Obsessively Ambitious

In this previous post, I stated that my health insurance provider is increasing my monthly premium because I am now thirty years old. I spoke prematurely. I received another letter shortly afterward informing me of a second premium increase the following month, this April, when my policy reaches its renewal date. The letter cited unspecified rising costs. I was mistaken — my premiums have increased approximately 70% over the course of the past three years.

Ten years ago I found myself in pain and in urgent need of surgery to remove my wisdom teeth. I had no option but to delay for several months until I had obtained employment which made me eligible for medical benefits. When the teeth were finally removed they had entangled themselves so thoroughly in my jaw that permanent nerve damage was done. I have never recovered the total sense of feeling in the lower left quarter of my face. It is a harmless but nagging reminder of the long term consequences of delaying medical care.

Earlier this month my primary care physician referred me to an oncologist to schedule a breast cancer susceptibility gene screening. When the unfamiliar number appeared on my telephone, I let their call roll over to voice mail. I still have not responded. Independent of whether my insurance covers either the gene screening, or any preventative procedures that would be recommended based on its results, I cannot afford my deductible and out-of-pocket costs.

One of my prescriptions has been out of stock in the generic formula for over two months. My insurance contributes so little towards the name brand that it may as well be nothing at all. It is so expensive that I simply go without.

Over the past few months, I have witnessed a hospital collection department harassing my mother with frequent letters and multiple telephone calls each day over barely one hundred dollars. Why? Between the bureaucracy of the hospital and two separate insurance companies, they cannot determine who is responsible. They force a sick woman to fumble with their paperwork.

I absolutely cannot understand how anyone with a shred of humanity could look at this piecemeal system and say, “Yes, this is what I want for my family. This is what I want for my friends. This is what I want for my neighbours.”

Stockholm syndrome is alive and well in the United States of America.

Last Monday I became my mother’s caregiver for five days per week while my father is at work. She has become incredibly frail and her condition has deteriorated such that it is no longer safe for her to be alone for that length of time. If she were to fall or injure herself the results could be catastrophic. She is easily upset and quick to panic when she cannot complete ordinary tasks. The metastatic breast cancer has continued to spread and manifested on her scalp, and in the mastoid area of her head which causes her ears to frequently bleed. The situation is forcing her to receive chemotherapy again, though that treatment poses a significant threat in itself. During the day I am responsible for preparing her meals, administering or monitoring medications, housekeeping and laundry duties, local errands, driving her to and attending her doctor’s appointments, and generally assisting with routine activities.

My parents have been financially stressed by all the costs associated with my mother’s medical problems. For my help, they are paying me just enough to reimburse my travel expenses, which I could not afford otherwise, and to be certain I can continue paying for my health insurance and mobile phone. They also provided me with a better vehicle to drive. Under this arrangement I will have little discretionary income left for myself, however. I hope that I will not have to sacrifice the steps I have taken towards being artistically productive again and making a modest income. But I will do what needs to be done.

I sold my damaged and rapidly-aging car for cash: what little value it still had. My parents gave me their second vehicle, a compact pickup truck one year older but with about 40,000 fewer miles on the odometer. It is far from ideal for driving 300 miles or more per week. At around $2.50 per gallon, it is using at least $60.00 of fuel per week. But I am appreciative and I do like the truck. I enjoyed driving it when Matt and I borrowed it during our move. The stereo works reliably, and I no longer have to deal with petty frustrations such as the windshield wipers malfunctioning at certain speeds, or the climate control having no more subtle settings than off or wind tunnel. I do not have to be reminded of the damage from my previous home each time I go somewhere.

I am in the process of making my life and work as mobile as possible. After years of stubbornly using only the most basic Nokia candybar models, I finally upgraded to an internet-capable phone with a QWERTY keyboard. I added a Bluetooth headset so that I can be safely reached on the road, and continue to clean or work when I need to place calls. I purchased a padded briefcase that will accommodate a few folders of artwork and documents, and my ASUS EeePC 900, allowing me to respond to email, manage my multiple To Do lists, and perform minor website updates away from home. I purchased duplicate art supplies and a small drafting tabletop to leave at my parents’ house so that I can, at the least, draw and ink artwork during the times my mother is asleep or watching television. Unfortunately, my artwork will still have to be finished at home during the limited evening hours and over the weekends.

