Last Night

 

The Mother Bed

Last night I put my arms around him as he lay in bed, eyes on his tablet, knees pulled up to his chest. Such long legs, getting thicker by the day, but I can still see his baby self in his skin. I’ve given him his seizure medications; I’ve washed his GTube insertion, applied Desitin, a square of gauze. I know I should tend it twice a day, but once is all the time I’ve got. I’ve dosed him with Melatonin in hopes he sleeps the night away, no tossing and turning, no cries in the night, no hours of wakefulness that have come in swaths since he was an infant.

We still share a bed even though he is eleven. You may find that inappropriate. Certainly some people do. Sure, he hasn’t had a seizure in a year and a half, thanks to the nutrition via his GTube we assume, so maybe he’d be safe on his own, but how can I know? Always our bedsharing was a necessity born out of fear. His seizures most often happened as he moved between levels of sleep. They were silent and too long, not violent and quick as most people imagine, as is often shown on TV. Instead, he just grew stiff, unresponsive. While I’d have loved to believe some kind of inner instinct would rouse me to some unusual silence across a hall, real life doesn’t often work that way. Otherwise there would be no death by middle-of-the-night fire, or while-they-slept burglaries, or children who go missing as though taken in the rapture.

What about your husband, your marriage, people ask me. And maybe I can’t explain that this is not a zero-sum game: both of us benefit from our son staying alive. The fear of SUDEP, which sounds like a cold medicine, but is how people with epilepsy sometimes die, still lingers. I have always been afraid that the one time I look away, he will suddenly disappear. Not his body, but his life. Evaporation. Ether. One time he had a seizure and I was alone with him and his lips turned blue and he stopped moving entirely, and that’s a thing that happened, and reason is no match for memory.

So bedsharing became the default, but is now a necessity because I fear the exhaustion that switching him to his own bed will bring on. When he wakes up at night, he wants a comforting hand on his back. Or a change of clothes if he pees through his night-time pull-up. Or for help finding his comfort blanket. I have grown better at falling back asleep after such disruptions, but rarely do I get a full night. When we begin to train him toward some additional independence, surely I will get even less. You may think that’s selfish, but eleven years is a long time to be tired, and sanity is a commodity I’ve learned to hoard.

I told someone today that I’d never had a driving need to be a mother, and the decision to have a baby had been more strategy than longing. On the verge of thirty, in a happy marriage with a man who deserved to be a father, I asked myself this: on my death bed, what I would regret more, not having children or having them? The answer seemed clear at the time, and so we did. (Before you ask me, we stopped at one, because he has been enough work and worry for two.)

When I hear stories of women who suffer due to childlessness, I can’t find a way to put myself in their shoes. When I hear women celebrate motherhood, they are speaking a language that sounds like my own, but the meaning gets lost in the distance between their mouths and my ear. I have a friend who has prosopagnosia, the inability to recognize faces, and that seems as good a metaphor here as any. It’s like I recognize the individual features of our common experience, but I can’t put them together to form a picture that is identifiable to me.

Simply, I don’t know what it’s like to be purely glad to have had a child. I sound cold, I know. But I can’t claim joy at having brought a child into the world who will struggle as mine struggles. That would require me to go to great length of Pollyana-ish denial, and I have far too much guilt for that. Yes, I am a better person. More compassionate, more selfless, more multi-faceted. And yes, he perfect in his imperfections. And I do often wonder when thinking about belonging, about helping him find a place in the world, if our culture is more the problem than his disabilities are. Sometimes I try to challenge people in rethinking the way they think about seizures, about special needs, that euphemism I have grown to abhor. But I would trade all of those personal gains, all of my drop-in-the-bucket activism, for having given life to a child who will be able to talk, to read, to shop, to drive, to work.

You see, I am ambivalent about being a mother, and as my child grows bigger but doesn’t truly age, I expect my feelings to remain complex on the matter. But after years of chastising myself, I now know this: it is possible to hold these two truths in my heart at the same time. There is nothing I love more than this child who I would never have decided to birth had he not appeared to me and bade me love him, like a stray at the door whose scars and ferocity are a lesson, not a reason to send it back in the rain.

I love my son most when we are quiet and I hold him in my arms and my heart, and the ache of loving him burns through me like I’ve downed a tequila shot and eaten the whole lime both. That’s not very romantic, but the visceral rarely is. Motherhood rarely is. For me, it is still poop and drool and too-sharp nails and sometimes bites and lots of embarrassment over his public behavior, and always, always, tiredness. My pride cringes as I tell you we still share the same bed. But I would take a hundred more years of all of those struggles, ironically to outlive my child whom I have always feared would die, because I have never been so afraid to leave someone I have always be destined leave.

 

Three Mothers

I just really dispute the premise that to write your story is to claim that it’s exceptional, or worse than, or more interesting than anybody else’s story—it’s just what you’ve lived. It’s…just using what you have.  ~Leslie Jamison, Interrogating Sentimentality

I

Wonder

I must have been born prematurely. I’m not sure how early I arrived into the world, but I was small. Four pounds, thirteen ounces. Small enough, it seems, that maybe I wasn’t guaranteed survival because it was 1971, and I had an infection in the marrow of my left femur. Or maybe it was as easily cured then as now, but that doesn’t explain why, for the first six months of my life, I was a patient at the University of Minnesota Medical Center in Minneapolis. I had a name, Lezlie, but I no longer had a mother.

The mother who gave birth to me was young, seventeen. She surrendered me into the care of Lutheran Social Services, and I would be available for adoption when I became well enough. I often wonder who gave me my name. I wonder if it is just standard procedure, to pick a name for the unowned, like assigning a Jane Doe, but gentler. I often wonder if the nurses held me. If there was one in particular I loved above all of the others. I wonder too if I was lonely when there were no arms available to hold me. I’ve read online that just like Humane Societies use volunteers to walk dogs, adoption agencies also solicit help to hold infants. Because I didn’t have a mother to sit next to my incubator, bright with bilirubin, and stroke the back of my hand, I wonder, who did?

It’s strange to think of those months–a half a year–I spent in the hospital as a newborn because I am bewildered by the idea that I, just an infant, was no one person’s property. Or no one’s personal property. (Motherhood, I now know, is a state of constant conflict between keeping and shedding. This boy is mine. This boy is his own.) Who fed me? A bottle, no breast. Who helped me learn to walk? And when I did, who or what did I want to catch me? Who took on the responsibility of my safety? Because the whole point of my stay was survival, or maybe cure–who knows what my prognosis was then–, who insured that the doctors took great care with my care? There was no one to consider multiple options, to say yes or no, to regretfully but convictingly say, yes, you can do that procedure, if you think it is for the best. No doubt I had a caseworker, but we know how busy they are.

