10:28 a.m. - 2005-06-15
Mother Rant
Relief came from an unexpected source. It came from Tom. My mother's illness allowed a tenderness to emerge in Tom that I had not seen. He was gentle. He was supportive. He said all the right things. He gave blood. He delivered groceries. He agreed that I should quit my job so as to handle the burdens visibly accumulating on my worn heart. Home became safe. I cherished the time he simply allowed me to lie motionless on the fold-out sofa, watching Donahue. For one blessed hour I pretended to forget that in a parallel universe a mere ten minutes away, my sweet mother was wrestling a legion of demons. I was forced to consciously acknowledge for the first time what had always seemed so obvious growing up. That God had drawn a magic circle around my family. Death and illness skirted neatly around us, as if on cue. Nothing bad had ever happened. Ever. Oh, daily I saw the assembly of newscasters with their perfect hair and saccarine grins assuring me that life was frightening, precarious, fraught with sudden danger. Yet looking at my inner circle of loved ones, there was just no evidence. We were not a particularly religious family. My mother was a weekend Catholic, performing all that was required while never mentioning God. My father had been baptized Episcopalian, but never really exposed to any religious path. And I was a 'fallen away' Catholic, dabbling in New Age and Eastern philosophy. Still, God had inexplicably issued some kind of giant 'King's X', protecting the lot of us all these years. Demons had no choice but to scatter. How had that spell been so abruptly broken? What had invaded this transparent shield, corrupting our unearned good fortune? Supersticiously, I wondered about the Hawaii purse. Matthew's untimely death at my cruel and invisible hand. Perhaps my failing third marriage. What had I done to incur God's wrath and why was my innocent mother the hapless recipient? My mother, with whom I had such a conflictual relationship. I suspected that, were she to exit the planet any time soon, I would never recover my tenuous footing on reality. Suddenly untethered, I would float forever in the ethers of guilt and remorse. I would no doubt end my days in some back ward with a towel on my head, convinced that I was the Virgin Mary. So I prayed like I had never prayed. I prayed to anyone I thought might lend an ear as I watched my beautiful mother gracefully subject herself to such indignities as having her treasured acryllic nails removed in anticipation of pending surgery. Like a soldier, she dutifully arrived on schedule for a series of embarrassing and paifull probes and proddings. Brave and childlike, she accepted whatever was simply next. Her brown eyes grew small and wet in her pale, pale face, yet she was courageous in a way I had never seen. I respected her. I felt I had never risked knowing her and would probably never get the chance. I felt robbed of potential time with this new and fascinating creature who demonstrated a strength for which I stood in awe. At last, she was hospitalized for the surgery. I visited every day, bearing meaningless and sentimental tokens of the love I had never adequately expressed. Across the street from Kaiser, on Sunset in Hollywood, was the Self Realization Fellowship. It was intended as a shrine honoring all religions. I would find myself praying in the strangely ornate room, appealing to God I had heard about since childhood but never really known. A sadly belated metaphor for the chasm between my mother and me. I begged for more time with her. Time to get to know her. Time to model my life upon her newly discovered strength. Time to show her my love in some kind of tangible way. I begged in the daylight and I begged in the dark. I struck various bargains, offering a multitude of petty sacrifices designed to turn His heart to the room across the street. What I didn't know or trust at the time was that He was already there in the room across the street, gently nudging the surgeon's nimble fingers as she lay helpless as a sparrow in His loving hands. And so, in spite of my fragile faith, she lived.
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