I NEVER SANG FOR MY MOTHER

Many years ago I saw the movie, I Never Sang for my Father. As I recall, the film didn't get rave reviews. But I've always remembered it because of Gene Hackman's acting and because of the subject: parent/child relationships. Hackman plays a middle-aged man struggling to get close to his father, who just retreats into self-centeredness and detachment.

As far back as I can remember, my mother depended on doctors and drugs to get her through another day of living. She claims that her addictions really took hold about the time my brother was born.
(My mother holding Bobby, 1956)

I often think about this movie when thinking about my mother. She phoned a few days ago and happily chattered non-stop about a recent visit from her granddaughter and great-grandsons. It dawned on me, that for the first time in years, my mother can carry on a lucid conversation, write with a steady hand, and walk without stumbling. As her voice rattled on, I was almost lulled into thinking that I could have a real relationship with her---almost. And then I heard her complaining about how the weather was making her ill and how Doctor was out of town for a few days. All of a sudden I was jolted back to reality.

When I was growing up, there were long periods of time when my mother never got out of bed. I remember Mom routinely calling me into her bedroom and telling me to get her basket of medicine off the closet shelf, then bringing it to her as she carefully propped herself up in bed. She would open vial after vial, shaking-out a capsule here, breaking a tablet in half there, until she held a handful of multicolored and multi-shaped pills. (This prescription has been saved in her scrapbook for about sixty years.)

Doctor is the name my mother affectionately reserves for her personal physician of more than 30 years. Mom's trips to see Doctor rapidly escalated over the years until she was averaging three office visits a week. Then in February, her neighbors got fed-up with her disturbing routine of wandering the condo complex, screaming and banging on doors. Someone finally called the paramedics. She spent several months of involuntary residence at a psychiatric hospital de-toxing from a steady diet of drug cocktails; her medical team releasing her only on the assurance that she hire round-the-clock care.


Her caretakers, thinly disguised as household help, were really there for one reason: to document her intake of medication. She had help 24/7 for months after release from the hospital. It was almost a contest to see who would prevail. Would a girl quit, or would my mom beat her to the punch, and fire her before the end of the day? I learned in our phone conversation that she has eliminated all but one favorite helper, who works just the week-end shift. But what's really troubling is hearing about her return to regular visits with Doctor.

When my stepfather suffered a stroke while hospitalized, Mom thought that he had died. She immediately put this notice on her front door. He lingered on for three more months. She never saw nor spoke to him again.

No one in the family has ever figured out what is in the injections Doctor so freely dispenses at every visit. Many years ago Doctor told my father that he always wanted his patients to leave happy. "I give them something to make them happy," he explained to Dad, without really explaining anything. Even Mom does not know, does not care to know. "It's something for my heart, something for my lungs, some estrogen...something to build me up." She always sounds defensive when I try to get the facts. "This man has saved my life more times than I can remember and whatever sanity I retain is to his credit as well," she asserted in a letter two years ago. "Nobody understands that he is the reason I'm still alive after all these years."

My mother is convinced that if any medical personnel other than Doctor provides treatment, it could prove fatal. I found this warning taped to her kitchen phone, just in case anyone was reckless enough to call 9-1-1 in an emergency. Last year, when her husband fell in the middle of the night, he needlessly suffered for hours because of her edict.

She's right. I don't understand. I've always been disgusted that she could never make even simple, personal decisions without consulting Doctor. I've never comprehended why this man was ever elevated to savior status. We only have to look at how her health dramatically improved when she was under the care of different physicians, to know that something is not right with Doctor's treatment plan.

As my mother ended her phone monologue about grandsons, I heard her voice take on a familiar tone. "Of course, I expect a visit as soon as Chuck gets his vacation time."

"Well, Mom, you know he's been working real hard for over a year with very few days off, " I replied, meaning, we might have our own plans.

"Well don't you forget, she admonished, again using her self-righteous voice, "that your mother spent twelve years without any time off, taking care of a very fragile and very dear husband." Suddenly she pleaded exhaustion and quickly hung up the phone.

And there you have it. Her suffering is always greater. Her needs always trump everyone else's. Her reality of events is never open for discussion.

In 1984, I encouraged my mother to see me and her grandchildren when we came to Los Angeles for a visit. She wrote a lengthy response to that suggestion. I maintained my "disparaging" status for another 15 years until she reluctantly deigned to see me.

As a young boy, Gene Hackman's character, Gene Garrison, would sing while his mother played the piano. But his father always stayed upstairs, alone in his room. That's the simplistic reason why Gene never sang for his father. I don't need to get complicated either. I know I too will never sing for my mother.

While I was in high school, Mom worked a recovery program and eventually triumphed over her demons. For more than a dozen years my parents enjoyed life together. Unfortunately, the good times did not last. (American Samoa, 1977)

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich