werner@aecom.UUCP (Craig Werner) (10/02/85)
[Every issue: JAMA - the Journal of the American Medical Association publishes
an column of literature, usually medically related but not always, that has
been submitted from its readership. This column is called 'A Piece of My
Mind.' I had typed this particular one in for other reasons, but it is
a very good story. Note however, that there are no claims of
miraculous cures in the following, just will and circumstance.]
A Piece of My Mind
JAMA Sept 6, 1985 -- Vol 254, No. 9
Messages
Perhaps the fact that the Great Depression hit just as she
and my father were starting to raise their family had something to do
with it. But no matter. Already as a small child I was aware that in
the handling of money my mother was more than simply thrifty; she
was downright frugal. Extravagances and luxuries did not exist. She
never bought anything, for example, unless she was certain she would
use it. And not only use it, but use it to the best purpose and for
the longest possible time. The one exception was a new, frilly,
never-worn nightgown that whe kept in the bottom drawer or her bureau.
But even that had its purpose: "In case I should ever have to go into
the hospital," she said. And so the nightgown lay there for years,
carefully protected in its tissue wrappings.
But one day, many years later, the time came. The nightgown with
its now yellowed lace and limp ruffles was taken from its wrappings and
my mother entered the hospital, seeking an answer to the mysterious
fevers, sweats and malaise that had plagued her like a 'flu since Autumn.
The time was early January, in the deepest, darkest days of a cold winter,
just before her 69th birthday.
We did not have long to wait for an answer. It came with the
finality of a period at the end of a long sentence of strung-out clauses:
Lymphoma, disseminated, progressive. Privately, her physician told me
he was sorry, there was probably only a matter of two or three weeks left,
certainly less than even a month.
For days, I agonized over what to do with this information that
only I had been told. Should I tell the family? Should I tell my mother?
Did she already know? If not, did she suspect? Surely she must after so
many months of malaise. Could I talk about it with her? Could I give her
any hope? Could I keep up any hope she might have? Was there in fact any
hope?
Some relief came when I realized her birthday was approaching.
The nightgown she had saved all those years she was now wearing, but it
was hopelessly dated. I resloved to lift her spirits by buying her the
handsomest and most expensive matching nightgown and robe I could find.
If I could not hope to cure her disease, at least I could make her feel
like the prettiest patient in the entire hospital.
For a long time after she unwrapped her birthday present, given
early so she would have longer to enjoy it, my mother said nothing.
Finally, she spoke. "Would you mind," she said, pointing to the wrapping
and gown spread across the bed, "returning it to the store? I don't
really want it." Then she picked up the newspaper and turned to the
last page. "This is what I really want, if you could get that," she said.
What she pointed to was a display advertisement of expensive designer
summer purses.
My reaction was one of disbelief. Why would my mother, so careful
about extravagances, want an expensive summer purse in January, one that
she could not possibly use until June? She would not even live until
Spring, let alone Summer. Almost immediately, I was ashamed and appalled
at my clumsiness, ignorance, insensitivity, call it what you will. With
a shock, I realized she was finally asking me what I thought about her
illness. She was asking me how long she would live. She was, in fact,
asking me if I thought she would live even six months. And she was
telling me that if I showed I believed she would live until then, then she
would do it. She would not let that expensive purse go unused. That
day, I returned the gown and robe and bought the summer purse.
That was many years ago. The purse is worn out and long gone, as
are at least a half a dozen others. And next week my mother flies to
California to celebrate her 83rd birthday. My gift to her? The most
expensive designer purse I could find. She'll use it well.
Jane A. McAdams
Chicago, IL
--
Craig Werner
!philabs!aecom!werner
"Why is it that half the calories is twice the price?"