So my mother Patricia went to Lowe’s and bought this five foot-long kitchen island in an attempt to solve the problem of space in her kitchen. Mom was a CIA-trained chef who only cooked for family and never intended to open a restaurant or bakery. Mom was a gifted cook but, because of her illness, she could only eat very little of what she’d prepare for us.
Her kitchen was about 12 X 12 and every corner, nook and cranny was covered from the floor to the ceiling with every imaginable appliance and utensil. In the interim of emptying the kitchen and setting up this big table Mom was also painting the kitchen’s cabinets the ”perfect bistro red”. Subsequently, every thing that was in the kitchen had now cluttered the hall. I mentioned to her that maybe she didn’t need all of this stuff and that she should have a garage sale and purge some of it. Mom had three of everything, refused to give any of it away and re-used things like expired half & half, insisting that her culinary training enabled her to ‘reconstitute’ cream.
When we lived in San Francisco my mother spent 5 years redoing her entire apartment and it was never finished except for the kitchen which, while small was transformed beautifully. She had at least 5 “projects” she was working on simultaneously and seldom finished any of them, which was frustrating because when she did complete them, they were usually excellent. The goal was to furnish her apartment completely so that she could swap with someone in Paris and live half of the year on the Left Bank. Upon turning fifty, at least a portion of that dream came true.
The instructions for assembling this kitchen island claimed that no tools were needed but suggested that two people put it together. That week Mom got really loaded and then while slicing zucchini cut the tip off of her index finger with something called a mandolin. Failing to use the safety properly the cut was so deep it nearly severed a tendon and after an hour or so of protestations and when the bleeding wouldn’t stop Mom gave in and my aunts rushed her to the emergency room.
Mom had been clean and sober for three years in the city but since our move to the country and her declining health prognosis later that year she had taken to mixing her meds with drugs and alcohol. The cut on her finger was very painful and all of her nerve endings were quite sensitive to the touch. Minor brushes with any object caused wincing pain. Since the cut happened to her right hand and because she was largely drugged most of the time, she was pretty helpless.
I had planned to go to Baltimore that weekend for my godsister Natasha’s 2nd birthday and to see her parents Joe and Vi whom I hadn’t seen in years. I cancelled the trip because I was worried about Mom and her ability to get anything done for herself which is why among other reasons I moved in with her. I was bummed that I didn’t get to spend some time away that summer yet I felt it was the right thing to do to stay and actually BE my mother’s right hand.
A few days later it’s this gorgeous Sunday and I tell her that I’ll need her help to put the table together which has been sitting in the hall for several weeks along with every other pantry item and every last wooden spoon. But her severed finger prevents her from being effective. She says, “Look, my finger hurts, okay and what are you, some sort of sadist?”. I snapped back, “If you wanted me to put that table together you should have just told me. And, no, I wasn’t trying to be mean I just needed your help but fine, I’ll put it together myself”.
Mother Jones.
She was a strong woman and a proud woman who rarely asked anyone for their help and it was really hard for her to do so when she did. Mother had so many balls in the air she really did need help to keep them all going. At an age where she ought to take it easy, let go of some things and pare down her lists, she upped the ante by trying to achieve all of this crap before she died. She grew frustrated and bitter when her family didn’t step out of their ways to lend her a hand. Mom did get better about being inclusive but later grew resentful and when you didn’t offer or ‘just see’ what needed to get done she got pissed. That orchestrated martyrdom had ruled my life and sense of self for decades further amplified by the spectre of her impending mortality.
The conversation headed south with Mom asking where I’d gotten this sadistic streak and I told her where else: You.
Offended, she retreated into her room (her office, her brain trust, her sickbay) and shut the door. Later that day I ruminated on what I’d said in anger and regretted being so insolent and sought to see things from her point of view; a terminal, colorectal cancer survivor and substance abuser who was at once frail and dynamic but also manipulative. She was in pain of virtually every sort yet still vital, elegant, completely sharp, original and engaged. Taking care of everyone while not looking after her own needs was her calling card and I’d accepted long ago that those facts were not going to change.
I have dealt with these complexities all of my life and on some level I get that this is her defense mechanism. Hurt people before they hurt you. Set the bar of perfection so impossibly high that you’re always beset in trying to achieve that new modern edition of every classic thing from art to film, literature, music and of course, cuisine. It dawns on me that I’m angry with her for raising me to be sensitive and then over the years punishing me for it. I left to go have ice cream and cool off with a friend on the mall, my original plan for that Sunday.
