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Antique Mother
When I woke up and came
down the stairs, I wasn’t the least bit
surprised.
There she was. As always,
in her antique rocking chair that had ceased to
rock many months ago. Her eyes were glazed
over, staring at a fixed point on the wall. She
was barely moving, and offered not even a shrug
of recognition as I entered the room. If it
wasn’t for her shaking hands, she could be taken
for dead.
“Good morning Ma,” I said.
She forced her lips to
part slightly at the corners. It was plain to
see that this little movement took all the
available energy she had left. In her hands she
held that crumpled note. It was in such rough
shape that it was barely even legible anymore.
It was ripped at the corner, the ink was smeared
across the page and it was stained with tears.
I couldn’t even remember the last time I had
seen her without that note held firmly in her
hands.
I went into the kitchen
and fixed myself a cup of coffee and a cup of
chamomile tea for her, as was the routine.
“Did you want some toast
with your tea Ma?”
I knew better than to
expect an answer. I guess I just asked in quiet
hope that she might actually respond in some
way.
I brought our drinks into
the living room and placed her tea on the table
beside her.
“Here’s your tea ma. Two
sugars, the way you’ve always liked it.”
She always waited until it
was almost room temperature to take a strained
first sip. One cup would sometimes last her
over five hours.
I sat on the love seat,
gazing passively at my mother that had once been
the source of so much joy, energy, love and
support and had now been drained into this empty
shell of a person. The doctors have tried to
help her but she won’t talk to them. They have
tried to put her on medication but she refuses
to take it. I have done everything in my power
to bring my mother back to the brilliant,
courageous and wonderful person that she once
was but I sometimes fear that my efforts are in
vain.
Since Ma wouldn’t talk to
the doctor, I felt that at least I should. I
had no one else to ask what to do. No shoulder
to cry on since Ma had left and left me to care
for her withered soul. Dr. Weiskopf assured me
that if I continued to bring her out into the
world, she would eventually brighten up and join
the land of the living.
Today was Saturday and the
schedule that I had created said that I had to
begin the tireless chore of getting ma in the
car to bring her to the mall.
“Hey Ma! It’s Saturday.
You remember what we do every Saturday?”
She turned and looked at
me and for a moment, there seemed to be some
sort of recognition in her eye. That maybe in
fact she did remember the son she had all the
years before this happened. That maybe she was
on the verge of breaking out of this funk. That
maybe she did still love me.
Once the initial hope of a
wonderful, laughing and happy reunion with my
long lost mother wore off, I quickly focused my
mind back on the task at hand. That was how I
had dealt with this since the start. One thing
at a time, small steps and things would seem to
gain a moderate sense of normalcy. Try not to
think about the big picture. Just get her in
the car and then the first part of the mission
is complete.
“Okay Ma, the car is out
front. It’s pretty warm out today, so I don’t
think we need to put on your jacket today. The
mall should be fun. I heard they even had a
petting zoo in there this weekend,” I said. It
was really hard keeping up one-sided
conversations all the time. Especially if you
weren’t even sure the person on the other end is
listening or understanding a single word coming
out of your mouth.
* * *
“For almost a year now, I
have failed to notice any change in her mood
that could possibly be construed as good,” I
told Dr. Weiskopf.
I met Dr. Weiskopf when
she was my mother’s psychiatrist. I had gone in
there one day to have a ‘pow wow’ as she called
it, with her, my mother and me, after Ma had had
one of her minor breakdowns. After Ma stopped
talking, I started seeing her professionally for
myself.
“Well, Jonathan, trust me,
I sympathize with you to no end. It breaks my
heart when I try to get your mother to speak to
me during our sessions. I know that if only she
could let it out, express all those terrible
emotions she must feel from what happened, that
I, that we, could help her get better. But
lately, I do have to tell you that she has been
making some progress,” she said. “Exasperated,
in our last session I gave her a piece of paper
and some coloring pencils, and I went through,
verbally, some of the emotions that she might be
feeling now. It’s difficult to decipher exactly
what she was drawing, or thinking, but I think I
may have stumbled onto a building block to
getting your mother to speak out about her
feelings, her thoughts, her fears.”
“That’s great,” I said. I
have to say that I was getting a little tired of
all these new hunches that Weiskopf had about my
mother. There was always a new, incredible way
to bring her back to life again, from her
uniquely positive perspective. I guess I had
lost that hope.
“Jonathan, maybe we should
talk about that day. Maybe if you are able to
speak out about it, it will help me help your
mother,” she said, leaning towards me with a
look of heartfelt concern strewn across her
face.
“No, that’s okay, maybe
some other session or something. I don’t think
I’m quite ready to break that bubble just quite
yet,” I responded, sinking deeper and deeper
into the leather couch.
“I completely understand,
Jonathan. I just want you to know that I think
a huge weight would be lifted off your shoulders
if you could for once, come to terms with the
past. I sincerely think that it is a very
important and crucial step for both your mental
well-being along with your mother’s,” she said.
