O.K. I feel guilty whining about my mom's lung cancer when other cancer families have more horrific tales. My mom wasn't young when she was diagnosed and the cancer wasn't totally a surprise.
When a family member is diagnosed with lung cancer you feel like you're isolated, on an island all by yourself. Lung cancer is so different from other forms of cancer. Well, the cancer itself isn't that different but the psychological implications are so completely different. Lung cancer is a combination of cancer and substance abuse. Both need to be treated.
My sister said my mom's lung cancer was encapsulated and it was the kind caused by radon exposure. Most of the time lung cancer has spread too far for surgery to be helpful. But my mom's lung cancer was treatable with surgery and chemotherapy and radiation. The surgeon was adamant that we get mom to quit smoking. That's like getting an alcoholic to quit drinking.
We couldn't get her to quit smoking. She didn't want to quit smoking. I think she was thinking since she had lung cancer she may as well keep smoking. I think the nicotine really calmed her and I'm sure she was pretty stressed during this time. The survival rate for lung cancer is low. She probably knew that. We didn't really talk about her lung cancer or the 'what if's' - like what if you die, or what if the cancer comes back. I was too afraid to bring up the topic and she never did.
I think my mom was teribbly addicted to cigarettes. She had depression and anxiety and the cigarettes helped calm her nerves. I don't think she had much self-knowledge. I think that's true for alot of addicts. Actually I think that's the hallmark of addiction. And we live in a society where addiction or abuse is so readily available. If you feel stressed then shop or smoke or drink or eat or gamble or have sex or take drugs or whatever. You know, smoking a few times is a way to cope, at best, and foolish, at worst. Smoking cigarettes to the point that it becomes a pattern or a way of life is life threatening. It hurts the people you love. That's another thing that addicts don't quite understand. We hurt. Our hurt isn't enough to get them to stop. How come that isn't enough? I have a feeling I'm an island in a sea of islands. Thousands, maybe millions of islands.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
Capable Hands
My mom had strong , pretty hands. Long fingers. She played the piano beautifully. I didn't inherit that particular musical talent. She had a white gold diamond engagement ring and matching wedding band. I still feel a bit rugged with my gold wedding band - even though I've been married 20 years. White gold is so much more elegant and clean looking. At least it was on her.
Mom could take potatoes out of the oven without using a hot pad. She could open up jars of pickles and wash dishes in very, very hot water. Yet her hands stayed pretty and soft. She used Jergens lotion. I can still remember the smell. Sometimes she'd brush away our bangs from our eyes or give us a backrub. She wasn't really overly physically affectionate. We'd give her a quick kiss good bye in the morning on our way to school. Not many hugs. Just the knowledge that she was there taking care of us and taking care of the house was enough.
My mom was a good cook. She was a housewife and cooked from scratch. She'd make meatballs and gravey and potatoes or swiss steak or spare ribs. Always a meat dish with some kind of potatoes. And she'd make jello salads embedded with shredded lettuce or cut up celery. She made desserts like home made pudding or cake. I don't remember her ever baking a cake from a mix. Supper was always a high point in my day. In the summer my sisters and I would be playing yard games with the neighbor kids and my mom would invariably call us in for supper right when things were getting the most exciting. We'd wolf down our food and race back outside to recapture the high of play, but the moment would be gone and we'd settle into a less exciting game.
My mom and dad would sit in the kitchen after the dishes were done, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. My mom insisted that they only smoke in the kitchen. She didn't want to risk a fire if they fell asleep with a lit cigarette.
When I was young I don't remember the house smelling like smoke, but it probably did. My mom kept a clean house and aired it out - even in the winter. She made my dad paint every few years because the cigarette smoke discolored the kitchen walls.
In high school everyone thought my older sister smoked because her clothes smelled so smokey. I remember taking some Christmas cookies out of the freezer in January and they reeked of tobacco. Isn't that kind of sad?
Smokers can never tell how smokey they smell. My parents always thought my sisters and I were exaggerating when we complained of how much it smelled. (I never told them that they smelled bad - that would be rude). I guess I should be thankful for how my mom tried to keep the house clean and airy, despite her smoking. I should be thankful. But I'm not.
Mom could take potatoes out of the oven without using a hot pad. She could open up jars of pickles and wash dishes in very, very hot water. Yet her hands stayed pretty and soft. She used Jergens lotion. I can still remember the smell. Sometimes she'd brush away our bangs from our eyes or give us a backrub. She wasn't really overly physically affectionate. We'd give her a quick kiss good bye in the morning on our way to school. Not many hugs. Just the knowledge that she was there taking care of us and taking care of the house was enough.
My mom was a good cook. She was a housewife and cooked from scratch. She'd make meatballs and gravey and potatoes or swiss steak or spare ribs. Always a meat dish with some kind of potatoes. And she'd make jello salads embedded with shredded lettuce or cut up celery. She made desserts like home made pudding or cake. I don't remember her ever baking a cake from a mix. Supper was always a high point in my day. In the summer my sisters and I would be playing yard games with the neighbor kids and my mom would invariably call us in for supper right when things were getting the most exciting. We'd wolf down our food and race back outside to recapture the high of play, but the moment would be gone and we'd settle into a less exciting game.
