From the Bench
IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH SHE HAS NEVER BEEN A ‘QUITTAH’
(Ed. Note: This column was written three years ago when I was too sick to meet the Mother's Day deadline. It has appeared the past two years in the papers I was writing for at the time. Thank God, I am still around three years later to get it in Neganews. It is one of my favorites, for obvious reasons. I hope you enjoy. Dave)
Within this wide range are many different degrees of emotion and intensity. For each of these, and for each of us, the emotions and intensities are significantly personal.
Often, in a time of crisis, "love" can spring upon us in surprising ways which, in the heat of the moment, we don’t even recognize. It is only upon later reflection that we identify it for what it was, and it changes forever our perspective of "love" and the one who has given it. This is the story of just such an incident.
It is, forgive me, a very personal story, and one which is not easy to put into words. Perhaps I should not be trying, or sharing it with you. If my "editor" (my wife) had seen it first, as she does most of my columns, I might not be. She is more private and less demonstrative than I. Because of that, she has not read this until now.
For a number of weeks, I have been going through the trauma of chemotherapy. The attendant nausea, lethargy, and pain have been a new experience for one who has been blessed with almost seventy years of uninterrupted health; therefore, because of my good fortune, I do not seek, nor deserve, an outpouring of sympathy. Many have suffered much worse, and for longer. But now I can, to a limited extent, empathize with them.
About two weeks ago, near midnight, I hit a new low. I lay on the bathroom floor at my son’s, wracked by nausea, completely drained of anything inside or any desire to continue existing. The lymphoma, the chemo, and the pain and nausea medicines seemed to have converged for this moment and for a final, frontal attack.
The tireless caregiver, who has taken care of me for forty years, knelt beside me, admonishing me to get up and come back to bed. Often, in the midst of our agony and pain, we forget what those who care for us are going through. Their exhaustion and the emotional drain are forgotten and unacknowledged, even after the pain has subsided. I confess that I am guilty of that.
"Get up! You can’t just lie here!"
The flicker of life which groped through the stupor mumbled, "Just leave me alone and cover me up." At the moment, dirt would have been fine, even welcome.
"No! You can’t just lie here!" She shook an unresponsive mass. Then she grasped under my arms and tried to raise me from the floor. Unable to succeed, she pleaded. I sensed the tears in her voice. "Please get up. I can’t lift you."
It was the last try at asking. Her tactics now changed to threats and assault. "Do you want me to go get David?" This was my son, the enforcer. Earlier in the evening, he had lectured, shook, and then dragged me upstairs to bed. Even this threat I ignored.
There was a short interval in which I hoped she had gone away. Then she was back, and I sensed that she was leaning over me.
"You are not a quittah", she screamed.
The kids and I have always kidded her about her genteel southern accent, which she inherited from her "mothah", who, before her death, survived four bouts with cancer and was most certainly not a "quittah".
Getting no response, she again stormed, "Get up! You are not a quittah!" Still no response.
Then it happened. WHAP! Without warning, a hard, stinging lash struck the side of my face. It got a response. Through the narrow slit of vision that remained, I could see that she was wielding a dripping-wet washcloth. Instinctively, I turned my face the other way.
Thoroughly aroused, she showed no mercy. "Get up! You are not a quittah!" WHAP!
The harsh sting of the washcloth summoned every vestige of my remaining strength toward survival. I struggled into a sitting position, and, with my assailant’s help, made it back to bed. The rest of the night is a blur. Only the pain of the washcloth remained. And it is still there, indelibly imprinted in my memory.
May it never leave, for, upon later reflection it reminded me of the extent to which love will go to preserve that which it has created.
It reminded me of incidents long ago, when a limber hickory switch would torture the bare, skinny legs of a little boy, admonishing him to "do right." Cruelty? Punishment? Most certainly, at the time, those elements were present. But deeper and less obvious was an instinctive maternal love which would not allow that which she had created and borne to descend to less than what it could be.
It continued throughout her life, manifesting itself in many different ways, even as the little boy became a middle-aged man….always urging him to "do right." It can only be explained as the deepest expression of maternal love, and he was the better for it.
And it reminded me, also, of the extent to which love will reach out to preserve what God has created between two people. When there are bumps in the road, you don’t quit. When conflicts arise, you don’t quit. When pain or sorrow come, you don’t quit. And it is most often the mothers and wives who remind us of this.
They are often called "the weaker sex." It is a fraud. They are not. And what better time than Mother’s Day to acknowledge and honor that reality.
While we preen and strut like peacocks, trumpeting our ephemeral accomplishments, they quietly and unobtrusively go about the business of what life is all about…. the nurturing of love and relationships. Strange that something as mundane as a cold, wet washcloth and an insistence that "You are not a quittah" can awaken and enlighten to that fact.
This has been an attempt to pay tribute to the two women who have most influenced my life. I feel that I have fallen short. Whether that is my own shortcomings as a writer, or whether it is the fact that words cannot adequately express some emotions, I leave to your judgement.
But I would be remiss, and you would, perhaps, be disappointed if I ended on such a serious and philosophical note; therefore, I will conclude with this fatherly advice to my children. If mama ever approaches you with a wet washcloth…..DUCK!