Life On The Inside is an email newsletter about life with my son who has autism and who has been under house arrest since April 2023. You can sign up here:
The whole truth about Good Friday night is that while I kept falling asleep as I tried to watch a movie with the guys, I also kept waking up. And drinking wine. And eating Tostitos smothered is queso sauce. It was so yummy and yes, I confess, comforting. Until I awakened Saturday with the worst gerd I’ve had in weeks.
Both Not Dr. Mandy and Not Dr. Kim would still like me to have that upper endoscopy but, when? When am I supposed to do that? Mr. Happy’s work schedule changes from week to week, so how can I safely make an appointment? I can’t.
On top of that there’s the financial fear factor. I got a bill the other day for one, just one, of Mr. Rugby’s MRIs. $10,696.13. The little “Please pay in full” note cracked me up. I thought, no problem. Let me just reach into my rear end and get that for you. When I called to ask if they’d run it through our insurance yet because it sure as hell doesn’t look like it, I was told that first they needed to clear our conversation with Mr. Rugby to get his permission to speak to me.
Me, the one with the checkbook.
My point is that the medical stuff is scary expensive and I don’t always believe the copay we’re quoted when they deign to give us a quote, so, I’m further put off from dealing with my gerd.
Such a lovely word. Gerd.
In any case, I was sick as a dog on Saturday. And Mr. Rugby, who is deaf to many things that go on around him as he’s always studying (for his personal trainer certification), working on his routine (because he’s the one who’s really doing standup), or rehabbing his back with what is, I have to admit, an incredible regimen called Functional Patterns, is highly sensitive to any form of sickness.
He senses it and suddenly appears, keeping a good distance from the diseased, and begins his interrogation.
“Mom, are you ok?” he asks, plopping his sneakers on the floor and his butt into the LaZBoy and leaning rather significantly to the side to increase the space between us.
“Yes honey, I’m fine,” I reply, camped out in my favorite spot on the sofa, surrounded by several stray Tums, a bottle of Pantoprazole, and the coffee I’ve been nursing because it’s burning straight down into my sternum every time I take a sip. “Why?”
“I heard you panting,” he replies, “and, like, moaning.” He ties his laces and looks at my collection of indigestion fighting futility and says,”What did you eat so far today?”
“Coffee. Then eggs and bacon,” I reply, fast, because a belch is coming and it’s gonna be a biggie and it’s gonna hurt like hell and then, DEAR GOD. It’s a killer. Like a contraction only in my throat and I’m giving birth to a fire-breathing dragon. “Sorry, sweetheart,” I say, mortified as the cats go running and praying for death.
“Oh my God, mom,” he continues, watching the cats flee for their lives. “What did you have for dinner last night?”
“Wine, chips, cheese dip. More wine.” Yes, I’m ashamed, but what am I going to do, lie? He lives here, he saw me. Hell, he was sitting next to me on the sofa. “I need to get that upper endoscopy,” I offer.
“You need to eat better,” he says, sitting up straight with that incredible posture he’s worked so hard for and shaking his head like he’s the parent and haven’t we already had this conversation, little Suzy? “Wine at night and then coffee on an empty stomach – it’s all guaranteed gerd!”
I know this, I do. But wine at night and coffee in the morning are my comfort foods (ok, they’re not foods, but go with me here). It’s been a long year. I’ve been a good mom. Why is God punishing me by turning my favorite forms of sustenance against me? You think He’d say, “Ah, Susan, you’ve gone above and beyond. From now on, wine, coffee, chips, and cheese dip, they’re all health foods. Just for you!”
But no.
Even plain water scalds my esophagus. I can’t bend over to tie my shoes without gagging and feeling my ribcage try to burst from my mouth. It’s like breathing fire without actually being able to do something as cool as breathe fire.
“Mom, you need to cut back on the wine again,” he says, sneakers laced, backpack on his shoulder. “And you need to give up coffee.”
What?
Oh no. My morning coffee and writing routine are me. They’re what I’ve hung onto all this time, maybe even all my life. Coffee and words are what I look forward to every day. They’re the reason I can’t wait to get out of bed in the morning. (Again, not winning mother of the year and 100% certain there won’t be chocolate in Hell, but no. No way.)
“I can’t–” I start.
“Baby steps, then,” he says, his hand on the doorknob. “Get up and have an egg. Then, wait until 10 to have your coffee.”
“Ten?” I whimper as another belch begins its excruciating, meteoric rise from what has to be the depths of hell in my diaphragm.
“Yes,” he replies. “By then your tummy will be happy and you can drink it without getting such bad indigestion. Plus it won’t produce as much cortisol.”
Cortisol? What does cortisol have to do with coffee? Oh God, I’ll be Googling all day, when I’m not burping up what I swear is Satan’s pitchfork.
“I don’t understand,” I say. But it’s too late. He’s out the door. I sit there, suffering and wondering if I can do it. I pop two more Tums and another Pantoprazole and pray they help.
They don’t. Five minutes later I throw them, and the rest of last night’s wine, and chips, and cheese dip, up. The pain is so bad, I’m crying.
I decide to give the coffee thing a try.
I wake up at 5:30 Sunday morning ready to hop out of bed when I remember. No coffee until 10. Shit. I get up, take my meds, and make a damn egg. I eat the damn egg. I go to my desk, open my laptop and a new Google doc. Drivel comes out of my fingers. Nothing feels right. I’m annoyed. My Mr. Coffee is whispering to me.
But I don’t have any gerd.
I make myself wait. While I wait I read the news. The news annoys me. (No surprise.) I also try three times to pay one of Mr. Rugby’s medical bills online. None of my credit cards work. I know that can’t be right, but I can’t focus to figure out what I’m doing wrong. Now I’m very annoyed. My Mr. Coffee is clearly confused and ratchets things up to a pissy hiss.
But still, no gerd.
Mr. Happy gets up and leaves for work. I make myself a short shopping list, ignore my Mr. Coffee – which is now openly sobbing – and walk to Safeway. I get what we need and begin the walk back. And belch. The fire spreads through my chest. Now I’m super annoyed. But I’m not doubled over in pain.
Progress?
I get home, put the groceries away and strip the beds. For a moment, I consider setting fire to the whole place, but I’m too tired. And annoyed. The clock says 9:30. My body says 9:30 at night. My Mr. Coffee says, WTF?
I get the laundry started, wipe the tears from Mr. Coffee’s eyes and get the coffee going. At 9:39 I can't take a moment more. I am super pissed off and heading toward truly homicidal. I pour my coffee and then sip it, oh so carefully, waiting for the burn.
Nothing happens.
I hurry back to my laptop, coffee in tow. My fingers are still spouting drivel but now at least I’m laughing at it. Always a good sign.
And then, mid giggle, the belch I‘ve been dreading and trying to deny by delaying my coffee because my kid told me to, explodes from my mouth practically taking my teeth with it.
This little experiment is over. Never again shall I delay my coffee. I shall arise and suffer.
At least until I get that endoscopy.
Thank you for taking this long, strange trip with me. I appreciate you and your many comments and emails. If you’d like to read parts 1-49, you can do so here.
I'll keep it in mind...
Mr Coffee was funny 😁