My mom and dad would sit in the kitchen after the dishes were done, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. My mom insisted that they only smoke in the kitchen. She didn't want to risk a fire if they fell asleep with a lit cigarette.
When I was young I don't remember the house smelling like smoke, but it probably did. My mom kept a clean house and aired it out - even in the winter. She made my dad paint every few years because the cigarette smoke discolored the kitchen walls.
In high school everyone thought my older sister smoked because her clothes smelled so smokey. I remember taking some Christmas cookies out of the freezer in January and they reeked of tobacco. Isn't that kind of sad?
Smokers can never tell how smokey they smell. My parents always thought my sisters and I were exaggerating when we complained of how much it smelled. (I never told them that they smelled bad - that would be rude). I guess I should be thankful for how my mom tried to keep the house clean and airy, despite her smoking. I should be thankful. But I'm not.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Tattoos and Daisies
My mother's favorite flower was the daisy. My dad used to sing her that song 'I'll give you a daisy a day, dear'. It was a song about a man who continued to give his wife daisies even after she died (He laid them on her grave). It was a sweet song and my dad has a great voice.
But we don't put flowers on my mother's grave. Real flowers only last a day and mom hated plastic flowers. There aren't too many other choices.
A few years ago I got a small tattoo of a daisy, in memory of mom. I could have chosen a tattoo of a giant ashtray with a lit cigarette, but the daisy was pretty and poetic. (The ashtray would have been more honest, though). Tattoos go beyond their visual symbol - they hurt like hell!! There was something so congruent about the physical pain of my daisy tattoo and the psychic pain of living with my mother.
My mom could be mean. At times she would mock me, repeating what I said. It was always unexpected, this emotional abuse, because most of the time mom was wonderful. My sisters say she sometimes used to stare at me while we sat at the kitchen table. I don't remember this. But it's another example of her sometime bizzare and hurtful behavior. At least she was an equal-opportunity emotional abuser - she was mean to my sisters, too.
My parents used to like to tell the story of my first day of Kindergarten. I made a new friend at school and got off the bus at her house instead of coming home. My mother was frantic and was finally able to track down where I was, with the help of the school. She spanked me when we got home (she rarely spanked me). And guess what?
I wouldn't cry.
I think, in my mind, I had divorced her. I thought she wasn't a good enough mother so I wasn't swayed by her parenting. Isn't that an odd way for such a young child to think? The sad thing is I never changed the way I was with her. The sad thing is she never changed, either.
Sometimes I hated her. Sometimes I was secretely glad that she smoked so she would die a cigarette-related death. (I actually thought this is a child!!). I didn't really want her to die. I just wanted her to quit hurting me.
The emotional abuse stopped when she died, fourteen years ago. I don't miss her mocking me. I don't miss sitting with her in her kitchen, inhaling second hand smoke as she lit up cigarette after cigarette. There are other things about her that I don't miss. The daisy tattoo that I have - the pedals kind of droop down. There's a reason for that.
But we don't put flowers on my mother's grave. Real flowers only last a day and mom hated plastic flowers. There aren't too many other choices.
A few years ago I got a small tattoo of a daisy, in memory of mom. I could have chosen a tattoo of a giant ashtray with a lit cigarette, but the daisy was pretty and poetic. (The ashtray would have been more honest, though). Tattoos go beyond their visual symbol - they hurt like hell!! There was something so congruent about the physical pain of my daisy tattoo and the psychic pain of living with my mother.
My mom could be mean. At times she would mock me, repeating what I said. It was always unexpected, this emotional abuse, because most of the time mom was wonderful. My sisters say she sometimes used to stare at me while we sat at the kitchen table. I don't remember this. But it's another example of her sometime bizzare and hurtful behavior. At least she was an equal-opportunity emotional abuser - she was mean to my sisters, too.
My parents used to like to tell the story of my first day of Kindergarten. I made a new friend at school and got off the bus at her house instead of coming home. My mother was frantic and was finally able to track down where I was, with the help of the school. She spanked me when we got home (she rarely spanked me). And guess what?
I wouldn't cry.
I think, in my mind, I had divorced her. I thought she wasn't a good enough mother so I wasn't swayed by her parenting. Isn't that an odd way for such a young child to think? The sad thing is I never changed the way I was with her. The sad thing is she never changed, either.
Sometimes I hated her. Sometimes I was secretely glad that she smoked so she would die a cigarette-related death. (I actually thought this is a child!!). I didn't really want her to die. I just wanted her to quit hurting me.
