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Sunday
Morning, Long Ago
The
stained glass window
caught the rays of sun
flashing glints of red, yellow, blue
The
form of Jesus
praying by a rock
dominated the picture
His
face looked sad—
I nestled close to my mother,
sorrow played across her face, too
She
looked neither left nor right
except to frown slightly
when I moved or made a rustle
I
felt a chill and slid closer—
burrowing my face into her furry collar,
searching for warmth, safety, love
The
gentle fragrance of her body
reached out to comfort me
The
sadness of her smile
left me searching
On
My Childhood
I
think about that Sunday morning so long ago. Why did her face look sad?
What chilled my four-year-old heart? Why do my childhood recollections
of my mother overwhelm me with a sense of sadness and disapproval, a
feeling of my not quite measuring up to the standard she set for me,
her firstborn? Our relationship always hovered between connection and
conflict.
One
thing I remember clearly about my childhood is a pervading sense of
shame—-"Shame on you" for playing when I was supposed
to be napping, for spilling my milk, for scuffing my black patent leather
shoes, for hollering out the front door, asking an entire neighborhood
what f—u—c—k meant. (I always have liked words.)
One
day, when I was seven or eight, I was walking to school with my father,
playing with words, making rhymes. For some reason, I was rhyming words
that ended in "it"—"bit, fit, hit, kit, lit, pit,
shit—." I stopped cold. Daddy said, with a small smile, "You
didn't mean for that to slip out, did you?" Thank God for the small
smile.
That
slip would have horrified Mother, much as the inquiry regarding the
letters "f—u—c—k" did. "Where did you
learn such language? Surely you know better. Why are you yelling out
the door, anyway?"
My brother, my sister, and I were taught early on how we were expected
to behave, and we learned to dread the "shame on you" when
we didn't remember . . .
We
also learned that we must be careful with Mother. She was easily upset.
Often it seemed as if we were walking on eggshells . . .
I
will never know why Mother seemed so vulnerable to me, but one of my
sons commented when we talked of her, "Children have a deep sensibility
about emotional fragility, although it is on an inexpressible and inaccessible
level."
And
perhaps my daughter summed it up well, "I think the whole family
sensed at some level that your mother was fragile-she required special
care and feeding—just like her violets."
Journal
Entries
December
29—Les and I pick up Mom and Dad at 5:15 a.m. and take them
to the hospital. We sit and wait until noon for her biopsy. We won't
know the results until tomorrow, but the doctors seem somewhat encouraged.
December
30—Mom's diagnosis is metastatic adenocarcinoma. The doctors
don't know where it originated. While Jan, Nick, and I debate how, when,
and if to tell Mother that she has cancer, her doctor calls to tell
her the tumor is malignant. Les and I stop by to see Mom and Dad. He
is devastated. She is uncharacteristically cheerful. I'm numb.
Is
she in denial, or doesn't she care if she dies?
December
31—Dad says he isn't going to say anything to anyone yet, because
"although it is assumed to be cancer, we don't really know much."
Mother has a CT scan. The doctor tells Nick [who is also a physician]
that the primary site is her lung and it could well be terminal in less
than two years.
Ambivalence
How can I hate her—