I purchased a portable cage for my three rats, in order to keep them with me during my commutes. I feel guilty for restricting them to somewhat cramped housing for a full third of their day, but they sleep for the bulk of the daylight hours regardless, and they have an excessively large cage at home. My two males are approaching two-and-a-half years old, an age where anything can go wrong suddenly, care throughout the day is often needed, and death can come quickly. Leaving them home alone for extended lengths of time causes me a great deal of stress and avoidable worry that I do not need right now.

I cannot say how long this arrangement is expected to last, or how long I will be needed. There are too many variables and unknowns in the equation.

My next birthday is fast approaching — on February 23rd I will be thirty years old. Last week I received my first greeting for the occasion: a letter from my health insurance provider informing me that this milestone will necessitate an increase in my monthly premium. As of March when this change takes effect, my premiums will have increased by just slightly over 60% since I opened my policy only three short years ago. I would feel better about the situation if I honestly believed that they will not try to abandon me, or otherwise price me out of their services completely, the second I become seriously ill or injured.

I am so excited to discover what else my birthday may have in store.

I lived at my previous apartment for three years and never had a problem with any neighbour, and none with me. My complaints were rare and typical.

After almost three years, a young man — who henceforth shall be known as Guitar Hero — moved in downstairs. The first day I noticed him it sounded as if a live concert was going on in the courtyard outside of my front door. I later learned that he was hosting recording sessions with his acoustic guitar and so-called manager in his living room beneath me. This initial scenario played itself out at least two or three times per week. Strumming and singing would flood the courtyard and my apartment. I would call the management office, they would call him, he would not answer his phone, and the music would continue for at least another hour or more until he was finished. After a few weeks, things quieted down, for reasons unknown. I caught him out coming home one day and apologized in person for complaining to the management. It was the holiday season and I had been trying to make gifts, and had been very stressed and unable to deal with the noise. He seemed very polite and told me I had not bothered him; the one complaint that he had made about me stomping on the floor was only retaliation. Things were relatively peaceful for a while. Some more time passed, and then the electric guitar arrived.

I woke up one evening because my bed was physically shaking. Everything in the apartment was vibrating and rumbling. I cannot understand how anyone in any situation would think an electric guitar at full volume is appropriate for an apartment building. I called the management repeatedly, but they never did anything. I am home all the time, and so was he, and he did little but play guitar with me upstairs to suffer it. I eventually developed a Pavlovian panic attack response to it. He would play in the evenings so that one could not even watch television without turning the volume up uncomfortably loud. He would play the same chords or songs over and over until I wanted to bash my skull in simply to make it stop. He played later and later at night. I started to call the police; at peak three or four times per week. He would watch for them to pull up, and stop before they left their squad cars so they could do nothing. He would play absurdly loudly for twenty minutes then leave, so no one was home when the squad car came. He would retaliate by pounding on the floor directly underneath my bed, then by screaming at me; sometimes profanity, sometimes nonsense. He would sit beneath my bedroom very late at night and strum and sing, watching for the police, watching so they would be unable to catch him in the act. He threatened me all but to my face.

I felt betrayed by the management, who had accepted gifts of my homemade treats for years, talked to and interacted with me on friendly terms, and even trusted me to look after one of their young teenage daughters. Their mock concern and sympathy, and path of inaction, quickly became patronizing and a source of frustration. I was tolerated as if I was the unreasonable tenant.

My apartment started to frequently smell like skunky weed, and less often, it smelled like burning tires. This aggravated my existing respiratory problems.

And so this was my life for approximately two years. I should have run away, but I could not afford to leave, and realistically had nowhere else to go. The property came to be under new management after one year or thereabouts with Guitar Hero, and when they eventually became involved there was not even any record of the previous complaints I had made. Supposedly he had been sent warning letters. Lies. Once or twice he was playing so loudly that upon calling the management, they were able to hear the music over my tiny mobile phone. They would claim to have sent warnings but nothing improved. Not once did a member of management walk her shambling carcass down the block to my building to hear anything for herself. They told me — again and again — that no one else had complained about him, which I would later find out from talking with my other neighbours was a complete and utter lie.

