Bad Week

Dear Dad,

It has been a crappy week—I mean that both literally and figuratively. Wednesday morning, I put a load of laundry in the washing machine. When I went back downstairs, about an hour later, to put the clothes into the dryer, water was pouring out of the ceiling over the basement sink. Okay, maybe pouring is a bit of an exaggeration, but it was definitely more than a drip. The sink was half full and water was pooling on the ground. A little while later, I flushed the toilet and sewage backed up into the bathtub. UGH! I thought I was going to throw up. Back downstairs, the water had stoped flowing out of the ceiling, but sewage had now backed up into both basement sinks and the washing machine. I was completely repulsed. Kati texted the landlords’s daughter—the landlord doesn’t speak English well—and the daughter promised to have a plumber come out first thing in the morning.

As promised, the plumber arrived as G3 was getting ready for school on Thursday morning. The landlord’s daughter showed up shortly after he did. The basement smelled awful. There was more sewage everywhere, even on the basement floor. Plus poop was floating in the sinks. I gagged and pulled my shirt over my nose. The plumber assessed the damage, and said his guess was that the tree roots had crushed or damaged the pipe and that’s what was causing the problem. And sure enough, as soon as he started to snake out the pipe, he pulled out tree roots that had penetrated the pipe. They had grown so thick, they had clogged it. The tangle of debris that he pulled out filled a small garbage bag. The water is now running freely through the pipe and there is no more back up, but it’s only a temporary fix. 

After the first plumber left, a second one showed up with a camera to explore the pipe. The camera revealed a hole in the pipe where the roots had broken through. Since roots are drawn to water—even sewer water—it is only a matter of time until the roots grow back and when they do they will be thicker and denser than before. To truly fix the problem, the pipe needs to be repaired. That will cost the landlord nearly $9,000. It was evident from the conversation between the landlord’s daughter and the guy with the camera that they wanted to avoid spending that much money. But the plumber was clear, if they don’t, the problem will be worse next time and could potentially lead to sewer water flooding the entire basement, not just a small area. Plus, after the water came through the ceiling the drywall will need to be replaced to avoid the growth of mold. All of this just adds to the pressure for us to move. We can’t stay in a place where the landlord will not fix everything that needs to be fixed. But to move, I need a job. 

I did have an interview this week for a middle school position. The interview was disastrous. I had no idea how to answer most of the questions. Reading and writing are both taught in ways that I simply can’t get behind regardless of the data. I believe in reading literature and discussing it, pulling it apart. But the data says that kids are more willing to read if they read what they want. But reading alone isn’t enough to fully engage students’ critical thinking skills. And when they all read something different, how can a teacher possibly know how well they comprehend the books? How can a teacher be sure they are delving into them deeply? I read a great deal, but there is no way I could read every book 100 students were reading. It’s not feasible. (Also, I should add that this particular district’s test score are atrocious. So regardless of the overall data, one needs to question if this method of teaching is really working.) It seems like schools are trying to make school fun and entertaining, instead of places that develop necessary life skills. But what do I know? Apparently not much since I’m sill unemployed. 

Mom had knee replacement surgery on Thursday—the same day the plumber was pulling roots out of our sewage pipe. She was in the Hospital for Special Surgery. The same hospital in which you died. The same hospital where COVID protocols prevented us from being with you. Needless to say, that added a layer of restlessness and anxiety for me. It shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t stop thinking of the fact that I never did get to pick you and bring you home. Anyway, Mom was supposed to come home the same day as the surgery, but her leg did not cooperate the way the doctor hoped it would. Despite her best efforts, she was incapable of lifting it on her own and the hospital refused to release her until she could do it. They decided to hold her overnight. 

