Kids whose parents are teachers in their schools are members of a special club. They have to build invisible fences. They have to learn to appear to take it in earnest when their classmates tell them how cool the parent is.
- I can't hug my mother;
- Mother Daughter Poems.
- Blood and Water (BBW Paranormal Fiction)?
- Mom Poems From Daughters.
- Greasy Bliss?
I never considered myself a member of that club. In those years, my mother seemed to have just slipped through the door as I walked through it on the first day of school. It was never entirely clear what she was doing. She had no theatre experience; her background was in music.
It made sense that she was volunteering as a piano accompanist, playing in the pit orchestra, coaching singers. It made less sense that she always seemed to be there even after the musicians went home. Hanging out with the set builders, feigning disapproval when kids banged out pop songs instead of the assigned show tunes on the piano, giving more and more orders until everyone just assumed she was in charge.
Substance was one of her all-time most used words; in both of her incarnations she used it liberally, though her powers of appraisal were questionable. She believed Barbara Walters showed substance on The View when she hushed the other ladies up and spoke her mind. There was no more clothes sharing after I left for college. During that time my mother moved out of our house and into her own place and I came home as infrequently as possible, staying with my father when I did.
Her career in full throttle, she was usually too busy for family time anyway. She was out late rehearsing summer stock productions of Sweeney Todd. Still, my assignment from there on out was clear.
For the rest of her life, what I was supposed to do was celebrate how little my mother resembled her own mother. I was supposed to accept that her old personality had been nothing more than a manifestation of various sources of oppression her mother, her husband, the legacy of s southern Illinois and that what we had on our hands now the fan club of gay men, the dramatic hand gestures, the unsettling way she seemed to have taken on the preening, clucking qualities of a teenage girl, almost as if to make up for skipping over that phase the first time was the real deal.
I could not, however, manage to do those things. She had a habit of picking up the phone in her office inside the high school theatre and letting the receiver hang in the air for several seconds as she continued whatever in-person conversation she was already having. When she did this to me I usually just hung up. On the occasions when I visited the theatre, I smiled silently when her students gushed about her superfabulousness.
The last time I saw my grandmother was almost 10 years before she died. I visited her with my mother. My mother told me that when she was a girl she secretly unwrapped her Christmas presents ahead of time and then rewrapped them and placed them back under the tree. She had to plan in advance what she was going to say. A lot of people knew my grandmother to be as nice as pie, just as a lot of people knew my mother as an incredibly talented theatre arts administrator and overall fun person to be around. But there again, what can you say to that? In the history of the world, a whole story has never been told.
I recognised my cue and walked over and put my arm around her, knowing this would create a picture she wanted people to see and would therefore console her. My father understood this cruel twist, though at times he seemed to understand little else.
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Since he lived a minute cab ride away and since their relationship, for all its animus, still extended to things like hospital visits and accompaniment to chemotherapy appointments, he did do his share of emptying buckets when she vomited and showing up at the emergency room when she had a crisis of pain or hydration. Our family was not one to shirk its duties, even if we did not always perform them warmly.
There were many ways my mother could have chosen to tell my father she was dying and there were many ways he could have chosen to respond. I said this not because I believed it but because it seemed like the kind of thing you should say. My mother felt grateful and vindicated. My father felt snubbed. Or, if he did, he refused to abide by it. The code had to do with not just showing up but actually being there, which was no longer really a part of their social contract.
All around us were family members of other patients, people who sobbed in the hallways or set up camp at bedsides or emerged from the elevators carrying piles of blankets and needlepoint pillows and framed photos from home.
What my mother’s death taught me about grieving professional losses
He looked to be in his sixties. I assumed he was crying over his wife, though I had no idea. No one was crying like that for my mother. Our family had a significantly different style. Some of that time has now passed. One day some months earlier I had entertained a passing fantasy that my mother would get hit by a bus. The oncologist had just delivered the news that the chemotherapy was working. She was so happy that day that she actually ventured outside the apartment on her own to buy a frappuccino and I remember thinking to myself how great it would be if she were hit by, say, the M7 express on Columbus Avenue and killed instantly and painlessly.
I knew from the internet that chemotherapy for gallbladder cancer works when it works at all for about one cycle before the body develops immunity and the disease resumes the process of ravaging it.
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She would never have a better day than this day. That night she drank half a vodka gimlet to celebrate and regretted it for the next several days. She vomited from the chemo through the rest of the summer until she landed back in the hospital with severe intestinal and bowel trouble.
It was September. I had just got engaged to my longtime boyfriend, which had made my mother very happy. I did this because I felt that if we were in a play this would surely be part of the stage directions. If I just sat there with my arms crossed against my chest, as I was inclined to, the doctor would make a note in the file suggesting that I might not be capable of offering sufficient support to the patient.
I retrieved her hand from under the blanket and squeezed it in my own.
She did not reciprocate. I think we were both relieved when I let go. The doctor said she would most likely make it through Christmas, so we should feel free to go ahead with any holiday plans.merkdoface.ga
69 Mother Daughter Poems - Touching Poems for Mother & Daughter
For three nights in a row, my mother made me stay in her hospital room. The people who came to clean her up were terse and tired and spoke mostly in heavy Caribbean accents. A few times she lay there in her own shit before they could get there. I know this because I was in the sleeping chair on the other side of the room, listening to it all while pretending to be asleep. I tell myself I did it out of compassion but the truth is I also did it, as I had done so many other things where she was concerned, out of rage. Later, when the horror of those nights had been eclipsed by other horrors — patient proxy forms, calls to an attorney, wrenching phone conversations with her friends — my mother was discharged from the hospital and my father and I took her back to her apartment in a taxi.
This day was no exception. Neither my brother nor I had ever shown an interest in reproducing. I had a dog, which she sometimes called her granddog.