I held nothing but
complete resentment for this woman right now.
How dare she, even as my psychiatrist, beg me to
bring that past back into my life? It had
ruined my mother completely and could just as
easily do the same to me. The only reason it
hadn’t is because I had chosen to ignore it and
tend to my wounded mother instead. That is how
I have coped.
She handed me a cup of
coffee, grasped my hand tightly for a few
seconds and sat back down.
“You can do this
Jonathan. I’m here for you. Nothing can go
wrong between these four walls, I’m here for
your protection,” she said in a nurturing voice.
“I don’t know,” I began.
“Things were always pretty messed up when I was
a kid. My life certainly didn’t resemble that
of any of my friends at all.”
“Do explain further
Jonathan, I’m listening,” she said.
“Well, my father was just
never quite right. You know, upstairs I guess.
During my entire childhood, I cannot even
remember one instance where he was smiling. Not
at graduation, not at pictures of my first
birthday, not even in their wedding photos. He
always seemed so distracted. Like there was
something more important going on in his head,
something that always needed one hundred per
cent of his attention,” I said, speaking faster
than normal.
“And how did that make you
feel as a child Jonathan? Having a father who
was so emotionally distant?”
“I don’t really know. I
think I always just tried to ignore it. I tried
to pretend that everything was normal. Even
today, at 25, having a mother that hasn’t spoken
in over a year, I still try to convince myself
that everything is still normal. That
everything is fine.”
I stood up and paced
around the room, touching pictures, picking up
books, running my fingers along the window.
Anything at all to keep my mind off what Dr.
Weiskopf was forcing me to talk about. All I
wanted was to crawl back into my happy little
hole of denial and continue telling myself that
everything was fine.
Finally, without even
being coerced, I began talking again.
“Sure my dad drank, but
even that seemed normal. He was the only father
I ever had, so I just thought that was what
fathers did. But now, looking back, it
certainly wasn’t normal behaviour at all. He
would be gone for a week on end on a bender and
then suddenly show up one day, out of the blue
with a bouquet of roses for ma and everything
would be forgiven and swept under the carpet.
My mom respected him so much, that she never had
the guts to stand up to him. He put her through
hell. He put us through hell. But ma would
never realize that. In her eyes, he was
perfection and we were lucky to have him in our
lives. He was the drunken saviour of the little
woman and the little boy.” Tears began to stream
down my cheeks. “It’s not that I didn’t love my
dad, I did. I guess I just never saw what Ma
must have seen in him. To me, he was a grumpy
old drunk who seemed to make Ma’s life miserable
and at some points, I guess I hated him for
that. And even to this day, look at her! She’s
not my mother anymore! I don’t even know who
that person in the rocking chair is anymore. He
took away everything she ever was and that was
exactly what he was trying to do. He wanted her
to die miserable, just like him,” I said,
speaking in rushed gasps between the tears.
“Okay Jonathan, you’re
doing great. Just sit back, take a few
breaths. Calm down. You’re in a safe place
here, nothing can go wrong. Keep going when you
feel comfortable,” she said, speaking calmly,
supportively. She spoke just how I remember my
mother speaking when I had a bad dream as a kid.
“It was college,” I began
after regaining my composure. “I was back home
for the weekend. Ma was making roast beef with
potatoes and gravy and she was singing and
dancing in the kitchen as she cooked. I was
sitting in the living room, going over my
chemistry notes,” I remembered. “Dad, who’d
been drinking since I got there, was in the
garage working on his truck. Ma had asked me to
go out to the garage to get him to come in for
supper but I was still a stubborn teenager and
didn’t move from the couch. It was only about
thirty seconds later that I sensed, somehow,
that something was wrong and looked out the back
window. In a split second, all I saw was my
dad’s outstretched hand pass ma a note, and then
he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the
trigger, with ma standing only two feet away.”
I wasn’t even crying as I
retold this story for the first time ever out
loud. It was like an anvil had been lifted off
my chest.
“I never wanted to read
the note but a few months ago, ma had somehow
let it slip her grasp and I picked it up off the
floor, thinking it was garbage. I looked at
it. All it said, in bold, red writing was:
‘this is all your fault.’”
Dr. Weiskopf seemed
surprised, shocked even. It was the first time
that I could tell that she didn’t know what to
say next. “Well,” she stuttered, “this is a
huge breaking point for both you and your mother
Jonathan. With this new knowledge that I now
have of what actually happened, you have no idea
how beneficial continued therapy will be for
both you and your mother. This is no longer
insurmountable Jonathan. I am proud of you.
You are a brave young man who has been through
so much,” she said, as she placed her hand over
mine.
“It hasn’t been easy,” I
said.
“Jonathan, I think with
your courage and a little bit of work, we can
bring your mother back to you.”
I smiled.
copyright
Chris Curry
2005
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