MOM
A license plate, and a title.
I definitely call my parents more than I used to.
There really isn’t a “reason” for it, per se, but it just turned out that way. I mean, maybe it’s because I drive way too much, and I like making calls when I drive. I feel like I’m a better driver when someone else is watching — or, in this case, listening. So I call my parents. Because who doesn’t chill out in the presence of mom or dad.
“Oh, sorry mom, I’m driving, and someone just cut me off. Give me a minute. *vrooooooooooom* Okay, I just blew past them. Maybe it was a little immature, but it happened, so let’s get over it.”
Flash back to the beginning of last semester. While leaving a crowded parking lot by school where I often stop for lunch — if I’m in the mood for Italian at what one of my friends and I like to call an “establishment of sustenance” (not quite a restaurant but not quite fast food, either) — quite a few cars were “blocking the box,” to use the New York term. And I watched as someone did exactly what I would have done : that is, cross the double solid yellow line and drive around everyone who decided that today was the day to make her day just a little more difficult. Except this driver didn’t quite remind me of … myself. She reminded me a lot of my mom. Take away the fact that she was driving one of the most subtly flashy cars I’d seen someone from her demographic driving in basically forever — specifically, a Maserati Quattroporte — but she was a) exhibiting relatively intentional road rage and b) sporting custom license plates that read quite simply “MOM.”
“Hey mom, someone on the road reminded me of you today.”
Fast-forward quite a few months and shift just a couple of miles across town. I’m on my way to pick up a friend for lunch and decide to give mom a call. More vibrant than ever, she picks up and sounds noticeably more energetic. I try to stay focused on what mom’s saying as I simultaneously fixate on a black matte G 63 AMG Mercedes meticulously parking on the avenue.
Just a few weeks before the summer ended, a “doctor” at a Brooklyn hospital (I’ve learned not to use names of doctors or hospitals, and to use quotations where appropriate) informed her that she was long overdue for surgery to remove a herniated disc in her spine — a disc that was pressing on her spinal cord and negatively impacting her nerve function. There was no guarantee that the surgery would make things better — in fact, it likely wouldn’t. It would just stop things, in theory, from getting progressively worse.
Mom seemed frightened — something that I can’t say happens often — so we went looking for a second opinion. Maybe even a third. Luckily, my friend’s mom is a doctor at the Hospital for Special Surgery in Manhattan and she put us in contact with a top-notch surgeon there who scheduled an appointment to discuss options months earlier than we otherwise would’ve been able to. He actually penciled us in just a day before leaving for a multi-week vacation.
“Surgery ? No, you don’t need surgery. That’s more of a last resort. Let’s try something else.”
So we tried that something else.
A couple weeks went by and mom started losing hope.
“I don’t think it’s working, Chris.”
“Give it time, mom. The doctor said it could take a few weeks to all kick in.”
Maybe she would need surgery. I’m no doctor, but it was looking more likely. Then something truly remarkable started to happen.
Mom stopped dropping things as frequently, and she began to text again, and her words started to flow like they used to. Her navigation in the house (via electric wheelchair) and out on the streets began to improve greatly. Her smile was back.
Over winter break, I was on my way out of the house after returning from the gym and coming to grab my car when mom’s doctor (who graciously does house calls) asked me where I was going. “Parkslope,” I told her. “Great, can I have a ride ?” Sure … why not … I reluctantly agreed.
But I was being naive — and it took me until 10 minutes after I turned on the engine to realise how lucky I was to have 30 minutes to pick my mom’s doctor’s brain without interruption.
“What do you think is more promising ?” I asked her. “Synthetic DNA treatments or the classic stem cell therapy that’s just getting FDA approval now ?”
“Well, they’re different,” she expressed. “Everyone knows how ‘stem cell treatment’ works but synthetic DNA opens a whole new door. If doctors can find the ‘switch’ that turns MS on, they can synthesise DNA to turn that switch off.”
“So what’s the time frame looking like ?” I knew I was asking quite the loaded question.
“It’s tough to say, but they’re breaking some serious ground, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see something within 5-7 years that your mother can try out.”
As the G 63 finishes parking, the driver steps out of the car and I zone back into my phone call.
“No, I mean thanks for saving me from surgery.”
The jury’s still out, I told her. And she might still need this surgery at some point in the future. But for now, the alternate treatment (a series of steroid injections that could be delivered over the course of multi-week periods in 30-minutes-or-less doctor visits) was working.
And — I swear, right as she said that — I heard the not-too-familiar but ever-unmistakable roar of the Quattroporte’s engine on the opposite side of the street. The license plates read “MOM.”
“You better get better soon, mom. So I can lease you a Maserati with custom plates.”
We’ve got an incredible future ahead.
Thanks for reading. I didn’t want to get back into “blogging” but Medium isn’t quite blogging. Since it links directly to Twitter (and you have to sign in to Twitter), it’s basically just a longer Tweet.
I’ve always liked telling stories, and I’m glad you took the time to read this one. Thanks again.
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