The infection in my leg is termed osteomyelitis, and the internet tells me at one time it was considered a death sentence. Now it’s treated with a boatload of antibiotics, but it does it’s damage during its stay in the marrow. I have accepted I was born that way, had contracted this bacteria in utero, likely through my bloodstream. That’s called hematogenous osteomyelitis. And it’s more common in premature babies, so perhaps I was. But it’s also possible the infection occurred during or after birth, through staph or sepsis, but I can’t begin to imagine that scenario no matter how many web entries I read. Anyway, the hows seem irrelevant. More compelling to me is, did she know? My mother? Did she know that her baby wasn’t well, and did that matter when she made her final decision not to be my mother?

The doctors were concerned the infection had spread, and I remember being told they scraped my bones, including my skull, for samples. When I was little, I checked my body all over to find where they might have done the scrapings, looking for evidence like suspecting an alien abduction. Most likely I had biopsies. I know that now, but I imagined a greater invasion. I am just thankful amputation was not necessary.

For a short time, between the hospital and my adoption, I lived with a foster family who had planned to make it official until their circumstances changed. My name then was Stephanie, and how must it have been for that little girl to have had to say goodbye to another mother? That I came to my adoptive parents with two big black garbage bags full of toys, many with “Stephie” written on masking tape to label them as mine, was a story told and retold. Perhaps that detail was meant to convey love, that I had been loved, and treated well, and maybe even spoiled with toys, toys that belonged only to me. My mother changed my name because, she said, she didn’t want me to be nicknamed, “Stuffie.” Considering my childhood allergies, she likely made the right choice, though knowing I’d been robbed of a name ripe with possibilities, I was sullen for years about my mother’s choice. Sally didn’t even have an “i” that I could adorn with a stylized heart.

I have always been particularly conscious of the generosity with which my adoptive parents welcomed me, a child who would be a considerable financial and emotional drain on them all of their lives. My father had an 8th grade education and a job with the county; my mother was a stay-at-home mother, formerly a 1st grade teacher. I wonder sometimes if they knew the stress a lack of money would press down on the family, if they would have taken me in, made me their own. So many people now make choices of convenience, but maybe not. Maybe it just seems like we have less room to move within the strictures of our expectations. As someone who has had her expectations blown to bits time and again, I can understand why another woman would want to tightly protect her own.

I’ve never had any yearning to look for or meet my biological mother. I’ve always just been thankful to have found a safe place to land, and a mother to call my own for the twelve years I had her. Maybe my lack of curiosity about who my biological mother was stems from a kind of adaptive independence. Maybe I learned before I even knew how to learn, that I would always, in some way, be alone. Or maybe I’m afraid of the instant intimacy that may be required when meeting the woman who birthed me, when intimacy is difficult for me even when earned. What if she doesn’t meet my expectations? Though I suspect the truth lies more in my fear of rejection: she let me go once, and now that I’m no longer full of potential, what would be in it for her?

When I was pregnant with my son, Noah, I requested my adoption file from LSS. In Minnesota, in the early ‘70s, families were not required to update their family health histories, but my mother had provided more information when I was finally adopted at 16 months. I learned that she lived on a horse farm, and that all of the women in the family (and it is a large family, far larger than my own) enjoyed sewing. For the record, she told the adoption counselor that she gave me up because she wanted to become a nurse. I wonder if she did. I don’t doubt her desire to make something of herself; I literally mean, I wonder if she became a nurse. I hope that she did. I can be satisfied with having been given up for adoption in the name of her achieving the kind of life she needed. It’s a decision I think I would have made in her place. Motherhood has been an uncomfortable role for me since before my son was even born. I bear her no ill will, and really, only the hope that she had a happy life and no second thoughts about the daughter she would never see grow up.

There are questions I have about that early span of my life, of course, but these are questions no mother can provide me. I’m less curious about the who and the why than I am in the how. How did she come to grips with her decision? I struggle with the simplest of choices, never wanting to make the wrong one, never wanting to face the consequences of error. And I wonder if that part of my personality is a result of my having been giving up, passed between families, grateful for being adopted but nervous that a misstep could mean dismissal, return to sender.

What happens when a baby has no mother, no father, no regular? Did I imprint on no one? Attachment parenting advocates closeness, but to whom was I close? Who did I want to be mine? How often did I need that which wasn’t there to be given? How does that track down the line of that baby’s life, into my adult life? We are told the first three years of life sets a pattern, determine tendencies. I can’t be angry because whatever I am, I am resilient, and maybe that too came from those days when a blanket may have slipped off my baby body and there was no one there to slide it up to my shoulders, tuck it under my hips, and soothe me with a kiss on the forehead.

While I rarely wonder who she is, now that I’m a parent, and now that I’m no longer young, and neither is she, I do wonder if I am my biological mother’s one unanswered mystery. If she is still alive, only 63, does she wonder what became of me? Did she know I was sick? Did she talk to me before I was born? When I had hiccups in her womb, did she stroke her stomach to soothe me? Does she wonder if her sick baby got better, or does she remain relieved to have rid herself of my accompanying burdens? Does she sit, even just for a moment, when the morning light is just a certain way, and she feels young and full of memories, if that baby had the kind of good life she must have wanted for me when she said goodbye to the body she had built with her own body, fed with her own blood, and, I believe, loved in some way, in the right way.

II

Wait

For nearly five weeks, my mother sat beside my hospital bed. Each day, she arrived early, from the bare-bones lodging across the street from the hospital, and idled straight-backed in the room’s lone orange vinyl chair with angular brown wooden arms, as we waited for the doctors to slowly pull my left leg apart. She absorbed every blow: my tears of pain and tears of boredom, anger at what she was allowing them to do to me, anger at what unfairness I was forced to submit to. I didn’t wonder at the time, how she felt. Any parent who has ever held her child while he received a vaccination, or a strep test, or stitches in a wound, knows the anguish, the exhaustion, of cooperating or being complicit, in the infliction of pain. I have no recollection of being empathetic enough to imagine she felt anything at all, even as she made impossible decisions meant to make me better, while also making me scream.

