I'm Glad My Mom Died(49)

I tell Grandpa something’s wrong. He takes the Lord’s name in vain. Mom says nothing because she can’t. Grandpa looks both ways to make sure the coast is clear, then cuts across the street, going through the red light and into the Nickelodeon Studios parking lot. Carl, the friendly security guard, recognizes him since Grandpa visits me on set often. Grandpa tells Carl to call 9-1-1.

By this point, Mom is frothing at the mouth. I’m sure she’s dying. Grandpa tells me to get her to lie down. I unbuckle her seat belt and pull her onto my lap. This is the most terrifying moment of my life.

The ambulance arrives impressively fast. They yank Mom onto a stretcher and buckle her in. She’s still convulsing. They wheel her into the ambulance. One of the EMTs recognizes me, so he lets me ride with Mom. It’s one of the rare times I’m grateful to be recognized.

I grip Mom’s hand and squeeze it. I tell her everything’s gonna be okay even though I’m sure it’s not. The siren starts blaring from the ambulance. It sounds warped when you hear it from inside the vehicle that’s making it. The driver pulls a right out of the parking lot. As I’m squeezing my dying mother’s hand and watching froth spill out of her mouth, we pass the poster again. I see my dead-eyed grin and my stupid fucking outdated hairstyle. My life is mocking me.





48.


IT’S THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS Eve. Mom’s been in the ICU for a week, unresponsive. She had a seizure as a result of her brain tumor, which is apparently a “pretty regular occurrence,” the doctor tells us, as if the regularity makes it any less horrific.

Marcus, Dustin, Scottie, and I sit in a row in the waiting room while Grandma and Grandpa visit with her in the ICU. We’re all quiet.

Finally, I offer to go pick up some Burger King for all of us because I’m desperate for a distraction. And food is the perfect distraction. None of the boys want anything. They “can’t eat” right now, they tell me. I envy them. I envy that their sadness and stress translate to a lack of hunger.

I go to the Burger King across the street. I order a Whopper and fries and a Coke Icee, and some tacos and chicken sticks to go with it. The ordering and the eating happen in rapid succession and both feel out of my control. Afterward, my stomach feels distended.

I consider making myself throw up. I’ve heard about this before, but never actually tried it. Now seems like as good a moment as ever to try. I shove my Burger King bag into an overstuffed trash can and head back to the hospital. I rush through the entrance doors, cut through the lobby, and hop on the elevator, excited about my new plan. I get off the elevator at the ICU. My brothers are no longer in the waiting room. They must be visiting Mom. I head to the two-stall bathroom and make sure no one else is in there, then I kneel on the cold, hard, tiled hospital floor and shove my fingers down my throat. Ow. I poke the back of my throat. It hurts, but nothing comes out. I try again. Nothing. One more time. Still nothing.

Fuck this. I give up. I wash my hands. I’m a failure at not eating and I’m a failure at getting rid of the food I do eat.

I hurry down the hallway and push open the heavy door that leads to Mom’s ICU room. Marcus, Dustin, and Scottie are standing around her. You can barely make out the shape of her little body underneath the hospital sheets and blankets.

“She’s awake,” Dustin tells me.

I rush over to her bedside and take her hand in mine. I love the way her hands feel. They’re small and her fingers are short. Her skin is shiny and warm.

“Net,” she says as she turns her head feebly to look at me. My eyes well with tears. Maybe she’s gonna be okay after all. I can’t believe it. I’m elated.

“The boys said you stopped at Burger King. You don’t need to be eating that stuff. Lotta grams of fat in a Whopper.”

I beam. A tear trickles down my cheek. Mom’s gonna live. For now, she’s gonna live.

“I know, Mama. I know. I did get it without mayo…”

She sighs. “Still.”





49.


MIRANDA’S CRYING. I’M CRYING. WE’RE both crying. We can’t stop crying. For me, it’s not that iCarly’s ending. It’s not that today is our last day ever taping iCarly. That I’m fine with, even excited about, definitely ready for. Even though I’m wary of starting my spin-off, I’m glad to at least be saying goodbye to this project that makes me feel like I’m living every day in the Groundhog Day movie, doing the same thing over and over again.

The reason I’m crying is that I don’t know what will become of my friendship with Miranda. We’ve gotten so close. Like sisters, but without the passive-aggression and weird tensions. I have my judgments around female friendships being catty and petty and backstabby, but that couldn’t be further from the truth with Miranda.

With Miranda, it’s always been so easy. Our friendship is pure.

An AD hands me and Miranda a tissue. We blow our noses hideously and get back on our marks to do one last take of the final scene we’re shooting together. The sadness takes both of us over. We hold each other and cry.

This feeling of sadness and ending is really common on sets. You get to know the people around you so intimately because you’re around them more than you’re around your family. For a period of time. And then you aren’t anymore. And little by little, you realize you start talking less and less to the people you thought you were so intimate with. Until you don’t talk to them at all anymore. And it makes you wonder if you were ever really intimate with them in the first place or if it was all just a facade. If the connections were as temporary as the sets they were made on.