When I return a bit later Mom emerged from her hightower and admits that maybe I was right, that perhaps she was a sadist. She doesn’t come out and admit that she’s been abusive and she certainly doesn’t apologize. Then, in the most egocentric and infantilizing tone she remarks, ” Jay, I had no idea you had all of this rage in you. I feel so sorry for you”. That was it. I’d had it.
I stayed with friends while I processed the tornado of unfixed emotions this whole pathetic episode had stirred up in me. This was a familiar wrinkle. She couldn’t be brave enough to say, ” You know, Jason, you really hurt my feelings when you said I was cruel”. I was supposed to understand and appreciate- grovel- apologize for telling my truth which could ONLY be my ungrateful and childish opinion. Mother could not be wrong or seen as weak.
No matter how far we progressed as mother and son and regardless of how much I’ve forgiven myself and her, when we fought I was always the villain. It was like being lost at sea clawing my way to this isthmus of land hoping that the Coast Guard or an ocean liner would come along and rescue me knowing all too well that it wouldn’t. I am the rescue mission now. Alone on an island fighting to survive the torrents of both Patricia’s cruelty and her brilliance.
Several days later I checked my email and found an irate message from my youngest Aunt Maxine attacking me for being an asshole to Mom. It went on to say that I should have ‘supported her, to get over it, that I didn’t deserve her help, that I needed to get therapy, a real job and to grow up, etcetera. My Aunt Jean chimes in a day later to warn me that ‘she will have me physically removed from the house, that she will not stand for any physical forms of abuse and that she is putting me on notice and will call the police if something like this happens again’. I replay the afternoon in my head to see what part of our exchange was physical and the answer was none of it.
When I got home from the mall, Mom asked me whether or not I had destroyed her counter top in anger which was ridiculous. It had a nick where a tiny edge of the wood of the kitchen island’s tabletop was chipped. I wonder what compelled her to inflate the story to make me out to be this enraged maniac and why she felt it important to tell her sisters. I’m furious now for being attacked for such nonsense but then realize that maybe my Mom is scared of me and that my rage WAS frightening.
Then I start to cry.
I just can’t take it and I sit on my couch and begin to sob uncontrollably. It’s Easter but really it’s Mother’s Day. Suddenly, past the maudlin vantage point of the Martha Stewart Everyday kitchen island, the future, our future, has promise.
Sitting at the table I’d assembled I snack on the frittata and popovers Mom made that morning alone and realize that damned table was worth it. I don’t know my way around the island but of course Mom does.
Mothers always do.
Her kitchen was about 12 X 12 and every corner, nook and cranny was covered from the floor to the ceiling with every imaginable appliance and utensil. In the interim of emptying the kitchen and setting up this big table Mom was also painting the kitchen’s cabinets the ”perfect bistro red”. Subsequently, every thing that was in the kitchen had now cluttered the hall. I mentioned to her that maybe she didn’t need all of this stuff and that she should have a garage sale and purge some of it. Mom had three of everything, refused to give any of it away and re-used things like expired half & half, insisting that her culinary training enabled her to ‘reconstitute’ cream.
When we lived in San Francisco my mother spent 5 years redoing her entire apartment and it was never finished except for the kitchen which, while small was transformed beautifully. She had at least 5 “projects” she was working on simultaneously and seldom finished any of them, which was frustrating because when she did complete them, they were usually excellent. The goal was to furnish her apartment completely so that she could swap with someone in Paris and live half of the year on the Left Bank. Upon turning fifty, at least a portion of that dream came true.
The instructions for assembling this kitchen island claimed that no tools were needed but suggested that two people put it together. That week Mom got really loaded and then while slicing zucchini cut the tip off of her index finger with something called a mandolin. Failing to use the safety properly the cut was so deep it nearly severed a tendon and after an hour or so of protestations and when the bleeding wouldn’t stop Mom gave in and my aunts rushed her to the emergency room.
Mom had been clean and sober for three years in the city but since our move to the country and her declining health prognosis later that year she had taken to mixing her meds with drugs and alcohol. The cut on her finger was very painful and all of her nerve endings were quite sensitive to the touch. Minor brushes with any object caused wincing pain. Since the cut happened to her right hand and because she was largely drugged most of the time, she was pretty helpless.
I had planned to go to Baltimore that weekend for my godsister Natasha’s 2nd birthday and to see her parents Joe and Vi whom I hadn’t seen in years. I cancelled the trip because I was worried about Mom and her ability to get anything done for herself which is why among other reasons I moved in with her. I was bummed that I didn’t get to spend some time away that summer yet I felt it was the right thing to do to stay and actually BE my mother’s right hand.