Born with an infection in my femur, my left leg grew more slowly than my right, the whole leg like some underfed conjoined twin to my sturdier right leg. At the time, this surgery–to attach an “apparatus” to the outside of my leg via pins inserted through the skin, like a dock pillared into water and sand, that would then be cranked apart millimeter by millimeter each day until the space between the two separated sections of my left femur grew to 2 inches–was rare. It took nearly a month of minute progress toward a particularly scary resolution for me: another surgery, this one to remove bone from my hip to graph into that gap in my left leg, and for plates to be placed along the bone to keep the graph in place until my bones accepted and assimilated the new addition.

So we waited, my mother and I, for my muscles to be stretched, my split skin to mend, skin cross-stitched with dark thread like that pulled from her embroidery skeins. A crafter and knitter, my mother didn’t often do embroidery, but this needlework was portable and complex, perfect for the minutiae of a long hospital stay. Just a hoop, a square of cloth, limp figure-8s of glossy thread, needles, wooden darning mushroom. I spent much of those weeks in a large wooden reclined wheelchair, warding off boredom in the children’s lounge doing arts and crafts, eating microwave popcorn–that futuristic treat!–in the dining lounge, neglecting the homework the teachers sent, watching the day’s soap operas, but also waiting for my mother to let me take a turn with her embroidery hoop. I so wanted to try my novice hand at the delicate work, but she simply wouldn’t allow me the chance to make a mistake amid her tidy stitches.

It was a large and tricky project, an intricate Christmas tree, and each ornament was a different type of stitch. She had to teach herself each one from the instruction sheet. I remember silver knots like those metallic decorative candies we are no longer allowed to eat. I remember gold threads layered, criss-crossed, to create stars. There was a patchwork puppy in a gift box under the tree, a nutcracker soldier nestled in the branches, and a yellow-haired angel on top. Each night she would tuck all of the embroidery paraphernalia in a worn plastic bag, and when she rose from her chair, a cut in the vinyl was revealed, like a wound that was covered with her presence but unchanged each night when she left.

One of those mornings that I was in the hospital, she didn’t return to her seat near my bed, because she’d had a heart scare on her way to my room. It may have been a true attack–by the time she died two years later, she’d had several–but at 10 years old, I didn’t understand, or maybe I didn’t want to understand because all I wanted was my mother to be there, in her chair. Instead, I was the one left waiting to visit her, maybe my father, or a nurse, now wheeling my chair to the third floor of the same hospital. There was no arts room on her floor, no decorative smocks on the nurses. I don’t remember how long she stayed, or how I managed the rest of my own treatment without her presence, or how sick she was when I finally arrived home. Because I was in a body cast, from waist to toes, and because of her wavering health–small dark bottle of nitroglycerin always at hand–, my father had air conditioning installed. I wonder where he got the money to do that when there was no money to be had. My mother and I, we had used it all up.

That summer, I learned hospitals were places for recovery, and maybe even miraculous feats of medical engineering, but also places that simply stalled death, didn’t solve death, though adults embroider the truth into something more hopeful. My mother would have many more days and nights in the hospital in the final years of her life. The diabetes she developed when very young had taken its toll on her organs. I would spend some of them, twelve years old and inconvenienced, in a chair at the side of her bed. As an adult, I would carry that plastic-framed embroidered tree to every apartment and house I moved into, as well as the sense that, unlike the picture, there will always be something started but left unfinished about my childhood.

Eventually, my skin healed, pale railroad track scars lacing my leg, and my bones knitted themselves back together. Now, six varied scars graffiti my lower body in a successful twenty-one year series of surgeries to make me functional. The doctors reassured me that as a result, my leg would be even stronger than before. I suppose that’s the theory of hearts as well.

 

III

Want

12/2/2015

Dear M,

Well, Noah had a bad November. And of course that means we all did. On the 6th, he had a seizure when he came down with a bad cold virus. Not atypical for him. But the weird thing was that I could tell the afternoon before that he was going to have one. That was rare. His seizures are usually so unpredictable. Anyway, seeing what I saw, I should have given him his Clonazepam as a safety net but didn’t pull the trigger.

I don’t know why I have such a difficult time giving him the medication he needs. How is that worse than having to give it after he has a seizure? Maybe I don’t know how to trust my own instinct. Even worse, maybe I’m in some kind of denial, and I don’t give him the medication because I want to believe a seizure won’t happen if I don’t acknowledge it. Either way, I find it difficult to take action though taking control makes all sorts of sense, since I want nothing more than control. But then, nothing about this makes any sense. Observation is the name of the game, but I’m never quite sure what I’m looking at.

Anyway, that first week or so, we thought he was just weak and tired from a virus. But some days, when he was tripping and buckling at the knees as he was walking and I was holding tight to his hand to keep him from falling, it seemed that maybe the curse had descended. Our fear has always been that he is a ticking time bomb, that he has an unidentified syndrome that will bring upon him a decline. For the first time in years, we decided to stay home for the holiday to see family and give him complete rest. Today was his first day back at school since last Tuesday and he was sharp as could be, so the rest seemed to do the trick. When I picked him up, he had a welt on his cheekbone and bridge of his nose; he’d fallen twice.

A trip to the neurologist and we likely have a new seizure type to add to his many others. The Physician’s Assistant is pretty certain these are drop seizures, which are bad. Bad, hard to understand and prevent, and dangerous. So the plan is: to interrupt this new seizure habit his brain has formed by putting him on a load of the Clonazapam for 3 days, and then taper it down over 6 days. That might be enough to “reset” his brain. Who knew such a thing was possible? It’s a total torque to our schedule because he will want to sleep through the days. I can’t imagine we will be able to send him to school. Then we will do a 24-48 EEG in the next few weeks. Then we will talk seriously about inserting a VNS (nerve stimulator) under his arm which, we hope, would begin to interrupt his seizures without medication. Even though I know it could help keep him safe, and it’s not unlike a pacemaker, which rarely anyone blinks at, it seems so much more invasive. But that may be a choice we have to make.

12/3/15

Noah’s epileptologist, once he heard the PA’s report, is so worried about him that he found him a bed in neurology ward almost immediately. We’ve done this kind of stay before, and while the boredom of keeping a young child occupied in a closed room for several days is nothing I look forward to, the deepest trauma comes from the actual application of the electrodes. For whatever reason, the techs will not allow him to sit up for the procedure, and while it seems like nothing to me–just globs of wet, smelly paste and cold blasts of air to dry it–Noah can’t bear laying back and giving in to what he can’t see happening. We try all the cajoling and distracting, but ultimately have to hold him down and make him submit. I flashback to when I was a kid, when I was forced to allow doctors to perform inspections and procedures I couldn’t fully understand, and the pain doubles.

