Memoir
Date Published: April 22nd
Publisher: Acorn Publishing
Sarah Vosburgh has often felt misunderstood by her mother, a woman who lived a quintessential suburban life. But when her mother is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, Sarah’s world unravels, and she must confront a disease that will only worsen. As roles reverse between mother and daughter, Sarah faces the guilt of making decisions she hopes are the right ones while also carrying the grief of losing her mom bit by bit everyday. She navigates a labyrinth of health services amid the heartbreaking, and at times darkly humorous, realities of caregiving.
There are the white lies and midnight phone calls, the misbuttoned blouses, and the second slice of chocolate pie that tastes just as good as it did the first time. And then there’s the quiet awe at the persistence of connection even when language falters and names are forgotten.
“I want to be in the delivery room when the baby
is born,” my mother said at Sunday brunch in the seventh month of my first
pregnancy. Not “Would you like me to be?” or “Can I be helpful?” Nope, just a
demand. She had a baby once in the fifties in a state of medically induced unconsciousness,
so of course, she knew best. She’d been full of “helpful little tips” all
along, but this was a new level of invasion. Mostly I said, “Oh, thank you” and
moved on, careful not to roll my eyes in her line of sight.
“Your grandmother was there to greet you when
you were born. She was the first to hold you. I want to be the first to hold my
grandbaby. It’s a family tradition.”
Fucking presumptuous. “We will make sure you are
there too,” I acquiesced reluctantly. How could I leave my poor widowed mother
out of this? We were all she had left.
“We?” she asked. “Too? He’s not going to
be there, is he? Why? He’ll never think of you the same again if he sees all that.”
She gulps her coffee as though she’s had nothing to drink in weeks. “Besides,
you won’t hold her right away; you’ll be knocked out for several hours. I will
take care of the baby while you come to and make yourself presentable. That’s
what your grandmother did for me.”
My grandam was a delivery room nurse in a time
when women were put under, anesthetized during labor. While I was sure mid-1990s
delivery room staff were used to take-charge grandparents, they’d not met my
mother. I did not want them distracted with the occupation of Ms. I-Know-How-This-Should-Be-Done
or worse, having to ask her demanding self to leave.
“Mom, Brodie’s going to be there because he’s
the dad, and my husband and birth coach. They are not going to put me out.”
“Birth coach?” she scoffed. “Honestly. How
ridiculous. The doctor takes care of all that.”
I should have told her she was the ridiculous one.
“You need to take advantage of modern medicine,”
she continued, barely coming up for air. “There is no reason to be so barbaric
and endure all that pain.”
Oh boy. She was just clueless. She had been
rolled into the delivery room straight from church, coiffed, in her Sunday best
with stilettos and gloves, and given medication to induce full-on, put-you-out
anesthesia. She woke up shaved, stitched, clean, and fresh with a baby in the
nursery. When she was released from the hospital, she dropped me off at Gramma’s
for a few hours, likewise accessorized, having set her hair the night before,
in a shirtwaist dress with the belt on its tightest notch (because she “kept
her figure” with a net weight loss) so she could go check the sales at Lord
& Taylor.
“Mom, it’s how most babies are born these days,”
I explain. “It’s considered healthy for baby and mom.”
“Who is this doctor you have? You should ask him
about having you put out. Then you don’t have to be embarrassed when they shave
you, and you won’t feel it when they sew you back up.”
I didn’t even know what to say. I didn’t want to
argue about shaved nether regions, anesthesiology, and episiotomies with my
mother, now or in labor. Or ever.
“Mom, I’m going on the advice of my doctor, Amy.
I would love to have you there, but you’ll need to be supportive.” By now my
chest was hard and tight, my breathing shallow. I felt my head swim from lack
of oxygen.
“Of course, you have a woman doctor. That’s
what this is all about.”
Are you fucking kidding me? I wanted to say, but
she was my mom. I tried to be gentle.
“Mom, after making her and carrying her and
birthing her, it is her father and I who will hold her first. We will happily
hand her over to you after I nurse her.”
“Why are you shutting me out? This is my
grandchild . . . Wait! Nurse her? You’re doing that too? This
woman doctor is making you one of those militants. They can give you pills to
dry up your milk. You don’t have to go through all of that. You don’t
want to get saggy breasts! It’s so primitive.”
I focused on the tinkling and hum of the café,
using it as a kind of ostinato to calm my breathing.
“Mom, if you would like to be in the delivery
room, I’m happy to make it happen. Would you like us to call you when we leave
for the hospital or when delivery is closer?”
“What do you mean, closer?”
“It’s my first baby and it may take a while for
things to move along. We can play Monopoly.” This was her favorite game; she
was absolutely cutthroat.
“Well, I don’t want to be waiting around all day
being frivolous; I’m busy. They can
give you medicine so it’s quick. Why are you insisting on being so crass, so
philistine?!”
I tried for slower, deeper breaths. Not easy,
especially with a baby in there. “We’ll call you when it’s imminent, Ma.”
Her next words, all quickly pressed and run
together as if they were one, carried panic behind her annoyance. “Never mind,
this is ridiculous. You haven’t listened to anything I’ve told you. You’ll
never get your body back. No one knew I
was pregnant until eight months because I wore a girdle.”
A bite of over-easy egg mid-swallow threatened
to stick as the rush of anxiety brought on by my mother’s judgement layered
over my relentless morning sickness and shallow breathing. Her eyes were
bulging and pointedly staring. Silence. Swallow.
I sipped tea and attempted another nibble of dry
toast to push the egg down. But my mother wasn’t finished. “You’re already so
big, you’ll never have a flat stomach again, you won’t look good in clothes,
and your vagina will be loose. Do it the way I did, and you won’t feel a thing.
When they sew you up, it’ll be tighter than a virgin.” Wound up, and almost
yelling now, she said, “Why won’t you take advantage of modern medicine? We live in the
twentieth century. You should not be having a baby like a Neanderthal woman!”
About the Author
Contact Links
Purchase Links
No comments:
Post a Comment