nurse. As soon as we walk into the clinic, Dennis begins to vomit repeatedly. His sister is working there that day and sees us. She takes Dennis to the back immediately. The next thing I know, I hear the ambulance’s siren as it pulls up to the center. His sister comes out from behind the counter, over to me, and says, “His blood pressure is 220/180; he has to be admitted to the hospital right now! You can meet him there! I hope he doesn’t have retinal separation!” When I walk into the Emergency Department at LA County USC and say, “I’m here for Dennis Buckley,” three nursing students, who stand by the intake counter stare at me in wide-eyed silence. My chest wants to explode. What do their looks mean?! A nurse leads me to the room where Dennis lie writhing on the hospital bed, still moaning in pain. There are so many wires attached to him. I call out to him, but he keeps asking, “Who are you?!” He can’t see me. He has lost his vision. I stand motionless with Mckenna on my hip, Greyson crying at my side, and the nurse prodding me for information: “Are you his wife? How long has he been like this? Did he hit his head? Did he complain of numbness? How old is he?” The room is spinning for me and for Dennis. It takes all my bearings to remain standing upright. I nod yes to being the wife. There are two nurses and a doctor standing around the bed. One nurse is looking at the heart monitor while the doctor shines light onto Dennis’ pupils and loudly calls his name. Again, the nurse asks, “Mrs. Buckley? Did he hit his head?” My eyes blink slowly. Greyson holds onto my arm, and minutes of standing in the room feel like hours. I can barely think logically, let alone answer questions. What the hell is happening?
Five hours later, the doctor explains Dennis was on the verge of having a stroke due to untreated hypertension. The rapid rise in blood pressure to extremely high levels can cause immediate and potentially deadly damage to systems in the body; therefore, he will have to remain hospitalized to slowly bring down his blood pressure over a period of days. His vision will slowly return. The weight of Mckenna’s limp body on my hip feels like a hundred pounds. The doctor’s voice faintly drifts into the background. I stare past the doctor while he continues to explain what will happen next. I blankly look at Greyson’s awkward sleeping position on the hospital waiting-room chairs. Chow Mein. The doctor says something about more tests and monitoring damage to the organs, and I recall Dennis’ plate of Chow Mein noodles. While we were out to dinner this past Sunday evening, Dennis complained of numbness in his left arm. He kept moving it around to relieve the tingling feeling. I didn’t think anything of it because of his line of work. I thought maybe he’d strained a muscle using his nail gun. If only it were that simple. Two days later, he is hospitalized.
I finally call my mother the next morning around 6:00 a.m. She is beside herself that we went through such an ordeal without calling her to be with us. Within a few hours, my parents, two close family friends, and my best girlfriends are at our house, cooking food, bringing groceries, washing the dishes, minding Greyson and Mckenna, sitting for reassurance, and asking what more I need. Although there is love and support around me, I am numb with fear. I don’t know what I need or what to do, other than sit at his hospital bed and worry about him, about us.
Almost one week later, Dennis’ blood pressure is stable and his vision intact. The doctor says it will take four to six months for him to recuperate and regain strength. I relay the update to everyone. A few days after the hospitalization, when my friends have gone and the kids are asleep, Matt and I sit at the dining-room table while my mother cleans the kitchen. There is an unsettling quietude hovering around each of us. Matt looks at the empty coffee cup in his hands without interest in coffee. I have an idea of what is on his mind because it is also on my mind. Looking at the empty cup, he carefully asks, “What’s your financial situation?” He wants to know, but, then again, he doesn’t. He wants me to say that we were fine, that there is no need to worry about the mortgage, but something about the way he asks suggests that he already knows that is not what I am going to say. “What financial situation?” I thought. There isn’t much about our finances that can be considered a “situation.” Dennis is our primary source of income, period. He was in the middle of a painting job the workers can finish without him. When they finish, I will have to collect the final payment from the homeowner to pay the workers and us. Dennis was also at the beginning stage of a kitchen remodel and we already deposited the down payment check. We will have to return the deposit if we can’t work out an agreement with the homeowners. The unemployment extension I received from being laid off from teaching ended months ago, along with COBRA. The little money we have in the bank and the money from the painting job can cover the mortgage for maybe two months. We will need help, and by the look on my step-father’s face, I know my parents can only do so much. Every detail of our life is breaking. I get up from the table and walk into the kids’ bedroom. The peaceful rhythm of their inhales and exhales provide momentary relief. “‘With the loss of Dennis’ income and the lack of emergency funds to sustain us…’” I don’t want my thoughts to go any further. I quietly walk over to the nightstand and reach for the lamp. With one turn of the switch, the light on our way forward has gone out.
Five months have passed since Dennis was released from the hospital. Although his health is improving, he isn’t ready to take on strenuous work projects. Not only does he have to adjust to physical limitations, but also to the emotional toll of worrying about his health and work. We are both worried about work, money, and health. It doesn’t take long for the mental strain to take a toll on our relationship. There is an overwhelming sense of unease in not knowing what will come next, if Dennis really is okay, and who will watch Mckenna if I return to work. The rapid decline of any semblance of security over the past few months leaves both of us on edge, angry at the slightest verbal misstep, but, even more, afraid.
Before Dennis, the kids, and house, I was excited about the opportunities life presented: that I would be professionally accomplished, with choices and perpetual happiness. I entered the workforce as an independent woman, and barely existed in the present moment because I was so excited about my future. After Dennis, the kids and the house, I was still happy, until five months ago when things changed. Now, the future I was so excited about entails unanticipated maternal desires and being late on the mortgage for my childhood home, which Dennis worked so hard to renovate. Last week was horrible. Dennis and I had an explosive argument. We went too far with insults, blame, and accusations. It was terrible to see I could participate in such volatile anger. After the argument, I sat up for most of the night thinking about the anger we displayed and how much Greyson and Mckenna may have heard, even though they were in bed. Only deep rage will speak, cast blame, yell, and break things in the manner in which we did. The kids don’t have to hear us argue. They know something is going on, even though we try to hide it. They are extremely perceptive. They sense tension in our body language, facial expressions, and the tone in which we sometimes speak to each other. Dennis is angry that I’m still home with Mckenna and I’m angry he cannot support us. This situation has not only brought primal fears out into the open, but is also shedding light on the depths of our emotional wounds. I’m scared and I know he is too. I love him, and I know he loves me, but right now, neither of us feels loved by the other. We are now two months behind on the mortgage.
I will have to ask my parents for help to cover at least one month’s mortgage payment. I really do not want to ask for help because asking for help requires a conversation. The monthly mortgage statement is mailed to our house, so they are unaware we have fallen behind. In a desperate attempt to ask them for as little money as possible, Dennis and I pawn our wedding rings, a few pieces of jewelry and some of his tools. It is surreal to walk into a pawn shop with a Movado watch given to me by my mother. Of course, we don’t get much, but it is something to put towards the mortgage. Worrying about the mortgage falling further behind, calling the loan servicer, and sending in what we have for payments pushes me to the limit. I am now applying for work. In September of 2006, after less than two months of looking, I am hired and return to work.
Since I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for three years, my hourly pay is shockingly reduced. As a teacher, my final hourly rate was close to twenty-five dollars, and I supported myself with this income. The position I’ve accepted at USC, however, pays fourteen dollars per hour. With a monthly salary of $2,250 before taxes, yes, this will fully cover the mortgage, late fees, and penalties, if we don’t need to