12/5/15

The testing, as always, is inconclusive. The EEG didn’t show evidence of anything we can assign as new or even causal, and the follow-up MRI was normal, so now we look at adjusting his drugs, thinking the polypharmacy–three seizure medications, not counting the on-demand Clonazapam–is impairing him. Generally speaking, seizure disorders and epilepsy are best treated by monotherapy, and polytherapy has been shown to improve control in only 10%. So we are going to start a bridge med (4!) called Onfi while we begin to reduce the Felbamate, which I never thought was effective anyway. They offered to adjust his medications in hospital more quickly over just three days, but we couldn’t bear the thought. So we will do a 6-week wean at home instead. How can we possibly know what’s right? We can’t. It’s an experiment with our child’s brain and welfare which offers us no right answers beyond effort.

Neuro meds are always an experiment. Or so they keep telling me. (How odd to become a specialist in something, an epileptologist, just to know that you don’t know enough about the brain to actually be effective a high-percentage of the time.) We expect doctors to have answers, but all people process meds at different rates, and all meds interact differently when put into play with one another. I just want answers and there are none to be had. In Noah’s case, because there is no cause of his symptoms, it becomes even more difficult to find the right drug out of many. As one website puts it, the door to a solution is locked and you need to discover the right unique key to unlock it; so it is possible that Noah’s meds no matter how many, nor how effective for other children, will not gain us access to seizure control.

12/27/15

Noah has been admitted to Children’s ICU isolation. They think he has Nontypeable H flu with pneumonia. We’d been syringing liquid into him, hoping to keep him hydrated, thinking he’d rouse if we just tended to his symptoms and waited. For a kid who loves presents, he couldn’t even get excited for his Christmas gifts yesterday. That’s when we knew he’d fallen away from us. The good thing is that his vitals are stable and they are getting fluids and antibiotics into him, and hopefully food via tube. He’s still unresponsive, however, so that’s frightening to us all. The usual tests they do to stimulate a reaction–pinch fingernail beds, run a sharp point along the bottom of the foot–aren’t doing anything. One of the ER doctors looked at us after ordering a number of scary tests, like for meningitis, “You do realize that your child is very, very sick?”

They are taking this opportunity to observe him via EEG and tweak his seizure meds. At least he wasn’t conscious enough to freak out about the electrodes. It’s possible the seizure meds played a part in masking the severity of his symptoms to us, or his body’s ability to fight the illness, or even caused the pneumonia by allowing him to inhale liquid as we tried to force him to drink. Lots of moving parts. Lots of regrets. He looks so small in the hospital bed. And I can’t help but wonder if we will get him back intact, or has this illness compromised him all the more?

12/29/15

All is ok again with the EEG and CT too, so far. It feels like we are playing chicken with his seizures in regards to his meds, but the Critical/Acute care people feel like he may just be a kid particularly sensitive to “benzos”–the Onfi, the Clonazapam, and even the Diastat we use in emergencies, that has always knocked him out for a couple of days– and that’s what is causing a good portion of the problems with his alertness and may give the impression of his being sicker than he actually is. (I continually remind myself that we are good parents.) So there is a bit of push and pull between neuro and the acute care pediatrician to decide whether to put him back on all of his seizure medications. The neuro wants to resume status quo, but the pediatrician believes it’s the medications themselves that are to blame, especially the new Onfi. Here we thought we were helping him, when it seems we were putting him in danger instead.

12/31/15

So it is New Year’s Eve. What…to make of all this? A new year, more of the same–Noah sick, me struggling–, yet all more difficult because he’s not himself. He is week and listless, and not my son.

It’s been overwhelming today. The sadness. Tears have come easily. I feel as though my hands have been amputated. I want to put them to work on healing my son, but my efforts are completely ineffectual, even phantom, as there is nothing any amount of mothering can do.

1/5/16

Stabilized. Probably in the hospital for another week. I’m on my way to New York for work. I can’t believe I’m leaving him, and yet, isn’t this what we have learned over the past 10 years? To live as though you don’t have a dark shadow following you around everywhere you go? One of the hardest parts of suffering is suffering over the suffering. At some point, you have to turn it off, cap the faucet, cut the wire.

1/18/16

Noah is still in the hospital. Day #23. He will be having surgery Thursday to put in a G-tube. The pediatrician at the hospital thinks she’s figured out what’s at the bottom of Noah’s decline: he doesn’t have enough nutrition. And his weakness, and those episodes they thought were drop seizures, may have been malnutrition due to a growth spurt during which he didn’t have enough calories to power him up. So all that extra dosing of the seizure meds? Likely unnecessary. I cannot tell you how that feels. I cannot help but wonder what kind of mother I am to have drugged my child to the point of starvation. And now, to realize that I cannot satisfactorily feed my child in any way. That I have been naive in thinking I have made the right decisions.

So we have agreed he should have the surgery, have a hole put in his belly, carry that scar for life. But if that eases the strain of giving him medication by mouth when he’s sick, and provides him with nutrients that he must be missing, then it’s the right decision. I think. I hope. Because that’s what I’ve thought before. I wonder if there is any way to know what the right thing to do is, until you learn that it was the right thing to do, which likely had very little to do with you and a lot to do with a confluence of factors you will never truly understand. Perhaps that is the closest thing I will ever get to the truth of mothering: good intentions are the only thing that matters because the end results will always be out of my hands, beyond the strength of my desire.

Antithesis

I wrote you a love letter
but all you saw
were lines,
chicken scratchings
from my pen.

I played you a love song
but all you heard
was the hum
of strings straining
under the bow.

I gave you a gift
but all you saw
was yourself
because you forgot
to get me one.

I kissed your palm
but all you felt
was what my mouth
said out loud to you
on Tuesday.

I looked at your face
and all I saw
was twenty years
of you not knowing me
at all.

We glimpsed your death
and all we could do
was stare
it back into its cave
until spring.

