M is for Mum (Ep. 7)

That fall, my kidney function plummeted.          

In September, the Boyfriend with the Dark Hair went to Indonesia, Nicole went to university, and Nick went to Denmark for a year. Suddenly, my people were scattered around the world as mine shriveled down to the size of a bedroom and streetcar rides to the hospital.

Now 18, I was legally an adult and forced to leave Sick Kids’ and my beloved Dr. B. After four years with my fine physician friend, I was sent off to the big leagues — transferred to the Toronto Western Hospital. Already on my third nephrologist, I was nervous, so Mum came along.

I dressed to impress. Aiming to cover symptoms of renal failure that were just beginning to show. I Cover Girl-ed my sallow skin (fatigue) and puffy eyes (edema), donned my shoulder-padded, paisley green business suit à la Melanie Griffith in Working Girl and sprayed my moussed-up, Duran Duran bangs into paralysis.

I was ready to be seen.

Dr. C. was very different from Dr. B. He was quiet. Serious. Oddly wearing an unserious tie — bright purple with white polka dots. He just kinda sorta stared at me. No ice breaking questions about hair mousse? No riffing on 80’s music? Was this what being an adult was?

Rattled, I looked at Mum, stylish and strong in her office wear, her hair flowing in that Mummy-so-soft way. We agreed she wasn’t going to speak. She knew the story was mine to tell. First-hand agony has the most impact.

“How are you feeling?” Dr. C. asked. My heart thrummed as I stumbled to answer.

ESRF (End Stage Renal Failure) was picking up steam. Sometimes I felt confused about basic tasks. Had a constant blunt headache. Nausea rippled on. Blinded by the cubicle’s glare, I babbled something dumb about being tired.

“Tired. So tired. Sleeping twelve hours a night and still exhausted.”

With an invisible roll of his eyes he clipped, “Oh, all teenagers sleep until noon.”

Well.

Once I started, I could not stop. The tears. Each drop of snot wiped with the back of my hand. Every embarrassed shudder away from my new doctor was for them:

The Boyfriend with the Dark Hair. His hand across my skin. The way his eyes held mine until I melted into us. Nicole. Giggles and gossip and innocent sips of wine coolers. And my brother, Nick. Sibling limbs striding through the park, mouths wide, laughing, calling for our dum-dum beagle, Ralph. I was crying for all of them. Without them, I felt myself shrinking into my symptoms, into the disease, away from who I knew myself to be.

I blubbered on as Mum rolled her shoulders back, “Understand, Dr. C., Henriette usually operates on six hours a night. Sleeping twelve hours is unusual.”

She continued on, waving her pom poms with My daughter is a winnah! cheer. She explained my symptoms in a way I couldn’t. I couldn’t see Yesterday and Today Henriette. I was just in the middle of me. Mum could see how hard and fast disease coming for Future Henriette, and knew Dr. C. needed to understand it now.

Along the bumpy 506 streetcar ride home, Mum turned to me and said,

“You look too good. Stop wearing makeup.”

I flinched, offended. I mean, let’s face it, the 1980’s might have been The Greatest Generation for makeup. Who didn’t use half a jar of cold cream to slough away the day’s face? Who didn’t spend 18 minutes perfecting the lip trifecta — liner, lipstick and gloss? Who didn’t slap on thick layers of foundation and rouge and powder? It was a culture. Not wearing makeup was unthinkable. Gross, really. Like not using toilet paper.

But Mum had a point. Dr. C. didn’t know me, and although I didn’t want to know him, I was stuck with him. He was no Dr. B. There would be no crushin’ here, despite his flirty ties.

It was the first time I realized I had to participate in my illness. I didn’t want to. I wanted to white wash it away with a color palette of 80’s shimmer and gloss. Now I had to paint the picture without paint.

That was what being an adult was.

It could certainly be argued that a mum is not a medication. (These episodes center around one medication that impacted my life’s journey through illness.) However, medicine by definition is a chemical that cures disease or eases symptoms.

I leaned my head on my Mum’s shoulder and sighed. I had been seen, but not by the person I thought. Breathing in the pungent notes of her old-fashioned perfume, I breathed out the day as the streetcar clickity-clacked us home.

My burden of illness eased.