Angry Sunday .......Part I

Before I begin this story I want to be sure you understand that I am NOT defined by my mother’s death. It is something that happened in my childhood that did indeed make me chose certain paths at certain points in my life that I may not have otherwise. It also lingers over head a good deal of time no matter how much I push it down.
To quote the saying that we hear all the time today, “It just is what it is”
I repeat that she died here sometimes in stories so that new readers will understand a point that is trying to be made or the situation surrounding the point trying to be made.
My story today is to explain the anger I wrote about last week.
So many wrote me emails and asked about my anger and if I was ever going to say why I was angry.
I guess they thought that was the story.
It all started with me bringing home boxes from my family visit.
I was given these boxes that I was told were mine to bring home.
So on a Sunday afternoon recently I went through every box and every item piece by piece.
Some of these items made me very angry.

When I was in the 6th grade my mom got sick. I didn’t understand a lot of it and I remember when she came home she was tired a lot. One day after school she wasn’t in the kitchen when I came home. She was ALWAYS in the kitchen when we got home from school. That was “our time.” She would go over our papers we brought home or talk about our day over some cookies and milk. Very Leave it to Beaver which makes me laugh now. But they were good warm memories.

Her not being in the kitchen scared me. I was afraid to walk down the hall on this particular day to see if she was breathing. So like a good chicken I asked my neighbor and good friend, Mark, to come over to do it for me. It’s funny because he never thought a thing of it. We have talked about it as grown ups and we both laugh at how it was just what needed to be done and he did it for me. (may times there after too) Isn’t that kind of cool that as I said above, it just was what it was, and life went on? No more real thought into any of it.
Anyhow, he saw mom’s chest going up and down and told me that she was breathing and he stayed while I woke her up.

She would always apologize when I woke her. I think she felt she had to be there for me when I got home from school or some such 1960’s mind set.
We’d walk out to the kitchen and “our time” would commence.

One day while sitting at the kitchen table talking after school she decided to have a serious talk with me about her illness. She told me about breast cancer and what she was going through. She told me that she was going to teach me some things to help so that I could assist her around the house. I was excited about it all, which now I find hysterical. Excited about housework? Please. But it faded from fun to dread soon enough.

That was the beginning of me being the mom to my family.
I learned how to do laundry. I learned how to hang the clothes.
She had so much removed from under her arm with her mastectomy that hanging clothes on the line or putting her arms above her head was difficult and painful for her.
I learned how to polish her maple hardwood floors. She took such pride in her shiny floors which makes me think of Mary Hartman Mary Hartman (anyone old enough to remember that show?)

I didn’t have to do this when she was feeling well but there were days when she asked for help and I always helped. I really don’t remember feeling angry about it or resenting it one bit or even having any negative emotion. I just remember doing it.

She was feeling better later that year and she was one of the chaperones for our trip to Pittsburgh.
We went to the zoo and the planetarium and it was a big deal to me.
I remember looking back to see if my mom was there and doing okay.
She was sound asleep in the dark planetarium room while the rest of us were staring at the ceiling. I made sure her chest was going up and down and when I saw it was, I turned around and went back to the stars.

The following year she had more surgeries. This time she didn’t bounce back as quickly.
I was doing more things around the house. I am the oldest. I didn’t need to be told I just did it because I so wanted my mother to not worry and get well. My sister Pam was 8/9 during this time and a pistol of a tomboy. That was the most difficult part for me.
Funny thing, she’s still a most difficult thing in my life today.

I remember gathering laundry one Saturday morning and when I wasn’t looking, my mom, came down the hall and she said something to me which I can not remember….and I have tried believe me I have tried.
I said something to the effect of “that isn’t how I do it”.
She began to cry and said, “Peggy I am not gone yet please let me do this.”
That was my only fight with my mom in 13 yrs of my life with her.
Guess that is why I remember it so vividly. I remember the smell of the clothes, what she was wearing and where we were standing. I hate that this is a memory.
Her comment that day was the 1st time it hit me then that she was going to die.
I was 12, I was slow what can I say.

She always tried to not make me have to do anything more than being a kid.
When I would ask to help she’d tell me to go out and play – “Go be a kid Peggy” and playfully try to swat my butt.
Didn’t have to tell me twice – I would giggle and run outside as fast as I could.

My father did just the opposite. My father is old school from an old country where he firmly believes that women do all of this. Women take care of men. My father went from a mother to a wife and he has never ever had to lift a finger for anything and he hasn’t. He thought his job was as a provider and that is what he did. He did it well.
He loved us but it was just not the type of father of today.

I never saw my father lift a finger to help my mom. Her sisters would visit to help out a lot. I asked my sister Pam because sometimes our realties are very different, if she saw Dad do anything. She had the same stories. I was hoping she and I didn’t have the same memory this time because I wanted to believe that Dad did help mom more than just drive her to doctor’s appointments.

The last time my mom went to the hospital she discussed with us the chance of her not coming home. She never talked about taking care of anyone but myself. She never told me to care for the family. She talked about being good to myself, to understand if Dad gets a new mom for us and to be kind to her because he would never pick someone bad, to most of all trust in myself, work hard and be all I could be because I can be anything.
I ran out of the room several times during that conversation. She always calling me back to her bed to hold her hand and listen. That was our last conversation. I remember the blue sky out the window above her bed was beautifully blue and sunny. I just wanted to stare out that window and not think about this stuff.

One night when Dad came home from the hospital he sat me down and told me how I had to take over. I was going to have to be mom to Pam. I had to cook and clean for him. I had to have dinner on the table at 5:30p. If I needed help to call Aunt Fil (his sister Filomena) I would have to quit all after school activities to be home for my sister.
What is funny about this in my memory is the room was dark and it was nighttime and the surroundings felt like the conversation. All very black.
I sometimes wonder if that is all in my head or was it really a dark room?

I asked my dad if mom was coming home. He rattled some religious mumbo jumbo
(I apologize to those who love the religious sentiment) and I never got a straight answer which I so needed at that moment in time. My father tends to hide behind his religion and even at a young age it drove me crazy.

.........to be continued