Lamentations at the Tomb

The smell for one thing.
Open the door and the odor
of mold hits you square
in the face. Say you
forgot something. Find sanctuary
in your car, your oh-so-clean
car, even the lingering smell
of McDonald’s lunch a relief.
(It was a long drive
to Dad’s. Only one reason
you rarely made it, traveling along
I-90 through LaCrosse, a glimpse
of the Mississippi and glacial-less
bluffs beautiful, too brief.)

The smell is the basement’s
annual spring flooding,
destroyed drywall downstairs. Descend
the wooden stairway
of the rectangle ranch
you grew up in. The extent! Weird
enough what he had saved. A baby
carriage, Lite Brite,
one of a pair of Rock ‘em Sock ‘em Robots,
school papers and child art, wilted with wet,
stacks of books, pages dried together
like shipwreck survivors
clinging to one another,
a Mexican tooled-leather purse, an old one-eyed bear, your hope
chest. All eroded
by the creeped-in water, not just
this year, but years. Saved
yet not salvaged.

Bugs, but you see those. Sills pilled
with Japanese beetles that look
like harmless ladybugs, but have their own
particular stench if you touch. Daddy
longlegs weaved homes into corners,
fly corpses suspended. The black
and red armor of boxelder bugs
in every corner.
Rodents too. Holes chewed
into walls. Insulation seeps out
like dirty cotton candy. If you are brave
enough to look for a water glass, you will see evidence.
Of mice creeping in and out of cupboards,
over mismatched dishes, Tupperware,
weaving amid yellowing boxes of
Morton’s salt, Hamburger Helper,
and amber bottles of pills
long since emptied.

Also you see your vain
efforts to help. Not enough
in the end, or maybe since
the beginning. You hand-wrote recipes
and taped them to those cabinet doors,
yellow now with age.
A soft blanket
you gifted at Christmas, crusted
with spilled food and obscured by 
shed dog hair, spread
over a sofa. The nice television is still nice, but
the pale blue recliner you bought with your brother
has gone limp with overuse. Strangely
you are reassured
that the casket you both chose
is quite lovely, pale blue satin to match
his eyes, though his eyes,
you both agreed,
were donated fast.

(There was nothing
you could do. There was everything
you could have done. But anger, well,
its seeps and rots too.)

Here there is no resurrection
long in coming. Roll the stone
away, and there is only a failed shrine
to keep your mother’s memory alive, what she left
before
she died. He shut his eyes
to decay in favor of dreams of days
when her collection
of tea cups, washed to gleaming,
posed on the polished table, debutantes awaiting
the Ladies’ Aid. Maybe he remembers
how he would cross the kitchen
in farm boots of hard leather, and steal
one more cookie, maybe the same kind
his mother had made
him when he was a young boy
coming in
from the fields.

(You will never know.
You will never stop knowing.)

Cosmogony

To see him lying there, bloated and nearly naked due to feverishness, tubes like exterior veins protruding out of his neck in a knot of grotesque jewelry, a patch of dark blood–had it gushed?–spread out and dried on his chest, a thrum thrust through my torso like when a plane breaks the sound barrier. He turned to me when I arrived, when I said, “Wow,” careful to keep a certain amount of lightness in my voice, like when you slip on the ice and fall hard but assure everyone concerned that you’re just fine, and he said, “I’m sorry, honey.”

I think at that point he probably knew it was bad since the machine those tubes attached him to was removing his blood, cleaning it, and returning it, in an effort to quickly reduce the number of white blood cells which had been replicating unchecked in his blood. A science teacher, a teacher of biology and chemistry, certainly he knew. But he is also a pragmatist with a healthy shot of optimism. In other words, he’ll face what he has to face, but he won’t think the worst until it’s absolutely proven to be happening. Then it’s a matter of science; luck hasn’t much to do with it.

The women from the blood center who worked the machine, who showed me the bags of his blood, both red and white, mentioned chemo to one another. I didn’t let on that I’d heard, but soon I went out into the hallway to find the hematologist and suggested they make an effort to talk to him about the chemo since he had not been told directly that he had anything that necessitated such treatment. I said all this without so much as a crack in my voice. She was unwilling to commit, to declare it was cancer, to say more than that they suspected a form of leukemia, because the lab results weren’t in yet. But she promised to have the resident stop by and explain what they’d learned as soon as she could track him down.

I went to his bedside, and asked if they’d told him they were going to start chemo, that it was likely leukemia. He said no. He stared up at the ceiling. Tears pooled in his eyes. And then they were gone. I told his parents when they arrived–they drove from Minnesota on a feeling that things were not all they appeared to be, parents who had already lost a son to cancer–, that it was likely leukemia. His mother shook her head, said it might not be, that the tests might reveal a less devastating diagnosis, but I was sure, just as I’d known there was something wrong with our son’s development before anyone else believed it could be true.

The resident explained to us what Acute Myeloid Leukemia was. He used simple pictures on a white board to illustrate what had happened in Mark’s body before we could know it was happening. My memory of these moments is solid–I see the room, his rough sketches, and hear the resident’s voice, a reassuring Indian sing-song, clearly–but I’ve turned the information around in my head so many times, trying to apply some sort of logic to the incredible, that I’m afraid each time I speak that I’m repeating some laughable interpretation of the facts like a game of telephone.

As I understand it, a chromosome went wrong and one rogue cell started birthing premature white blood cells which then replicated more premature white blood cells, ad infinitum, driving the platelets and red blood cells out of the neighborhood that was his bone marrow. And because immature cells can’t do the work that mature blood cells can, his immune system was an inadequate barrier against any kind of illness. The cause is a gene mutation, a mutinous enzyme, a scratch on the record, that caused his cellular production to go awry. If left untreated, the immature white blood cells would proliferate until he is dead. Because this new chromosomal error is uneditable, they must clean out his bone marrow and replace it with another person’s.

Some leukemia survivors regard their bone marrow transplant to be a rebirth. They take pictures of themselves celebrating their new birthday. Some report changes in their bodies–gluten intolerance, overly-sensitive skin, a lingering fatigue. Some make vague references to not feeling quite themselves. But I can’t help but fear, in a kind of wondrous disbelief that the best science fiction engenders, that the man I married, whom I have lived with for the past 20 years, will not, at the end of this odyssey, be the same. Is this the ultimate test of nature versus nurture? Creationism versus evolution?