One day I got lucky and a maintenance man, a witness, was in my apartment while Guitar Hero was playing loudly. The maintenance man told me he had been sent to Guitar Hero’s apartment in the past to ask him to turn down his music, and that Guitar Hero had slammed the door in his face. I called the management, but as always, nothing happened. After an hour I called again and a pair of police officers happened to be there for an unrelated reason. I asked them to come to my apartment. They did and I told them an abridged version of this story, and begged for them to help me. They went downstairs and threatened to evict Guitar Hero if the music did not stop. It finally did for the most part. A couple of days later I was leaving to run some errands, and my car’s passenger door had been cleanly smashed in on the side facing the sidewalk. I do not know if Guitar hero damaged it or not. I have no proof.

But that act effectively destroyed the little value my car had left.

There were other incidences nearer the end, such as ringing my doorbell and running away like school children. I regularly discovered vomit at the base of the stairs leading up to my door, which went uncleaned for weeks at a time.

After what felt like an eternity of almost daily music or rumbling or shaking or screaming or pounding floors or fighting my neighbour and the management, I spent the latter half of 2008 and most of 2009 in an unending breakdown cycle. By last spring I was prescribed alprazolam by my doctor to refrain from unintentionally injuring myself during my panic attacks. I seriously considered the methods and practicality of breaking my ear drums. I hallucinated music in the constant sounds of the refrigerator and air conditioner motors, and in turn those hallucinations would lead to insomnia even after the actual music had long since stopped. I did not sleep soundly for months. I lost the ability to concentrate, to focus. It wore me down until my entire life fell to pieces.

Another, third company, took over management of the property only weeks before my lease was to expire. All of the people responsible for doing nothing to help me were coincidentally transferred to other offices, or in some cases, let go. The day I turned in my keys I held a detailed discussion with the head manager about Guitar Hero, to be certain that what happened to me never happens again. Months later and across the city, I am finally able to feel safe in my own home. Gradually, the auditory hallucinations stopped. And I need alprazolam only in case of emergency, rather than as an essential lifeline.

I have done my best to retell these events as factually as I understand them, but I know this story is biased by how the situation affected me. I was never offered any solutions beyond pointless phone calls to the police; for example, being allowed to break my lease without ridiculous fees, or the opportunity to move into a different unit in the complex. There were numerous witnesses, but those with the power and responsibility to help me chose not to act.

My rent was predictably raised each year, yet everything deteriorated around me. In addition to the poisonous climate control system fueling my allergies, I cumulatively endured nearly two months of inadequate or completely broken air conditioning during a summer of record high temperatures. The residents were offered no compensation and I was quickly and rudely dismissed when I inquired. Blue tarps remained on the roofs months after Hurricane IKE, and the parking lots were never completely cleared of debris. Scattered nails and bolts left me constantly spending money to patch tires. Over all of five years I watched as the property transitioned from waiting lists for the most desirable floor plans… to desperate vinyl banners advertising desperate specials.

I was almost saddened to leave the place I called home for so long. Almost.

Every year since 2005, or thereabouts, I have said to myself that surely the following year must be better. And every year, as I have tempted the fates, life has found new and inventive ways to kick me in the metaphorical balls. I have officially thrown in the towel. I am telling each and every one of you in advance that 2010 is going to be positively awful. I know what to expect.

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By the beginning of 2009, I had lost almost everything, having sold all I could live without and of any value to pay bills. My living situation, complete with a psychotic neighbour — the abridged tale may be for another day — and toxic environment, had left me mentally broken and a nervous wreck. Each effort I made to resurrect myself was met with another setback and the subsequent breakdown. Depression and anxiety disorder had been dogging me for years, but without the ability to feel safe in my own home, I completely shut down.

I cannot honestly remember what I did with myself last spring, except for the few things documented in my paperwork, photographs, and notes. Over the previous years I developed symptoms of severe indoor allergies, including runny nose, sneezing, wheezing, congestion, and frequent headaches. I was taking multiple decongestants and antihistamines on a daily basis with little to no relief. I rarely slept more than two hours without interruption and was insatiably tired. In this way I whittled away at the weeks and months, simply trying to exist until summer arrived. Then my mother went to the hospital.

