they pulled my hair at charm school.
they
stole my guestbook during
rolecall.
do not: cry in front of your mother + MAY 11. 2003 = on coatless days, esp.
+ re: the Mom�s day bouquet of daisies (thirtybucks & my sister was crushed because it was not fabulous) The hardest part is leaving her propped up in her temperature controlled super deluxe air bed (to help with the bed sores). It�s then that one remembers that she is not free to go with us. That the legs beneath the blankets are not to receive the proper instructional signals from the all mighty central nervous system. (o, screw multiple sclerosis & its multitude of sins against my mother�s body!) It is heartbreaking: that those oft admired sexy legs (esp. glimpsed in the 1960s miniskirt photos snapped by my father ) will never again be told to go, to not go; to sit at the breakfast table; to run down the stairs with laundry; to walk the path (yes, through the woods, like in the song) to my grandmother�s house; to swim to the far side of the pond. They will never again be directed to push on the gas pedal, to pump the brake, to get out of the car & visit the three lovesick daughters. For what else are we , the three of us, if not horribly, horribly lovesick for her. At the end of the visit, after I push my lips into her swollen cheeks & squeeze her shoulder, I turn from the doorway & say goodbye one more time ( the proper �Higgins goodbye� as the Parks (father�s side) goodbye would never dictate this kind of lingering&fawning&sweetness)and she is giving me the look that just kill s me. It is the kind of look that makes one want to fetch a water glass & the household pet & a cool washcloth. I want to smooth her hair back & kiss her on the forehead & tell her to think of bunnies & to try to get some sleep. Instead, there is the hall to contend with. The blue carpeted hallway with its long line of old ladies in their wheelchairs (my sisters and I call this walking the gauntlet). My mother is too sick & too proud to associate with this rowdy/surly bunch. She is always down the hall in her private domain of a lousy room. My mother. Even lying flat in bed she looks as if she is sitting up straight; her chin held high as if to say: this isn�t really me. (Where is the freckled woman on the beach pouring three rambunctious girls lemonade? The woman in the green chair reading books & knitting sweaters & rolling her eyes at the girls� endless parade of my little ponies&outfits&poems&listenTOMe&Lookat This? The woman with the tall, quiet, secretly sensitive husband? The woman with her own secrets.? the woman - the w o m a n __ our mom. this is all in the past tense. the future tense makes us all cry when we are alone.) Double doors & press the code on the keypad that allows one to leave the NursingHome. (my poor mum is only 54!)
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