Our son’s neurological disorder is undiagnosed. The closest we get is to say he has a seizure disorder, but there is no answer to the question: why him? There is no cause determined, no prognosis predicted. The geneticists and the neurologists and the epileptologists and the other specialists have looked at his test results, the scans of his brain, the vials of blood and spinal fluid, the space between his eyes, the shape of his fingernails, and found nothing to explain why he is as delayed as he is. Is he–are we?—just unlucky? Perhaps the world would be a friendlier place for him and for me if we had an explanation for the idiopathic symptoms that plague his development and his safety. Maybe we could put the questions to rest–Is it something I did?–but then what good has that done us in Mark’s case? Leukemia is something that makes sense to doctors; it is an affliction that has a rote protocol. But it doesn’t mean we don’t ask the same questions: why him? why us? what happened?

Life strikes. Bang. Mark’s cancer was like a car crash without the car. One day he was home, then the next he was beginning a month in the hospital, the start of a six month process toward getting cured, and maybe a two year process to become himself again. And yet, I took it in stride. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was the Zoloft I’d been taking for a few years since my anxiety over my son’s health and special needs had turned into constant high wire walking. Maybe it was our son’s recent 3-week hospitalization over the previous Christmas and New Years that had prepared me for another long haul, another effort in compartmentalization, the practice of segmenting my strife from my life.

Because that’s what you do when you abruptly–is there any other way?–learn that your husband has cancer and treatment begins even before either of you has time to prepare. There was no choosing, no strategy, no warning that I would suddenly become a single parent of our special needs child, the primary money-earner, as well as the grateful, if begrudging, hostess to the constant stream of family members and friends and child caregivers and dog walkers and house cleaners who offered their assistance. Every one of the 25 days he was in the hospital, I kept it together. The gun had gone off, the race had begun, the ground moved beneath us, and we had no choice but to run, a marathon and a sprint both. Exertion and fear of stopping forward movement drove every decision, every action.

Most people picture The Big Bang as just that, a big bang. Like a spark and a flame that suddenly brought the universe into being. Energy makes sense. Flipping the lightswitch makes sense. But if the universe truly began not from a bang, but from intense pressure that literally pressed the world into being, then how? I suppose it’s why we look to God; the answers are so minor compared to the wonders of the world, the wonders of blood, the white and the red. One day, long before we knew Mark had cancer, something happened and suddenly? He had cancer.

And maybe there are times in a person’s life that are so combustible that you are fused into another version of yourself. My husband may earn a new life by accepting life from another person, but perhaps he already is becoming someone else. Perhaps it doesn’t take blood to renew the spirit. And perhaps it doesn’t take God either. Perhaps the extreme pressure he is under will change him regardless of the transplant, of the noncancerous cells recreating in his body minutes, days, weeks, and months after. And perhaps the same is true for myself. I wonder, after so much pressure, how much of my previous self is still there? How much of me is memory? And, maybe I wonder, how many times can a person be recreated before the pressure becomes smothering and the light just dies out.

The Silence of the Sound

It is dinnertime and Mark, Noah, and I have just arrived home from the grocery store. While Mark empties the grocery bags and I prepare the chicken, Noah is occupying himself by opening and closing the storage drawer beneath the oven. When we hear a thump, we both look down and he is lying prone on his back like a turtle flipped on its shell. This happens occasionally. When he just loses control of himself and falls backward. It’s the hypotonia, we are sure. He still isn’t always good at sitting. But he usually cries or laughs, depending on how hard he bumped his head. This time, he is just lying there, stiff, and his eyes are rolled up half under his lids. It is a seizure again, out of nowhere, here when we were doing normal so well.

Mark picks him up in his arms and moves him into the living room. It seems wrong somehow to leave him on the dirty kitchen linoleum to seize. I make a note of the time (6:39) and grab the Diastat box out of the kitchen cupboard. I hear Mark say, “He is burning up!” This is a good sign. Really. It is another fever-induced fever. Not one that is random. If it was random, that would be a different hell. Would carry different meaning. Like getting a life sentence, if that is what epilepsy is. (We would later learn we would not escape that grim fate.)

This is getting familiar if never comfortable. How could seeing your baby, life itself sparking in his bright eyes and exploring hands and thrilled smile of discovery, suddenly vacant of self. Having watched too many graphic recreations of bodily dysfunction on CSI, I imagine the electric currents in his brain zinging this way and that as the fever rises. His brain aflame with electricity. (It isn’t until many years later that I begin to understand that a seizure isn’t a storm, but the eye of the storm, the calm, the silence of the sound, of the fury.) Where does he go during these seizures? Is it like sleep? Is it like death? Is it like peace?

Noah is on the living room rug, his head tipped to the right side as it does, a sign perhaps of where the storm brews in his brain. His limbs jerk and his throat throbs with work and foam collects on his lips. Mark sings. I kneel down beside Noah and kiss his cheek. Wipe his mouth. Watch to make sure he is still breathing. This time, his lips are not turning blue.

Mark strips him to try to tame the fever. I run and get a cool washcloth. I say, “We should just give him the Diastat. It’s been 4 minutes.” There is no reaction from Noah as we lay the cloth across his bare and steamy stomach. There is no reaction when I sing to him his favorite song, or maybe it is my favorite song, the Cole Porter one I sang to him at the hospital when I couldn’t sleep in the wee hours after his birth. “Sun-tanned, Windblown, Honey-Mooners at last alone, Feeling, Fair Above Par, Oh How Lucky We Are. I Give to You, and You Give to Me, True Love, True Love. And On and On it will always Be, Love Forever True. ‘Cause You and I have a Guardian Angel…” We don’t know what we are doing. We know what we are doing because we are doing what we have to. Mark readies the Diastat plunger and administers it via Noah’s rectum. I keep singing and we wait.

We call it the 5 and 5 drill. It’s how we explain the seizure procedure to anyone who will spend time alone with Noah. If Noah has a seizure–oh, you’ll know, we say. He’ll go limp, but also be rigid. His eyes will flutter and probably roll up–, it’s okay to let him seize–in a safe place, of course–for 5 minutes and see if he comes out of it. (I know, how can that possibly be possible? Why is it ever okay to let a seizure run its course?) If he is still seizing after 5 minutes, administer the Diastat–the directions are right here in the box. Please read through them when we leave.–and wait. If he is still seizing 5 minutes later, use another dose of Diastat and call 911. There is a concern with oxygen. There is a concern of brain damage.