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Six years ago, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer; unknown to me at the time, it is a common illness in her family. The knowledge of this hangs over my own future like a guillotine on its slowly fraying rope. She received treatment, was eventually declared free of cancer, and appeared healthy for several years. Then she began to experience pain and difficulty walking. Her cancer had metastasized and was — still is, in fact — attacking her bones.

The chemotherapy was more difficult to tolerate this time, and early last year she was allowed a break. Weeks later, she was admitted to the hospital with congestive heart failure; a problem likely caused by some of the cancer drugs during her original chemotherapy years ago. She was not eligible for a heart transplant. A strict diet and cocktail of medicines kept her alive while another doctor, convinced of his opinion, performed a pair of surgical procedures that eventually restored her heart to normal function. The doctors literally referred to this as a miracle. She received that happy news while hospitalized, after nearly destroying her kidneys by dehydrating herself. Her kidneys were not permanently damaged, but only days later, she learned that her cancer had spread to her bone marrow. She has had several blood transfusions, and is on medication. Her body is not yet capable of receiving more chemotherapy.

She has other, painful but less serious, troubles which are being exacerbated by the underlying cancer. She is extremely weak, and struggles with mobility. For approximately the past six months, I have been travelling across town at least once per week to clean my parents’ house, drive her to and attend her doctor’s appointments, run errands, and assist with anything else needed. I expect this to continue for the forseeable future, and all of my personal work going forward must be planned around ensuring she is safe and cared for.

I hope my mother will not mind me sharing this with you. I do not think so, as she quite readily tells her story to anyone seemingly willing to listen: friends, acquaintances, familiar waitresses, and sympathetic strangers. Her struggle is quickly becoming mine as well, as I do what is required to help take care of her and make life a little easier on my father. I do have two younger siblings, but thanks to my situation of self-employment and a supportive partner, I am the only one with the flexibility, stamina, and resources to take on this role.

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At the end of the summer, Matt and I moved in together; a nearly month-long ordeal that involved a great deal of research, time, and expense. We rent a two-story townhome in a quiet neighbourhood. It is old and is not without its flaws, but it is large enough to have a dedicated room for my workspace and the rats’ cages and supplies. Having a private and secured space which I can withdraw to has helped tremendously with unravelling the cumulative mental damage of the past and releasing me from the stranglehold of depression.

It was not until about two months passed that I understood exactly how sick my apartment made me. I was aware that the air ducts and vents covered in thick dust, sticky black grime, and mold were having a negative effect on my health. It was my home for five years and — in retrospect — the longer I lived there, the more sick I became. Headaches were the first symptom to subside. Over time I noticed other allergy symptoms becoming less bothersome. Now that I have been gone for several months, I am not completely symptom free, but my lingering problems are minor. I rarely resort to medication. When I am able to sleep, I wake up less often, and I do not feel constantly fatigued.

The holidays were stressful under the cloud of my mother’s cancer. My father and I prepared the bulk of the seasonal meals and desserts. I asked for no gifts. My parents had purchased a treadmill earlier in the year on a doctor’s recommendation, but my mother was never strong enough or without pain to use it. I accepted it for Christmas, since I can afford neither time nor money for a gym membership and I need scheduled exercise. Matt purchased some inexpensive furniture for our living room and curtains for the windows, which I had wanted for a while. I was able to purchase a few modest gifts myself. In the end we eked out a happy Christmas; one which I recorded for the first time and dabbled with amateur DVD making for the benefit of my family.

There were other lesser misfortunes benchmarking 2009 as the worst year of my life, though most are already lost to my poor memory. My two eldest rats passed away, which is to be expected, but their deaths could not have been more poorly-timed. They each fought to the bitter end, requiring intense care in their last days, choosing to slip away only after I succumbed to exhaustion and returned them to their cage for two or three hours of sleep. Prior to that I had held nearly every rat as he or she died, and I was miserable with guilt and regret. Ultimately they died within only weeks of each other, just before we moved house. I have two aged males and one young female remaining.

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I am beginning this year at an equilibrium. I have a debt of work to complete, but that is the extent of it. I plowed through my annual paperwork and filed state and federal taxes early; what funds I had remaining were just enough. Slowly but steadily, I have become productive again, and able to look at my projects with feelings other than self-loathing and deep dissatisfaction. I am harbouring no illusions that the coming months will be anything less than a personal trial by fire. At the very least, I feel better prepared to handle it.