When I was in high school, my parents bought me a car. My mother had always complained that my brother's insurance didn't allow her to drive his car, so when she started talking about driving mine, I asked her if the insurance on it covered her. After all, I was new to both driving and insurance. I had no idea how this stuff worked, but I wanted to make sure I was doing everything right. I guess my mother misunderstood my question because she promptly told my grandparents that her ungrateful daughter wouldn't let her drive the car SHE had bought for her. Every time she met someone new (I know this must be hyperbole, but it certainly seemed like every time -- it certainly wasn't confined to relevant situations), she told them about how I wouldn't allow her to drive my car. A car SHE had paid for! A teenager didn't trust HER with a car!
I should mention here that my mother did have a history of what might be called reckless driving and was close to losing her license on account of how many speeding tickets she had and how many accidents she had caused. So she was more than a little defensive when she thought I fancied myself a superior driver. The frustrating part for me was that, on the occasions when I tried to explain to her audience what I had been referring to about the insurance coverage, she just talked over me.
For the next few years, every time we got together with my grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins for holidays, she would pull this story out of her repertoire and tell it again. Her indignation at not being trusted with my car got her worked up every time.
I finally stopped hearing her complaint at not being trusted with my car when she drove it while on Ambien, fell asleep at the wheel, and rolled the car into a shallow ravine of some sort, totaling it. (P.S. She called me afterward and told me I was responsible for paying several thousand dollars to have the car fixed because it was "my car." I ignored most of the things wrong with that claim and instead reminded her how she hadn't wanted my name on the title and so it was not legally mine at all.)
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Heart Attack
One evening when I was home from college for the holidays and talking with my boyfriend on the phone, my mother burst into my room and announced she was "having a heart attack and just thought [I] ought to know." I told my boyfriend I had to go and hung up the phone. Being completely honest, I didn't think she was having a heart attack, but I did know that whatever was going on required my attention. Her tone and choice of words had told me that.
I dug out a little bottle of low-dose aspirin and told her to chew one up. I had read that chewing aspirin during a heart attack can help. I figured even she knew she wasn't really having a heart attack when she declined on the grounds that "it'll taste bad." Then she calmly dialed 911 and informed them that she needed an ambulance (the first of many times she did this over the years), and I watched, feeling helpless and wondering if it was my fault she was doing all this, because I'd been on the phone with my boyfriend instead of talking to her, or if there was another reason I didn't know about. I was 99% certain she was physically fine -- not even having an anxiety attack, let alone a heart attack -- because the ways she behaved when something was actually wrong and when she just wanted attention were distinctly different. But I knew even if she was 100% fine and someone convinced her not to call an ambulance, she would talk for months to everyone she met about how she wasn't even allowed to go to the hospital when she was having a heart attack. Heartless daughter, ice water in her veins, etc. -- the usual spiel. I feigned being supportive out of lack of better ideas.
I followed the ambulance to the hospital in my car. My mother had canceled our family's health insurance plan about a decade earlier because "they don't cover anything anyway" and "that money could be going toward something else." A few hours and over $19,000 in medical bills later, the doctor informed us that my mother had not had a heart attack and was, in fact, healthy as a horse. He asked what she had eaten recently and diagnosed her with indigestion, a side effect of having eaten Taco Bell after 9pm.
I dug out a little bottle of low-dose aspirin and told her to chew one up. I had read that chewing aspirin during a heart attack can help. I figured even she knew she wasn't really having a heart attack when she declined on the grounds that "it'll taste bad." Then she calmly dialed 911 and informed them that she needed an ambulance (the first of many times she did this over the years), and I watched, feeling helpless and wondering if it was my fault she was doing all this, because I'd been on the phone with my boyfriend instead of talking to her, or if there was another reason I didn't know about. I was 99% certain she was physically fine -- not even having an anxiety attack, let alone a heart attack -- because the ways she behaved when something was actually wrong and when she just wanted attention were distinctly different. But I knew even if she was 100% fine and someone convinced her not to call an ambulance, she would talk for months to everyone she met about how she wasn't even allowed to go to the hospital when she was having a heart attack. Heartless daughter, ice water in her veins, etc. -- the usual spiel. I feigned being supportive out of lack of better ideas.