On Friday morning, the physical therapist evaluated her early, and still, her leg could not perform properly. When she tried to walk with a walker it kept buckling on her. So instead of releasing her early, they said they would keep her a little longer. She was distraught. She wanted to be home, comfortable in her own house. While I waited for an update on Mom, since I was going to have to pick her up at the hospital in Manhattan, my brother texted me. Emma, his beloved dog, died Thursday night in his arms. He told me how he now pictured her with you. I’m sure, if there is some sort of afterlife somewhere, you were there to greet Emma. And now you can take long walks with her and Fireball on the beach. I think my brother took comfort in knowing Emma would not be alone, that you would take care of her now. I haven’t told G3 yet that Emma died. He is camping with the Boy Scouts in upstate New York and I didn’t want him feeling sad while he was away. He loved his uncle’s dog a great deal. I will break the sad news to him on Sunday when he gets back home. I had really wanted to go on that camping trip with him, but I can’t be at two places at once, and Mom needed me here.

Of course, because I have the worst luck, Mom’s leg finally decided to cooperate in time for me to commute into Manhattan during rush hour. I don’t like to drive. I despise traffic so much that I will do anything to avoid it. Needless to say, having to head to the Holland Tunnel at 3:00 didn’t make me all that happy, but I did it. It took me an hour and forty-seven minutes to drive from Middlesex to the Hospital of Special Surgery—at least they let me use a restroom when I got there. And then it took me an hour and thirteen minutes to drive in absolutely god-awful traffic from the hospital to mom’s house in Glendale. By the time we got there, my body was shaking from sitting in over three hours of traffic. I parked the car and refused to drive any more. It was late and we were hungry, but I walked to get take-out for dinner because walking is always far more pleasurable than driving.

I am worried about Mom. I can only stay with her until tomorrow night because I have to get home to take care of G3. He should be old enough to be a little responsible, but if I’m not home, he will not get himself up in the morning, nor would he get himself to school. He’d sleep in and skip classes and that would just give me one giant headache. So I’ll go home to get him to where he needs to be and then I’ll sit around all day wondering how Mom is doing. I am concerned with her trying to climb the stairs without me here. She can get up and down slowly, but it is a struggle, and if she falls no one will be here to help her. I also worry about how she’s going to eat. She can’t stand long and she can’t stand without holding the walker. I cooked dinner tonight. Tomorrow I’ll also be able to cook. If I can get some meals in the fridge for her she’ll just have to warm them in the microwave. That should be simple enough and not too taxing on her knee. But prepared meals won’t last long.

For two weeks, a physical therapist will come here, but after that, Mom will have to get to therapy on her own. I don’t know how she is going to manage that. It’s not far, just a few blocks, but walking a few blocks with two working legs is much different that walking those same blocks after surgery. I wish you were here. Things were so much easier for her when you were alive. Things would be easier now because you would have been able to drive her wherever she needed to go. If only she lived closer to me, that would also make things easier. If I didn’t have to fight traffic and cross two bridges to get to her, then I’d be able to work something out so that I could bring her to therapy. But alas, it’s just not possible while we live in different states. If need be I can rearrange my schedule and come back next weekend to help her. But the following weekend, I have to be out of town with G3.

Of course a bad week would end with a rejection email from an agent. It was an agent I actually felt optimistic about, one who I thought might be interested in my work. Needless to say, I am crushed. Again. Disappointed doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel. I don’t know where to go from here. Not sure it’s worth trying anymore. It’s at the point where I’m seriously questioning my ability to write. Seriously, how do you get someone to pay attention to you? Get someone to like you so much they want to represent you? Want you to be successful? I just wish I knew what I was doing wrong.

Next week, I have another job interview. With the way this week has gone, I’m not feeling optimistic. Not even a little bit. But I suppose all storms pass eventually. Right? So this cloud—this dense swirling black mass—can’t hover over me forever. Can it? Eventually, it’s got to blow over, move on, and allow a little light—and luck—to penetrate my life. Right? Perhaps a rainbow, complete with a pot of gold. Okay, that’s a bit ridiculous, but still it would be nice. A rainbow. Gold. Success. Happiness. Something, anything, because lately, every day it’s getting a little harder to get up and out of bed. In fact, I think on Monday, I won’t get up at all.

I miss you!

PS — I just got home and found out that G3’s computer is dead. It won’t boot up. And we can’t afford a new one. We can’t afford anything. I am going to bed, I’m pulling the covers over my head, and I am going to cry. This week has completely defeated me. The truth is it doesn’t matter if I get up or stay in bed because nothing changes. No matter what I do life sucks and I can’t catch a break at all.