cry in front of the kids. I’m mad at the major sacrifices it takes to have children. I’m mad that tomorrow, again we sit and wait for results from a test. I’m mad that tomorrow he will need a wheelchair to reach the cancer center. I’m so fucking pissed off that if I could, I would get on a plane, first class to some place and walk away from all this. I swear I would, and there would be no guilt, no guilt at all until I was rested and found that place where I feel real again.
PS. I am HAPPY that I went to see Alvin Ailey. It was spectacular. Little did I know, that momen when it ended was the pinnacle of the week.