One of the haunting memories that likes to come back to me almost every day is a full bodied one where I remember every tiny detail to the point where I start to wonder if my mind is filling in the missing pieces. Each time it replays, I revel at the details my mind has retained. I can clearly hear the ambiance of the mall and I can still see the blue and green windbreaker she was wearing. I can feel her fingers gripping desperately into my arm. Not a detail is missed. Her eyelashes, wet with tears, and her eyes no longer the brown as I had always though they were, but so obviously a brilliant hazel with these beautiful flecks of greens and golds. Her wig was a little windblown, and the tone and tempo of her voice still brings chills to me that sway my very core.
You have to know, I think, to get this story, that my mom was never rude. Not to family, friends, or strangers. She was the peace-keeper. She toned down and coddled, made excuses when they were needed, and generally kept everyone at an even keel. I was taught very well the basics of civilized and polite behavior; at least as they apply to the uber-homogenized subculture in which I grew up. I knew, and know, the ins and outs of gracious and considerate standards for rural america.
So, we were in the mall trying to find a scooter for my nephew for Christmas. It was frigidly cold and earlier that day the wind had grabbed her wig several times and blew it across the parking lot. I would retrieve it and she'd try to put it back on, embarrassed and weary while people stood and stared with open mouths. This was, in fact, before she threw the nasty thing aside for good and let her bald head answer the questions so many, for their own reasons I'm sure, hesitated to ask.
This was also after the doctor's second hack at her brain, and her walk was just starting to be wobbly. I tried to nonchalantly walk behind her in case she started to fall, but even though I tried unsuccessfully not to make it obvious.
That day was the day when she finally got pissed. When the woman in fur unapologetically walked in front of her, she kept right on going. Mom smacked right into her, wobbled a bit, and just continued to walk. She walked forward quickly and steadily. Within the length of the mall, it happened again, and a third time. She wasn't going out of her way to run into people, but neither was she stepping aside. I really couldn't believe it was happening. I was half in awe and half horrified.
I finally shreiked, "Mom, you're RUNNING INTO PEOPLE" and she turned to me and said "no, they're running into me, and life really is too short not to notice the difference. I'm NOT going to apologize for being here."
I know she didn't think about it; ya know; she wasn't trying to deliver to me a big life lesson, but it still sorta did. Why did I think that she should be the one to apologize?
I think that the reason I think a lot about this is because one of my big motivators in life has always been to not upset anyone. It's all about keeping the peace, or trying to obtain peace. I hate to hurt people, I hate to cause pain, I hate to make people upset. The thought of hurting myself is much easier, to me, than the thought of hurting others. Even to the point of death; even to the point of a life worse than death.
I think this comes back to me so often because I am in desperate need of looking at what it is that I really need to make my life good again. I am so afraid of being selfish. I am so afraid of inflicting pain. I am so afraid of rocking the boat. I feel so sick about this. I feel SO much pain it is imobilizing me.
I wonder sometimes at what moment it became clear to Mom that it really didn't matter if she slammed into the woman with fur coat and the Neiman-Marcus bags or not. I wonder when it became clear to her that life was just too fucking short...
