Saturday, March 28, 2009
Out of all life’s emotional throws, I don’t think anything hurts as deeply or sincerely as the sound of your mother’s tears. This is true, even when those tears are about the silliest, mundane things; when it’s something real, something tear-worthy, it’s a like a dagger in your heart.

Mom called me this morning. My father left for Ontario last week and my brother finally moved out of her house. She’s been all alone for 3 or 4 days now. So I’ve been calling daily with hopes to check in on her. Not once has she answered her phone. This morning she called me back. This morning she was straight.

I have a bit of a cold. My throat is itchy, my muscles feel frozen, and my skin hot. But today is better yesterday, and yesterday was better than the day before. During our conversation my mother talked about her own medical issues, the perpetual need to run to the bathroom. The fact that sometimes she can’t make it and had to move a bucket next to the bed yesterday is what cracked her voice, broke her composure, and brought her to tears, “It’s horrible, “ she quivered. All the while, she was insistent that I go to the doctor because I really don’t sound good. Funny that is, the words I should have been saying to her, she was saying to me first.

The tears stopped and she talked about the frustrations of having a dead battery on her cordless phone, she asked if disconnecting her internet account – because my brother moved out taking the computer with him, would disconnect his account wherever he is at as well. She talked about the bills he left behind and she asked about a solution to her laundry. All in all, she sounded good.

I told her a bit of lighter, happier things that have been happening around here. I had her laughing a little, and smiling a lot, I know. I suggested she come out for a visit, and she responded that she doesn’t want to give the children whatever it is she has. “One doctor said he thought it was Tuberculosis,” she said, “I don’t want to give that to the kids!” No doctor ever made such a suggestion. One doctor did ask if she had ever been diagnosed with TB in past as a history of it would explain some of her vitamin deficiencies. And she hadn’t. In her mind though, his was made up. And TB is what dooms her.

I’d rather listen to hear talk in circles and answer her silly questions than listen to her cry. But even as we ended the conversation she made me promise that if I get worse, I’ll go see a doctor.

0 words of wisdom:


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No matter where I am, I'm lost and learning to like it. I'm a living contradiction, and the best lies I tell are the ones I tell myself.
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