I followed the ambulance to the hospital in my car. My mother had canceled our family's health insurance plan about a decade earlier because "they don't cover anything anyway" and "that money could be going toward something else." A few hours and over $19,000 in medical bills later, the doctor informed us that my mother had not had a heart attack and was, in fact, healthy as a horse. He asked what she had eaten recently and diagnosed her with indigestion, a side effect of having eaten Taco Bell after 9pm.
Dad Is Dying
Nine years ago, after I graduated from college and was officially living on my own, my mother told me I should come home for Thanksgiving because "Dad's not doing so great, and if you want to see him, this may be your last chance." When I got home and realized my dad wasn't actually dying, I asked her why she had said he was. She explained, "I wanted to see you!" I don't know why she didn't try saying that first.
A couple holidays later she lied about my grandmother dying, but I knew what was going on by then.
A couple holidays later she lied about my grandmother dying, but I knew what was going on by then.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Daddy's Not Your Real Father
When I was 13 years old, my mother told me, "Daddy's not your real father." I do not remember what started this conversation. We were sitting on the couch in the living room, and I think we might have been talking about the way Alzheimer's runs in my dad's side of the family because next she said, "I thought you'd be relieved." She sounded irritated when she said it, probably in reaction to the way my jaw had dropped open in shock. (Until that moment I had always assumed the jaw dropping open in shock was just something that was done in movies and cartoons to convey surprise, but it really happens. It felt like a hinge had broken, and I had to use my hand to physically close my mouth.) Maybe it was apparent I was going to cry. I cried a lot back then. My mother explained, as my dad sat in the next room oblivious to our conversation, that Daddy wasn't my real father because she had been inseminated with sperm from an anonymous donor at her doctor's office. The donor was a med student, she said, though I wonder now if this is something the doctor actually told her or if she decided this fact on her own after hearing that donors were often med students. The only other things she knew about him were that he had the same hair and eye color as my dad so that I would convincingly be able to "pass" as his daughter.
"I'm surprised you didn't figure it out on your own," she said. "You're so much better at math than me or Daddy. How else did you think you got to be that way?" My mother told me not to start crying. She really hated when I cried, and I suspect if she had foreseen my reaction, she never would have told me about my father. There wasn't a door between the living room and where my dad sat in the family room, and she warned me that I was not to tell anyone this secret ever, particularly my dad. He knew, of course, but my mom said he seemed to have forgotten, and aside from her own mother and that doctor whose name I never learned, no one else in the world knew I wasn't my dad's biological daughter, and they shouldn't. Besides, my dad hadn't even wanted me when I was conceived, my mom said. He'd told her he hoped she miscarried. He'd tried to hit her, she added, so she'd had to sit with a baseball bat nearby so he couldn't kill me, the fetus in utero.
My mother did not seem to understand why any of this news was upsetting to me. After all, she said, knowing that my dad wasn't my biological father didn't "change anything." My biological father wasn't my father anyway -- he was just a "donor." It's different. "It was anonymous," she said, "so you can't ever know who he is. We agreed never to find out, and if you ever try, I'm the one who will get in trouble." I recall her saying she would be thrown in jail if I ever tried to find out his identity, though I wonder now if I'm misremembering this because it's such an insane thing to say.
My mother said the only way to unlock the donor records was if I were to get a terminal illness, since having my father's medical information could help the doctors treat me. It turns out she was wrong about that -- there was no way to find out the identity of my "donor" under any circumstances. According to the office where my mother was inseminated, her records had already been destroyed by the time she told me this story. But I don't think either of us knew that at the time. So I prayed for a disease that would allow me to unlock the file that I imagined would tell me who my father was and what siblings I had. I prayed for it every night for I'm not sure how long -- at least a few weeks, but it seemed like a few months -- as I cried myself to sleep. If this seems stupid or petty, please consider that I was 13 at the time and that this might have seemed a more pressing issue to me than my own mortality.
