Monkey Paws and Madonnas
My mother continues to look up at me through eyes that I don't quite recognize, although I can't quite pin point how they have changed. She's just different now and I want her to snap out of it. I want her to stop looking at me like that. Like that helpless, expectant woman who needs something from me that I have no idea how to give. So I just stand there and look back, wanting to feel something. I try to conjure up those feelings...those devoted daughter for an ailing mother feelings that I'm sure must be lying dormant in me somewhere. Somewhere. But nothing happens. No tears. No sense of compassion. No angst. No pity. No desire to pat her shoulder and certainly no impulse to kiss her.
She did this to herself. We all saw it coming. It's not like she didn't have warning signs. My God, what were those last two hospitalizations? What part of "Grandpa had a stroke at 64" did she not get?
I don’t know what to say. I know she isn’t ready for me to lay out cold hard reality for her and the truth is, I suck at small talk. Especially with my mother. Especially when I am angry. And right now, I am definitely angry. But I’m also not there alone. My brother Alex, short for Alexander, which is short for Alexander the Great, is accompanying me. It’s his second trip here, his first being 1 a.m. the night before trailing the helicopter.
“You know, Ma, the doctor said they can probably sew a monkey arm onto that left side for you.” Leaning in closer, my brother takes a deep breath, offering a slightly apologetic wince, “But you’re gonna to have to shave it a lot. And it’s going to be shorter than your other arm.”
“Yes, and it’s going to be very, very strong,” I nod in agreement, offering up a silent prayer of thanks that he is with me.
Off and running, now, my brother leans back and chuckles, that great Chicago guy chuckle “Yeah, you don’t want to get on Ma’s bad side. The feces throwing is the worst!” Then, realizing the implications, he leans back in, conspiratorially. “Now, Ma, you’re going to have to realize, monkeys don’t really box. If you’re going to want to hit somebody, it’s going to be more like this,” he demonstrates the appropriate “monkey smack” technique delivering a series of strikes to his thigh with a loose “karate chop” motion.
“They’ll teach you that in therapy. When you can grasp the pebble from my hand with your monkey paw, it will be time for you to leave.” Delivering his best David Caradine impression he presses his hands together and bows.
My mother issues a weak grin. “I always told your father that we went wrong somewhere. I said we should have drown you when we had the chance.”
That must have been God’s cue, as seconds later the chaplain entered the scene. With well rehearsed hospital chaplain good cheer he greeted my mother, “Now is this really what you had planned on doing today?!” How he resisted adding, “young lady” to the end of that question, I’ll never know.
Charming, but not willing to play along, my mother managed a smile. “Does anyone?”
He concedes her point with a nod, not missing a beat as he peers over his spectacles scanning the long list in his hand.
“You must be Ms. Roberts,” looking to my mother for confirmation.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Where are you from?”
“Sandy Beach Harbor”
“Oh, I know it well. Are you from there originally?”
“No.”
“Then you must be a Chicago transplant.”
My mother smiles and nods. Like Greeks, who always manage to inform you of their ethnicity within the first five minutes of meeting them, regardless of circumstance or topic, Chicagoans wear their origins with irrepressible pride.
“What area?”
“Immaculate Conception Parish.”
Now, unless you are in the Deep South, one would not have answered that question with a reference to parish of origin. In fact, my mother committed a bit of heresy to do so. Any other “real Chicahgoan” would have puffed their chest out and claimed “South-sider!” But my mother, who has not attended a church in many, many years went right to Immaculate Conception. This couldn’t be good.
“Ah, The famous Immaculate Conception. Over on 89th.”
“Yes! I was the one who crowned the Blessed Virgin.”
I stared at her in disbelief.. My God, is this where we are going?!
Immaculate Conception Parish had a tradition every year of selecting a young woman from the 8th grade class to crown the statue of the Blessed Virgin on Mother’s Day with a wreathe of flowers. The event did have a bit of fanfare as boulevard was closed off for the procession of the children. My mother was chosen for this honor from her own 8th grade class for this annual event.
“You were?! So that was a pretty significant moment for you, wasn’t it?”, he leaned over the bedrail, bringing his face closer to hers.
This guy is good, I think and wait, half expecting my mother to elaborate, oh yes, I’m quite sure you remember how the whole world smelled of rose petals and lilacs that day, and how all the bluebirds hovered about. Everyone from the school was there. Yes, all of them, from kindergarten all the way through 8th grade…
The chaplain’s beeper interrupts my thought. Still cheery, he announces he must answer this call. “Oh oh, I have to take this. It’s got a 55 after it. That means it’s an emergency. If it didn’t have that 55, I could stay. I’ll be sure to come back later”. He nods to us all as he makes his exit.