A few days later it’s this gorgeous Sunday and I tell her that I’ll need her help to put the table together which has been sitting in the hall for several weeks along with every other pantry item and every last wooden spoon. But her severed finger prevents her from being effective. She says, “Look, my finger hurts, okay and what are you, some sort of sadist?”. I snapped back, “If you wanted me to put that table together you should have just told me. And, no, I wasn’t trying to be mean I just needed your help but fine, I’ll put it together myself”.
Mother Jones.
She was a strong woman and a proud woman who rarely asked anyone for their help and it was really hard for her to do so when she did. Mother had so many balls in the air she really did need help to keep them all going. At an age where she ought to take it easy, let go of some things and pare down her lists, she upped the ante by trying to achieve all of this crap before she died. She grew frustrated and bitter when her family didn’t step out of their ways to lend her a hand. Mom did get better about being inclusive but later grew resentful and when you didn’t offer or ‘just see’ what needed to get done she got pissed. That orchestrated martyrdom had ruled my life and sense of self for decades further amplified by the spectre of her impending mortality.
The conversation headed south with Mom asking where I’d gotten this sadistic streak and I told her where else: You.
Offended, she retreated into her room (her office, her brain trust, her sickbay) and shut the door. Later that day I ruminated on what I’d said in anger and regretted being so insolent and sought to see things from her point of view; a terminal, colorectal cancer survivor and substance abuser who was at once frail and dynamic but also manipulative. She was in pain of virtually every sort yet still vital, elegant, completely sharp, original and engaged. Taking care of everyone while not looking after her own needs was her calling card and I’d accepted long ago that those facts were not going to change.
I have dealt with these complexities all of my life and on some level I get that this is her defense mechanism. Hurt people before they hurt you. Set the bar of perfection so impossibly high that you’re always beset in trying to achieve that new modern edition of every classic thing from art to film, literature, music and of course, cuisine. It dawns on me that I’m angry with her for raising me to be sensitive and then over the years punishing me for it. I left to go have ice cream and cool off with a friend on the mall, my original plan for that Sunday.
When I return a bit later Mom emerged from her hightower and admits that maybe I was right, that perhaps she was a sadist. She doesn’t come out and admit that she’s been abusive and she certainly doesn’t apologize. Then, in the most egocentric and infantilizing tone she remarks, ” Jay, I had no idea you had all of this rage in you. I feel so sorry for you”. That was it. I’d had it.
I stayed with friends while I processed the tornado of unfixed emotions this whole pathetic episode had stirred up in me. This was a familiar wrinkle. She couldn’t be brave enough to say, ” You know, Jason, you really hurt my feelings when you said I was cruel”. I was supposed to understand and appreciate- grovel- apologize for telling my truth which could ONLY be my ungrateful and childish opinion. Mother could not be wrong or seen as weak.
No matter how far we progressed as mother and son and regardless of how much I’ve forgiven myself and her, when we fought I was always the villain. It was like being lost at sea clawing my way to this isthmus of land hoping that the Coast Guard or an ocean liner would come along and rescue me knowing all too well that it wouldn’t. I am the rescue mission now. Alone on an island fighting to survive the torrents of both Patricia’s cruelty and her brilliance.
Several days later I checked my email and found an irate message from my youngest Aunt Maxine attacking me for being an asshole to Mom. It went on to say that I should have ‘supported her, to get over it, that I didn’t deserve her help, that I needed to get therapy, a real job and to grow up, etcetera. My Aunt Jean chimes in a day later to warn me that ‘she will have me physically removed from the house, that she will not stand for any physical forms of abuse and that she is putting me on notice and will call the police if something like this happens again’. I replay the afternoon in my head to see what part of our exchange was physical and the answer was none of it.
When I got home from the mall, Mom asked me whether or not I had destroyed her counter top in anger which was ridiculous. It had a nick where a tiny edge of the wood of the kitchen island’s tabletop was chipped. I wonder what compelled her to inflate the story to make me out to be this enraged maniac and why she felt it important to tell her sisters. I’m furious now for being attacked for such nonsense but then realize that maybe my Mom is scared of me and that my rage WAS frightening.
Then I start to cry.
I just can’t take it and I sit on my couch and begin to sob uncontrollably. It’s Easter but really it’s Mother’s Day. Suddenly, past the maudlin vantage point of the Martha Stewart Everyday kitchen island, the future, our future, has promise.
Sitting at the table I’d assembled I snack on the frittata and popovers Mom made that morning alone and realize that damned table was worth it. I don’t know my way around the island but of course Mom does.
Mothers always do.
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