Featured on Nailed Magazine – Deathwish

Nailed Magazine is rich with raw, edgy, breathtaking art and writing.  I’m honored to find myself in such superb company.  Below is a short excerpt…click the “read more” link to visit the site and readJennifer Phelps on Nailed the entire (short) piece:

By the time I arrive, my mother’s body is already cooling in the bed, transitioning from animate to inanimate.  Her forehead is now the temperature of window glass on a late spring morning.  Read more on Nailed….

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Preserving the Moment – Wig Shopping

Recently, my penchant for capturing the everyday moments in life – the mundane as well as the profound – in my writing has been richly rewarded.  An essay of mine, Wig Shopping, was selected for publication in Blood and Thunder, a “medical arts” journal published by the University of Oklahoma College of Medicine.  I am honored and grateful that this piece was chosen and am sharing an excerpt of it here.  The entire piece is available to read on my website, jenniferphelpswrites.com.

Wig Shopping

Published in Blood and Thunder 2013 ~ reprinted with permission

I drive while Mom rides in the passenger seat beside me. She looks smaller than usual Blood and Thundertoday and less sure, her slender body like a finely tuned instrument measuring all the effects of the newly begun chemotherapy. Impeccably dressed as always, she is statuesque in cleanly pressed, stylish white slacks and an expensive-looking black jacket. Keeping up appearances is important to her, but even her ankles look afraid in those tall, impractical high-heeled shoes she insists on wearing. Her shoulder-length blonde hair, which will most likely fall out from the chemo, is intact for now and displayed almost reverently, a solemn reminder of what is soon to be lost. When I look at it, I take a mental snapshot to treasure in the months to come.

I made the four-hour drive from Redding to Santa Rosa on Friday afternoon to support Mom through her first cycle of chemo. Having prepared myself for every possible combination of vomiting, fatigue, lassitude, and her stubborn and sometimes hostile brand of self-preservation, I was surprised and pleased to find my mother feeling relatively well on my arrival, about 24 hours after her first infusion. She is a highly sensitive person and talked about her keen awareness of the cytotoxic chemicals at work in her body, but we also chatted about my job and family, took a walk through her old, upscale neighborhood, and even went out for a pizza dinner. Because it was Halloween night, we retired early from the party atmosphere that was building outside on the street. We curled up on a couch in the darkened house sipping Diet Cokes, watching I Love Lucy DVDs, and hiding from the throngs of trick-or-treaters.

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Chicken and a Walker

I was cleaning out my car the other day when an old sticky note clogged the vacuum nozzle, sucked up from the crevice between the seats.  On the paper were written two words:   chicken and walker.

Finding this, I had to laugh at my discovery.  Just as my messy car represented the way I’d had to prioritize my time away from taking care of myself while my mom was dying, this short shopping list stood for something else: the way life goes on, even in difficult times.

The particular day on which I wrote that list doesn’t stand out in my mind, but I remember well the tricky high-wire act of balancing my mom’s needs and my regular busy family life during her illness.

Clearly, on that day, I needed to get Mom a walker, and I needed to decide what was for dinner.  Participating in everyday activities was a challenge during Mom’s illness.  I didn’t have time for everything I wanted to get done, but at least attempting to do ordinary things kept me sane.  Instead of being consumed by the crisis, I had an excuse to dip back into normal.  Even when it was inconvenient and there were more pressing needs over at Mom’s house, it felt good to momentarily surround myself with the mundane treasures of everyday existence.

When I located a walker and brought it to my mother, she gave it dirty looks like she was trying to set it on fire using pyrokinesis.  The rest of us were glad she had it.  She had grown quite unsteady.

Watching Mom lose the ability to do even the simplest things (at one point she fervently told me she would rather be scrubbing toilets) helped me appreciate “the little things in life.”  Sometimes even vacuuming is a luxury.  Or cooking chicken.

I don’t specifically remember making chicken that day, though I’m sure I did. People had to eat.  At times I felt surprised and even a little guilty to find myself hungry, like my desire for food meant I had lost sight of the more important things going on at the time.  But food is important, too.

My dad and I quickly discovered that as caregivers, we couldn’t give much unless we took care of ourselves.  There were a few encounters with the bedside commode that extinguished our appetites, but for the most part we ate.  We drank.  Sometimes we ate too little.  Sometimes we drank too much. But sometimes we were even a little merry.

It was a poignant time.  Caring for someone in such an intimate way is a profound privilege – and an enormous responsibility.  There we were, my original nuclear family – my mom, my dad, and myself – together, making it work one last time.  I cooked the chicken at home and brought my mom the walker she needed.   Nobody starved, and nobody fell.  I did the best I possibly could.  And I think it was enough.