My mother sees him off and turns back to us, with a wistful expression and delivers a line I knew word for word…
“A woman told my father, ‘Your daughter looks like every bride hopes she will look on her wedding day.’ He was so proud.” We smile and nod but she doesn’t seem to notice, lost in her reverie.
Articles from this blog may not be reprinted without express permission from the author.
She did this to herself. We all saw it coming. It's not like she didn't have warning signs. My God, what were those last two hospitalizations? What part of "Grandpa had a stroke at 64" did she not get?
I don’t know what to say. I know she isn’t ready for me to lay out cold hard reality for her and the truth is, I suck at small talk. Especially with my mother. Especially when I am angry. And right now, I am definitely angry. But I’m also not there alone. My brother Alex, short for Alexander, which is short for Alexander the Great, is accompanying me. It’s his second trip here, his first being 1 a.m. the night before trailing the helicopter.
“You know, Ma, the doctor said they can probably sew a monkey arm onto that left side for you.” Leaning in closer, my brother takes a deep breath, offering a slightly apologetic wince, “But you’re gonna to have to shave it a lot. And it’s going to be shorter than your other arm.”
“Yes, and it’s going to be very, very strong,” I nod in agreement, offering up a silent prayer of thanks that he is with me.
Off and running, now, my brother leans back and chuckles, that great Chicago guy chuckle “Yeah, you don’t want to get on Ma’s bad side. The feces throwing is the worst!” Then, realizing the implications, he leans back in, conspiratorially. “Now, Ma, you’re going to have to realize, monkeys don’t really box. If you’re going to want to hit somebody, it’s going to be more like this,” he demonstrates the appropriate “monkey smack” technique delivering a series of strikes to his thigh with a loose “karate chop” motion.
“They’ll teach you that in therapy. When you can grasp the pebble from my hand with your monkey paw, it will be time for you to leave.” Delivering his best David Caradine impression he presses his hands together and bows.
My mother issues a weak grin. “I always told your father that we went wrong somewhere. I said we should have drown you when we had the chance.”
That must have been God’s cue, as seconds later the chaplain entered the scene. With well rehearsed hospital chaplain good cheer he greeted my mother, “Now is this really what you had planned on doing today?!” How he resisted adding, “young lady” to the end of that question, I’ll never know.
Charming, but not willing to play along, my mother managed a smile. “Does anyone?”
He concedes her point with a nod, not missing a beat as he peers over his spectacles scanning the long list in his hand.
“You must be Ms. Roberts,” looking to my mother for confirmation.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Where are you from?”
“Sandy Beach Harbor”
“Oh, I know it well. Are you from there originally?”
“No.”
“Then you must be a Chicago transplant.”
My mother smiles and nods. Like Greeks, who always manage to inform you of their ethnicity within the first five minutes of meeting them, regardless of circumstance or topic, Chicagoans wear their origins with irrepressible pride.
“What area?”
“Immaculate Conception Parish.”
Now, unless you are in the Deep South, one would not have answered that question with a reference to parish of origin. In fact, my mother committed a bit of heresy to do so. Any other “real Chicahgoan” would have puffed their chest out and claimed “South-sider!” But my mother, who has not attended a church in many, many years went right to Immaculate Conception. This couldn’t be good.
“Ah, The famous Immaculate Conception. Over on 89th.”
“Yes! I was the one who crowned the Blessed Virgin.”
I stared at her in disbelief.. My God, is this where we are going?!
Immaculate Conception Parish had a tradition every year of selecting a young woman from the 8th grade class to crown the statue of the Blessed Virgin on Mother’s Day with a wreathe of flowers. The event did have a bit of fanfare as boulevard was closed off for the procession of the children. My mother was chosen for this honor from her own 8th grade class for this annual event.
“You were?! So that was a pretty significant moment for you, wasn’t it?”, he leaned over the bedrail, bringing his face closer to hers.
This guy is good, I think and wait, half expecting my mother to elaborate, oh yes, I’m quite sure you remember how the whole world smelled of rose petals and lilacs that day, and how all the bluebirds hovered about. Everyone from the school was there. Yes, all of them, from kindergarten all the way through 8th grade…
The chaplain’s beeper interrupts my thought. Still cheery, he announces he must answer this call. “Oh oh, I have to take this. It’s got a 55 after it. That means it’s an emergency. If it didn’t have that 55, I could stay. I’ll be sure to come back later”. He nods to us all as he makes his exit.
My mother sees him off and turns back to us, with a wistful expression and delivers a line I knew word for word…
“A woman told my father, ‘Your daughter looks like every bride hopes she will look on her wedding day.’ He was so proud.” We smile and nod but she doesn’t seem to notice, lost in her reverie.
Articles from this blog may not be reprinted without express permission from the author.
posted by Laura Young at 1:48 PM
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