There is always a concern of brain damage. We must be alert to possible seizures every day, every hour. He will go months without one, and then suddenly, thump. Sometimes there are signs, in retrospect. The day before? A long nap. An anomalous fatigue when trying something new like standing. This morning? A low-grade fever of 99.5. But then he acted well. He climbed under and around the dining room chairs like they are his own obstacle course. He slid and swung at the park. Enjoyed a trip to the grocery store where we bought wine (joking that Noah had driven us to drink!) and baskets of colorful fall mums. Then, thump. Is the medication not working? Why? Why has this happened today?

As the years collect we will learn there are rarely signs, only our desire for signs, like the common physical salve: Everything happens for a reason. The reason, of course, being applied after the fact to pretend we have some control over chaos. We have no control over the chaos Noah’s disrupted brain has flung into our lives.

Noah stirs. Mewls. Curls up on his side. Eyes closed. His body trembles. His limbs twitch. We think he is back with us. The medicine has broken the seizure’s concentration, but now he is burning up. But now he is burning up, and now he is shivering. We take him upstairs to the bedroom and lay him on the bed, cover his thin (oh, how concave his stomach looks, how weak his limbs) body with a light blanket. Mark is hesitant, but I remind him how terrible it is to have a fever and be cold at the same time. He radiates heat. I get the thermometer. 102. We administer rectal Ibuprofen. Hold his hand. Watch to make sure he isn’t back in to the seizure again (that has only happened once before). He occasionally yawns and squeezes through small cries. You can feel the heat radiating off his body over an inch away. I scan his forehead. 103. I log onto the internet to double-check when to sound an alarm. It is 103. I rush to get the cell phone to be ready to call our clinic’s triage nurse. We lay cool cloths on his skin. Nothing works.

Mark takes him into the shower, puts him in the blow-up duck tub that Noah used as a baby, but it is too soon. Noah is miserable. Cold. In the past, the water has revived him. This time, he is too sick. We dry him off, apologize, lay him back on the bed and take his temp again. 102.5. We decide to hold off calling the nurse; the ibuprofen is working? Next temp, 101.5. Noah rolls onto his tummy, crosses his feet, tucks his arms and knees under him, and sticks his butt up in the air. His favorite sleeping position; our little turtle is right side down now. His breathing accelerates a little, worries us, but then evens out. The tension is out of the room. We lay on either side of Noah, gazing at him, kissing him. In awe of him, like we were in those first days of his birth, but now for reasons less joyful. If we were once amazed by the miracle of him, we are now cowed by the mystery of him.

I cry a little, then. I’ve learned that tears don’t changed anything, but this time I cry for Noah. I cry because it is so sad that life is already not fair to him. All children, I think, should be born with a clean slate. With health. And unlimited potential. But that isn’t the case. Noah’s potential has been limited. By seizures. By low muscle tone. By crossing eyes. By allergies. The limits seem endless. He cannot have ice cream because he is allergic to milk. He is not walking long after other children his age. It isn’t fair to him. He who should have all the opportunity to be happy. And I hope he will be. I hope he will be happy, and we will help him find that happiness no matter what that means.

But I imagine him having a seizure at the playground. On the stairs. I imagine my slight, thin baby as a slight, thin boy, mocked because he can’t play kick ball. I imagine him struggling to talk, or read, or hold a pencil. I imagine him pushed down by a crowd in a hallway. I imagine him middle-aged and alone, sitting at a bus stop, no home, no hope. But, I am learning: these are just imaginings. Strangely, the unexpected otherness of Noah, the expectations of parenting unmet, the dreams of his potential ashed, has also taught me that the paralyzing fears are just as slippery and ephemeral as the hopes. Nothing is real except now.

What is Noah’s potential? When he seizes, all I wish for is having him alive, with me. Each seizure, he is absent, like death is due and will decide whether to stop. Noah’s seizures are whole system and when he becomes still and stiff we drop into a kind of purgatory, powerless to decide if we might ascend. Noah becomes absent of everything but his body, and it would be, it seems, just as easy for him to settle more peacefully into death rather than struggle back to the surface choking life into his lungs like the half-drowned. But more than alive, I want Noah to come back to us as the same Noah who left for those long minutes. No other more damaged version would suffice. I will not pretend I haven’t thought about how much easier my life would be if he were just to fade away.

The ambiguity of my feelings for my child hovers over me like a curse. I am incredibly grateful for the astonishing miracle that is this little beautiful and resilient child. I do not doubt the ferocity of my love for him. But I also fantasize about finding myself in a dark alley, like on the set of some cheap sci-if movie, and coming upon a time machine. I have little doubt I would enter, choose to return back to my motherhood-less life. Selfishly, because I long to do that part of my life over: why didn’t I travel? Why didn’t I go back to school? Why didn’t I write that novel? I wonder if becoming a mother was just a shortcut to purpose in life that had seemed purposeless. But also self-protectively. What of the black fog that shrouds me since we first learned about Noah’s disabilities? People tell me it is normal to mourn the child you dreamed of having, but what about mourning the mother I dreamed of being? When I chose to have a child, I did not know I had also chosen to become harbor to a lifetime of heartbreak.

After an hour nap (I watch over him as Mark makes us dinner—we have learned life must go on), he stirs. Noah is listless, groggy, and can’t seem to close his mouth. I offer him my breast and he is able to take in milk. Mark brings up a bottle of water and Noah drinks more. He makes his talky sounds. We call our dog, Gracie, into the room, a sure excitement getter, and Noah forcefully tries to say “dgogd”. After a minute, he claps, then he gives a smile. All of his best tricks.

We dress him, carry him downstairs, feed him mandarin oranges. He eats and eats. The color is back in his face and he is beautiful. Sure, he is weak and listless the rest of the night, and goes back to sleep by nine, but we think he is okay. Believe that he is okay. We have all survived one more seizure. And suddenly it feels like nothing. Like a close call on the freeway, a car coming fast, a squeal of brakes, then silence. No impact other than the smack of adrenaline, the tingle in your fingers, the beating of your beating heart.

Moments of Impact

After Hiroshima dead bodies were found of people who had been wearing printed kimonos when they were killed. The bomb had melted the cloth on their bodies, but the design on the kimonos remained imprinted in the flesh. It seems to me in later years the deep nerveless passivity of that time together had become the design burned into my skin while the cloth of my own experience melted away.

