I stood over my mother's body, numb, yet strangely attuned to my feelings. I leaned over, picked her up, and held her one last time. "Oh Momma," I whispered as my tears fell on her still, warm cheeks. I laid her back on the hospital bed that had been her home for the past six weeks. I realized, regardless of my early memories of her, that she had been a strong woman, and that I loved her very much and would miss her even more. She had known she was dying and refused all life support and medication. She wanted a dignified death. She would have been eighty in three weeks, and, I admitted, for most of my life I had not felt the strong sense of love, respect, and absence that I now felt. But now it was over; I could go on.
It was a brilliant June morning as I exited the hospital. I didn't feel as tall as my six-foot, two-inch frame might suggest. I thought about my earliest memories of Joan Kelly Henn, my mother and my biggest critic. I remembered when I was so very small, so very lively, and so very cautious. She was the one who was so very big back then, her five-foot, nine-inch body guided by cold, piercing, blue eyes. Those same eyes made me shiver at times under her scrutiny. She was the one with the boisterous voice screaming obscenities at the slightest infraction, like sneaking an extra glass of orange juice. I remembered my childhood now, but the memories no longer angered me or affected my (once minimal) self-esteem.
I walked to my car in the hospital parking lot, got in, rolled down the window, and lit a cigarette. The memories enveloped me. I remembered getting up so early in the morning, after my father had left for work, and going to the basement to watch television in the "social" room. I was four years old and content to be down there by myself, watching Chilly Willy cartoons.
Then she'd rise from that deep slumber of hers and scream at me, "Johnny, you come up here right now; that damned T.V. is too loud. You're going to have to sleep in my room with me, so I'll know you're not getting in trouble." I always thought that I must really be a bad boy, as she tied my arms to the bedposts so I couldn't sneak off during her deep sleep.
I remembered the "shower room" incident. My home had two bathrooms but also had a shower room in the basement, where the men "cleaned up." I remembered spending so much time in the basement that it didn't make sense to my young mind to have to go upstairs to pee when you could just "go" in the shower room drain, turn the water on, and rinse it all away. I also recalled that you got into trouble if you were caught, like the time my mother stole downstairs and watched, without my knowledge, as I "went" in the drain. I remembered the scary smile on her face as she screamed at me, "I'll make sure that you never do this again. Animals pee on the floor, so I'll show you what happens to animals when they pee where they're not supposed to." Then, she grabbed my hair and slammed my face onto the unrinsed drain and rubbed it across the wet surface.
I remembered all the nasty things that she said to me when I was little, things like, "You're a bad boy. Why can't you be like your older brothers," or "God is going to take you straight to Hell," and "Damn you, Johnny, sometimes I wish you hadn't been born." I remembered how hard I tried to be good, just for her, though it never seemed to do any good, and I guessed that I was just born "bad." And I remembered how sad I was; how scared I always was, but I hadn't known why. At these memories, my eyes misted again.
I started my car and drove to the parking attendant's booth. I thought of this past Christmas, the first one I had ever hosted, because in years past I never felt like an adult, even though I was forty years old. My whole family had been there, and Mom had been so proud of me, with my life going so well now. I also remembered how badly my brother-in-law Paul treated his own son Brian, calling him an asshole in front of the whole family. I had known how the boy felt inside.
I recalled the conversation at my Mom's house that Christmas night when I drove her home. My mother told me that my sister Lisa wanted Brian to go to a counselor since he and his father weren't getting along at all. Then she said, "What a waste of time that would be. Brian would probably just go in and tell the counselor a bunch of lies about his father, just like you did about me, when you were in therapy."
Momentarily incensed, I replied, "I never told a counselor anything that wasn't true, Mom! And I don't think this is a subject you want to get into with me now."
My mother replied, "Yes, it is. Let's clear the air on this right now."
Taking in a deep breath, I said, "Okay, you want to know what I always wondered about, Mom? I always wondered what Lisa was doing while you had me tied in bed with you."
My mother's face reddened as she replied, "Lisa wasn't a bad child like you were."
I smiled and said, "No, Mom, I wasn't a bad boy. I was just a little boy with a lot of energy. You were tired when I was small, and your little blue pills made you that way. You were a barbituate addict when I was little, and you didn't even know it. The Triavils and the Quaaludes you took to calm your nerves were barbituates, and you took them for twenty years. There have been thousands of articles written about the barbituate-addicted housewives of the fifties and early sixties,....and you were one of them. Hell, Mom, in those days, the doctors who prescribed those pills didn't even know they were addicting. It's not your fault. It's okay now Mom, I'm over it, and I love you."
My mother's face had gone blank, as if confused. Then, like a child defending a misdeed, she said, "Well, I don't take them anymore. There's some up in the cabinet; the prescription was for fifty; you can count them, I haven't taken a single one."
I remembered smiling at her once again, for she appeared at that moment infantile and helpless, her face flushed and filled with remorse. I said, "Mother, I love you. All that was so many years ago; I'm over it, and you can be too, Okay?" I walked over and held her as she wept in my arms, softly whispering to her, over and over, "It's all right now, Mom, it's all right."
With these thoughts fresh in my mind, I drove out of the parking lot and onto the street. My mother had just died, and there were arrangements to be made. I wasn't overwhelmed with grief, though, just aware of the bittersweet relationship just ended and content in the knowledge that on a Christmas night, not long ago, I had finally made peace with Joan Kelly Henn, my mom.
Copyright 1997 by JA Henn