"Don't tell anyone," my mother repeated. "If you really need to talk to someone, we'll get you a therapist." And that was the end of the conversation. After the first couple weeks of crying myself to sleep, I asked her to set up the appointment. I'd always been a crier and good at keeping secrets, but I was having an abnormally hard time coping with this news on my own. My mother then told me therapy would be a waste of money, like it had been when they'd taken my brother to a psychologist, and all I'd do is blame her for everything anyway -- that's what therapists get you to do, she said. So I kept my secret entirely to myself, not mentioning it again even once for the next three years, until I finally confided it in my best friend. Sixteen years later, I have still never mentioned it to my mother again, or ever to my dad, or to anyone else in my family, and my brother -- whose adoption anniversary we celebrated every year with a party -- still doesn't know at all.
"I'm surprised you didn't figure it out on your own," she said. "You're so much better at math than me or Daddy. How else did you think you got to be that way?" My mother told me not to start crying. She really hated when I cried, and I suspect if she had foreseen my reaction, she never would have told me about my father. There wasn't a door between the living room and where my dad sat in the family room, and she warned me that I was not to tell anyone this secret ever, particularly my dad. He knew, of course, but my mom said he seemed to have forgotten, and aside from her own mother and that doctor whose name I never learned, no one else in the world knew I wasn't my dad's biological daughter, and they shouldn't. Besides, my dad hadn't even wanted me when I was conceived, my mom said. He'd told her he hoped she miscarried. He'd tried to hit her, she added, so she'd had to sit with a baseball bat nearby so he couldn't kill me, the fetus in utero.
My mother did not seem to understand why any of this news was upsetting to me. After all, she said, knowing that my dad wasn't my biological father didn't "change anything." My biological father wasn't my father anyway -- he was just a "donor." It's different. "It was anonymous," she said, "so you can't ever know who he is. We agreed never to find out, and if you ever try, I'm the one who will get in trouble." I recall her saying she would be thrown in jail if I ever tried to find out his identity, though I wonder now if I'm misremembering this because it's such an insane thing to say.
My mother said the only way to unlock the donor records was if I were to get a terminal illness, since having my father's medical information could help the doctors treat me. It turns out she was wrong about that -- there was no way to find out the identity of my "donor" under any circumstances. According to the office where my mother was inseminated, her records had already been destroyed by the time she told me this story. But I don't think either of us knew that at the time. So I prayed for a disease that would allow me to unlock the file that I imagined would tell me who my father was and what siblings I had. I prayed for it every night for I'm not sure how long -- at least a few weeks, but it seemed like a few months -- as I cried myself to sleep. If this seems stupid or petty, please consider that I was 13 at the time and that this might have seemed a more pressing issue to me than my own mortality.
"Don't tell anyone," my mother repeated. "If you really need to talk to someone, we'll get you a therapist." And that was the end of the conversation. After the first couple weeks of crying myself to sleep, I asked her to set up the appointment. I'd always been a crier and good at keeping secrets, but I was having an abnormally hard time coping with this news on my own. My mother then told me therapy would be a waste of money, like it had been when they'd taken my brother to a psychologist, and all I'd do is blame her for everything anyway -- that's what therapists get you to do, she said. So I kept my secret entirely to myself, not mentioning it again even once for the next three years, until I finally confided it in my best friend. Sixteen years later, I have still never mentioned it to my mother again, or ever to my dad, or to anyone else in my family, and my brother -- whose adoption anniversary we celebrated every year with a party -- still doesn't know at all.
Why I Stopped Giving My Mother Gifts
I have known for as long as I can remember that I am terrible at picking out gifts for my mother. She does not like to ask for things in particular because she wants her gifts to be a surprise, but she also wants them to be exactly what she wants. She says that it is the thought that counts; therefore if we'd put enough thought into our gifts, we would have been able to pick out the right ones.