Vivian Gornick, Fierce Attachments

Some say they remember where they were, what they were doing, when Kennedy was shot. Of course that means they remember where they were and what they were doing when they first heard Kennedy was shot. Some say the same about Lennon. I seem to recall being at Clayton and Maxine’s house, friends of my parents, staying over because my parents were out of town, when Elvis died. I can’t be sure it was Elvis, but I’m pretty sure it was. And I don’t think I remember that moment because I was any particular kind of Elvis fan, but instead because I didn’t understand why this was a big deal. To me, Elvis was only the Elvis of the sparkly white jumpsuits and ridiculous dark glasses; I didn’t understand Elvis as a cultural phenomenon. I didn’t understand that Elvis had changed everything for an entire generation. But my parents’ friends were struck, and I thought I should be too. It was the dissonance of the experience that makes me remember that moment.

I remember being in the band room of my high school when I first heard about the Challenger blowing up in the sky. Perhaps I only remember it because Sally Ride was another Sally, but I think that I remember it because I felt staggered by the realization that the brave were sometimes the least safe.

When OJ took his white SUV on the run, we crowded around a small television set usually reserved for important sports events at the insurance brokerage firm where I temped. At work, where I made copies of documents and then filed those copies, OJ was water-cooler fodder and a spectacle that brought us together for days, weeks, months, with the denouement so deflating it seemed to diminish just how new and bizarre it was to watch news happen in real time.

I had just walked into the gym the morning of 9/11. Instead of running on treadmills, or stepping on ellipticals, or hefting and dropping weights, the people in the gym that morning were standing still and staring up in silence at the silent televisions broadcasting a tower’s collapse. Rebroadcasting the moments of impact. At first, I thought it was a movie. I thought soon Will Smith or Bruce Willis would appear.

Why I remember those events from the past is anyone’s guess. Some events are so dramatic, the impact clears the every day clutter from your head and stamps itself like a brand on your memory. Other events just joins the messy brigade of thoughts marching and encamping throughout the day, denying those moments the time to take root in the soil of memory. I can’t tell you what I was doing when I first heard that Katrina hit New Orleans, when the earthquake hit Haiti, or a defective reactor poisoned the people of Chernobyl, Japan or Three Mile Island.

Seemingly solid memories bleed and reshape like oil drops in water. Tip your brain one way and the memory will elongate; close your eyes and you can drop yourself down in the moment, but it’s a bit like Marty McFly or Quantum Leap: so little control once you project yourself there. When I picture myself in the band room, in the brokerage firm office, in the gym, I don’t move and I don’t react. I only see. Maybe because if I move, I will affect history like any good sci-fi movies warns of, or I will cause the memory to shift and it will never regain its former shape, or I will peer too hard and the clearly drawn edges of the memory will become amorphous and I’ll begin to doubt everything I once thought I knew.

My mother often told the story of announcing to my father they had been approved for an adoption and would be receiving a baby, my brother, by posting the news on the red brick silo just behind our garage. When I think on this now, I simply cannot believe it. How my mother would have posted a sign that big that high-up defies any kind of logic. She would have needed a lift truck to do the deed, but in my mind, that memory of her memory persists.

I was in Mr. Buck’s 7th grade English class when someone came to the door to pull from class and tell me my mother had died. I remember it being our pastor at the door. I would imagine he had been brought there by our principal but I can’t remember him there in the moment. I think we sat in the principal’s office because somewhere in the school my father waited for me after the telling, but I’m not sure. My mind’s eye can’t see the room, can’t remember the first hug. I do remember sitting on my father’s lap in the front seat of the pastor’s car–nicer than any of ours, I know–as he drove us home, leaving my brother at the high school as he was unwilling, my brother, to let the news impact his regular day.

I can’t remember how I learned that my father had died. Maybe my brother and I were exchanging phone calls? Maybe someone from the hospital called me? How can I not remember that? But I do remember coming home (from the gym? from a tennis match?) and listening to a message on my answering machine (from my aunt? or my uncle? a message from either would have been strange as I hadn’t spoken to either of them in at least a decade) telling me my father had been taken to the hospital via ambulance. I know he lived, in a coma, a few more days. I know I didn’t travel to Minnesota to see him. I don’t remember why not going seemed the best option.

Other news also came on like a slow burn of a ditch fire, carefully watched, but somehow still wild. My son’s disabilities revealed themselves like drips into a bucket that fills surprisingly fast and overflows with a gush. By his first birthday we knew that he was not the child we’d dreamed of having. For the next three years I would fight against that reality, trying futilely to cup the water in my hands and put it back into the full bucket.

My husband’s leukemia took months to diagnose. There was always something else it could be. It was exhaustion; it was cluster headaches; it was a virus. The other possibilities were ludicrous as few suspect cancer in an otherwise healthy, downright robust 48 year old man, despite most of us worrying ourselves over cancer every day. Leukemia. Blood cancer. White blood cells gone rogue.

And maybe because it was just months ago, but I remember the moments with calm clarity. I remember sitting at home, thinking it could be leukemia. I remember telling myself that the most devastating thing is often the least likely. He texted me that they were doing blood dialysis to reduce the number of white blood cells because he had far, far too many. But no, he said, he didn’t know what that meant. It took me a couple of hours to get to the hospital. I knew he was sick, that he had been sick, that he hadn’t been who he usually was for many months. But I didn’t expect to see him stripped and bloated on the table, multiple tubes like computer cables running to a churning machine from a port in his neck, his skin blotched around the injection site with stains of dry brick red blood. Each of the tubes were removing blood from his body, pulling his blood into the machine, separating and hoarding the white while returning the red. I stopped dead at the doorway. He turned to me, knew what I was seeing, and said, “I’m sorry, honey.”

And I think that was the moment we both knew. Even before the technician from the blood center let the word chemotherapy drop from her mouth, before any doctor had warned us of the possibility, or rather, the necessity of treating his cancer immediately, no choice in the matter. The gravity of his words, “I’m sorry,” crushing the hope that anything from this point on would be easy. No, what had already been hard would now become harder. The load would be heavier and the direction of our life together less clear.

The word cancer makes people think of death. So does leukemia, though there are many stories we hear about people who have been cured with much hard work, by the doctors, by the sick. My husband has always been a strong man, a hard worker who has defined himself to himself by putting hand to the proverbial plow. He is two months into what will be the two years of the hardest work he will ever have to do. I choose to believe his body can withstand the impact of the blows. I choose to believe that his will can insure the result. I can only hope my heart’s scars have formed a strong enough infrastructure beneath the minute fractures to keep me from crumbling from each upcoming strike.