Steroid Storm

I didn’t want to die but I didn’t want to be scared all the time either. I had to come down off the roller-coaster and put my death in perspective. It seemed like every day there was a new massacre, natural disaster or armed conflict. So many people lost their lives in the space of the half-hour nightly news that I began to feel a little arrogant for thinking my life was special. Everybody died so why shouldn’t it be my turn?  After all I was insignificant in the great scale of the universe and in the shadow of the BIG GIANT FOOT. This philosophy of randomness became so important to me I should have had it embroidered on my tea towels. It was my own personal religion – THE BIG GIANT FOOTISTS. It relieved any responsibility I had for my own death.

      Of course my sudden deification may have been slightly enhanced by my steroid use. The listed side effects of dexamethasone included personality changes, irritability and mood swings. I took ten steroids every Thursday and Friday for eighteen weeks. Initially, the ‘roids (as Charlotte called them), just made me anxious. My heart raced, I couldn’t sit still and I was wide, wide awake all day. But soon “judgmental Fridays” became part of the package. It was like there was a little selfish, stingy, mean person incarcerated inside my head that broke out of jail every Friday and wreaked havoc on whoever she liked. Although I recognized my awful behavior and had warned my children about it, it didn’t mean I could stop it. The increase in my sarcasm and cynicism went beyond anything I had anticipated.

      On one “judgmental Friday” I took the girls shoes shopping. Charlotte tried on a pair of shoes and modeled them for me. As she walked up and down the aisle, displaying the pair of economical, comfortable, casual black flats that she had combed the store for, she proudly announced that they were only $20. Instead of praising my younger daughter for her thrift and sensibility, in the middle of Number One Shoes, at the top of my voice I announced:

      “THEY LOOK CHEAP.”

      Luckily the girls thought that was hysterical. Charlotte put the shoes back on the shelf and they guided me out of the store. From then on every time I started to say something sarcastic, my daughters would chant: “They look cheap”. It usually worked and it was a wonderful way to put me in my place.

      Alex also bore the brunt of my steroid temper. One night he was sitting in our living room with our cat Molly on his lap. He did this most nights as he adored her. He had a habit of saying:

      “Look, look”.

So we would all look at the cat to see how cute she was with her head on his tummy and her tail tucked under her. On one Friday night I didn’t want to look at the stupid cat so when he said:

      “Look, look.”

      I said with exasperation: “I’m going to sew that cat to your ass”.

Alex looked shocked and a little hurt. I had no intention of apologising and there was an awkward silence. But when Charlotte started laughing it broke the tension and ended my tirade.

      It also affected car journeys. Again I didn’t know if it was because my life seemed somehow more precious now, or because the steroids had me on high alert, but I couldn’t stand the way Alex drove anymore. My foot was always on an imaginary brake and my left hand was gripping the door handle. On one lovely Friday evening we were in heavy traffic on Queen Street in Auckland. I thought Alex was being absurdly impatient with the other drivers and I told him so.

      “You’re driving like you have a weapon in your hands.” (Car screeches to a halt)

      “You drive. In fact you can do all the driving from now on.” (Alex’s overreaction meets my overreaction – stalemate). I knew I was going to have to be careful. Even if I could blame the steroids, being overly critical was starting to affect my relationship.

      When I drove myself and Charlotte to Wellington on a steroid day I had a complete meltdown when we missed our destination.  After nine hours of driving, we were minutes from our hotel in Petone, near Wellington, when the GPS directed us the wrong way. We were headed back up highway one going north. That was it.

      “F***!” I hit the steering wheel with both hands. “I’m going to throw that F***ing iPad out the F***ing window! I’m going to hunt down that man…” I pointed to the iPad and indicated the man whose voice directed us through the GPS application, “and tell him to shove his directions up his ass.”

      My daughter sat through this outburst with dignity. I just had to get out of that car. When we made it to the hotel car park and I was able to breathe, I apologised sheepishly to a bewildered Charlotte.

      “Sorry.”

      “Can we just go to the room now?”

      “I promise I won’t try to find the GPS man.”

      “Okay good.”

      Abby got caught in my steroid storm on another Friday. We were sitting at the computer filling in some on-line forms to try and get federal student aid for going to university in California. It started out fine. We were having coffee and she was showing me what she had done so far. Then I saw a page that she did wrong and the steroids took over.

      “You’ve put the wrong information there.” I said way too loud.

      “I have?”

      “YES!” I slammed my fist on the table to emphasize the point in case yelling didn’t do it.

      “But I thought I was supposed to…”

      “I’m telling you the right way to fill it in.” I slammed my fist again. The coffee cups were now bouncing off the table.

      “Are you sure?”

      “Of course, it’s so obvious.” I stood and started pacing for dramatic effect. “You’re just being STUPID.”

The poor girl took it all so well. It was only slightly out of proportion, like getting the firing squad for folding the bath towels the wrong way. I could hear myself but I couldn’t seem to stop the anger. I had to walk away.

      Aside from the sarcastic and angry outbursts, there was the “Why is everyone so mean to me?” bouts of paranoia. I told a story one dinner time which turned into a fiasco. 

      “Mom, when you were young, did you ever think you might own a dog?”

      “No Charlotte. Because I’m allergic to cats, it’s put me off owning any pets at all.”

We inherited our Burmese cat Molly. I could not pick her up. The touch of her made my skin and eyes itch and she made me sneeze. But the kids and Alex loved her. I philosophized:

      “Living with Molly is like being allergic to washing powder and having it in your nose all the time.”

I thought this was slightly poetic as well as being effectual.

      “Ha, ha, ha.” Alex laughed.

      Okay it didn’t really make sense but he shouldn’t have laughed.

      “Boo hoo.” I cried. “It isn’t funny. My allergy is serious.”

I thought he was being really mean. I ran to my room, slammed the door and howled. Later I couldn’t understand why I was so upset.

      Impatience was a natural part of being on the steroids. I was always wound up, like one of those toys you get at Christmas that walks across the table one giant plastic foot after another until it falls on its face. It was like I was always trying to thread a needle after drinking a hundred cups of coffee. I argued with bank tellers and video store clerks, yelled obscenities at other drivers and slammed the phone down on anyone who tried to sell me something. Especially those people who tried to sell home dehumidifying units (sorry).