When I was in my early 20s she said she wanted a foot massager that could do pressure point foot massages. The closest thing I could find in person or online at the time was a massaging foot bath from Brookstone, so I bought it. The moment she unwrapped it she said it was wrong, not what she wanted at all, and that I should return it immediately and give her a Walmart gift card instead because keeping the foot bath would just be a waste of my money. I had asked her all through college for gift cards for birthdays and Christmas because I did not have enough money for new clothes, but she had always told me she couldn't afford to give me gift cards. Instead she'd sent me large boxes of toys and other useless sundries, like a keychain with a babydoll on the end and a plastic circle for pressing the water out of canned tuna. Each box must've totaled $50-100, possibly more after shipping. So I returned the foot bath and got my money back, and I kept it.
The next year I just sent her flowers and a card. She had ordered flowers for me for every birthday since I turned a year old, plus Valentine's Day and other holidays. She said the flowers arrived in a box and not already arranged in a vase. Ordering flowers online was a new phenomenon, and I'd unwittingly sent her flowers that she had to arrange after they arrived. She didn't even know people did that. The next year she told me not to send her some stupid waste of money like flowers -- she wanted gift cards, so I should just send her gift cards. I just sent her a card. I sent her just a card for every holiday until she had ignored a couple of my birthdays and Christmases, and then I stopped.
When I was in my early 20s she said she wanted a foot massager that could do pressure point foot massages. The closest thing I could find in person or online at the time was a massaging foot bath from Brookstone, so I bought it. The moment she unwrapped it she said it was wrong, not what she wanted at all, and that I should return it immediately and give her a Walmart gift card instead because keeping the foot bath would just be a waste of my money. I had asked her all through college for gift cards for birthdays and Christmas because I did not have enough money for new clothes, but she had always told me she couldn't afford to give me gift cards. Instead she'd sent me large boxes of toys and other useless sundries, like a keychain with a babydoll on the end and a plastic circle for pressing the water out of canned tuna. Each box must've totaled $50-100, possibly more after shipping. So I returned the foot bath and got my money back, and I kept it.
The next year I just sent her flowers and a card. She had ordered flowers for me for every birthday since I turned a year old, plus Valentine's Day and other holidays. She said the flowers arrived in a box and not already arranged in a vase. Ordering flowers online was a new phenomenon, and I'd unwittingly sent her flowers that she had to arrange after they arrived. She didn't even know people did that. The next year she told me not to send her some stupid waste of money like flowers -- she wanted gift cards, so I should just send her gift cards. I just sent her a card. I sent her just a card for every holiday until she had ignored a couple of my birthdays and Christmases, and then I stopped.
Mother's Day Gifts
When I was eight, I was delighted to discover The Dollar Store because it was finally somewhere where I could afford the merchandise with birthday money. My mother had a collection of ceramic knickknacks in a glass curio cabinet, so I used the money I had saved up to buy her a Mother's Day gift of a few Dollar Store ceramic knickknacks I thought were particularly beautiful. I was very proud of my selections and felt like such a grownup for being able to buy a proper Mother's Day gift.
I did not know the white bell with doves on top was meant to be a wedding knickknack until my mother told me so. I was so ashamed. I'd had no idea. Since when were birds and bells reserved for weddings? My mother had a non-wedding-related bell in the curio cabinet already. Then she picked up the phone and called her own mother and said, "Guess who discovered The Dollar Store," and went on to disparage my choice of store and gifts to my grandmother while I stood there looking on.
I did not know the white bell with doves on top was meant to be a wedding knickknack until my mother told me so. I was so ashamed. I'd had no idea. Since when were birds and bells reserved for weddings? My mother had a non-wedding-related bell in the curio cabinet already. Then she picked up the phone and called her own mother and said, "Guess who discovered The Dollar Store," and went on to disparage my choice of store and gifts to my grandmother while I stood there looking on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)