The emotional abuse stopped when she died, fourteen years ago. I don't miss her mocking me. I don't miss sitting with her in her kitchen, inhaling second hand smoke as she lit up cigarette after cigarette. There are other things about her that I don't miss. The daisy tattoo that I have - the pedals kind of droop down. There's a reason for that.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Beautiful People
My mother was beautiful. She had high cheek bones, full lips and almond shaped, blue eyes. She was tall and she was thin when she was younger. She had short, dark hair. People say I look like her. We are exotic-looking women. At least that's what I've been told.
Smoking didn't marr her beauty. She didn't get those little wrinkles around her mouth like so many women get. Maybe that's partly what kept her in denial with the cigarettes. She couldn't see any ill effects of the smoking so why quit?
I was a child in the 1960's and a teen ager in the 1970's. Women's fashion changed so much over those two decades. My dad used to carry a picture of my mom that she had taken at a beauty salon. She just had her hair done and she had this ice-blue cape on. She looked stunning. I remember a bathing suit she had at that time, too. It was a pink and white gingham one piece suit. My mother could be so classy.
In the summer she'd wear pedal pushers and white Keds and a cotton button-down shirt. My mother always looked so clean and pressed. She'd buy us girls something new each summer from Penneys. That was my mom. She was kind of like the JC Penney version of Jacqueline Kennedy. Clean, crisp and energetic.
As I grew older I valued comfort over looks so my clothing style gravitated toward jeans and mocassins. (I also looked pretty darn cool). My mom's style changed, too. She wore more polyester and olive colored clothes. Earth tones and clunky jewelery were popular in the 70's. She picked out new wallpaper for the kitchen - dark brown flowers on a white background. It was hard to find beauty and elegance in the 70's.
I didn't pay much attention to my mom's clothes and style after I grew up and moved away. But I remember those earlier decades and the influence my mom had over my own personal style. It was important for my mother's generation to have poise and grace. Not so much with my generation. My mom had lots of physical energy. The house was always spotless. Our clothes and faces were always clean.
I didn't inherit my mom's energy levels. My kids rarely had clean faces when they were little. My house was never spotless. My mom was a housewife so she had more time to tend to these things. I worked outside the home. My parents expected me to keep my life cleaner but I couldn't muster up the physical and emotional energy to have that kind of lifestyle. I valued beauty but also valued my own personal needs of comfort and calmness. It's hard to be calm if you're constantly chasing dust bunnies.
I have a memory - a place that I go to in my mind when I want to feel completely serene. I picture myself about ten and sitting on the wood floor in our old living room. It's springtime and my mom is cleaning. The house smells faintly of lemon pledge and ammonia. She just washed the window sheers and a breeze is making them billow. The house is so beautiful. My mother is lovely and happy. I'm at peace with the world. My mother loves me so much. I can feel it. With every breath I take I feel it.
Smoking didn't marr her beauty. She didn't get those little wrinkles around her mouth like so many women get. Maybe that's partly what kept her in denial with the cigarettes. She couldn't see any ill effects of the smoking so why quit?
I was a child in the 1960's and a teen ager in the 1970's. Women's fashion changed so much over those two decades. My dad used to carry a picture of my mom that she had taken at a beauty salon. She just had her hair done and she had this ice-blue cape on. She looked stunning. I remember a bathing suit she had at that time, too. It was a pink and white gingham one piece suit. My mother could be so classy.
In the summer she'd wear pedal pushers and white Keds and a cotton button-down shirt. My mother always looked so clean and pressed. She'd buy us girls something new each summer from Penneys. That was my mom. She was kind of like the JC Penney version of Jacqueline Kennedy. Clean, crisp and energetic.
As I grew older I valued comfort over looks so my clothing style gravitated toward jeans and mocassins. (I also looked pretty darn cool). My mom's style changed, too. She wore more polyester and olive colored clothes. Earth tones and clunky jewelery were popular in the 70's. She picked out new wallpaper for the kitchen - dark brown flowers on a white background. It was hard to find beauty and elegance in the 70's.
I didn't pay much attention to my mom's clothes and style after I grew up and moved away. But I remember those earlier decades and the influence my mom had over my own personal style. It was important for my mother's generation to have poise and grace. Not so much with my generation. My mom had lots of physical energy. The house was always spotless. Our clothes and faces were always clean.
I didn't inherit my mom's energy levels. My kids rarely had clean faces when they were little. My house was never spotless. My mom was a housewife so she had more time to tend to these things. I worked outside the home. My parents expected me to keep my life cleaner but I couldn't muster up the physical and emotional energy to have that kind of lifestyle. I valued beauty but also valued my own personal needs of comfort and calmness. It's hard to be calm if you're constantly chasing dust bunnies.
I have a memory - a place that I go to in my mind when I want to feel completely serene. I picture myself about ten and sitting on the wood floor in our old living room. It's springtime and my mom is cleaning. The house smells faintly of lemon pledge and ammonia. She just washed the window sheers and a breeze is making them billow. The house is so beautiful. My mother is lovely and happy. I'm at peace with the world. My mother loves me so much. I can feel it. With every breath I take I feel it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
