MY MOTHER'S GREEN SNAKE

I was in Sugarland, Texas this past weekend. A suburb of Houston, it was a nice change from the northeast with temperatures at a balmy 97 degrees all week. I was visiting my 76 year old mother who had a stroke earlier this year, (see My Mother's Trip to Venus) and she seems to be fine. The only tell tale sign of her illness is the long green tube to which she is permanently tethered and which pumps out oxygen directly into her nose, aiding her lungs damaged by years of Winston cigarettes and ceramic dust. A big brown machine sits on the living room floor, and the tube is long enough to follow her throughout the 1,800 square foot ranch where she has lived since 1980.

I call it the Big Green Snake.

A smaller portable oxygen tank sets her free to travel out side the home for two hours. She calls it her "buddy" and only opens the oxygen flow valve half way so that she can “save it.” I asked her did she think she was saving the oxygen for, the big box she would end up in? My brother always asks “Did you just eat a big Popsicle or is your oxygen on half way? Your tongue is purple.” A lot of people might be offended by our sense of humor, and to say it is macabre is an understatement. But that was how we grew up.

She eats a hard-boiled egg every morning like my father did. She has a special pot that she uses, one whose inside lining has been burned away by excessive heat and should have been in the landfill pile ten years ago. “I fill the pot with water, and when the water is gone I know the egg is done.” Smiling at my horror stricken look, she adds “Don’t worry, I know I can’t stand too close with the oxygen on, don’t want to blow myself up.” How about the entire house? She shrugs and tells me not to be so dramatic.

This house is not the house of my childhood, but memories abound here as we sit in the kitchen and talk about childhood, hers and mine, and how we survived it all as well as each other. The rooms are filled with finished and unfinished ceramic figurines and molds; a large kiln sits in the living room, placed there while she was closing her store of 29 years. In the midst of closing, she took her short foray into Venus, and was astounded to see all she had collected upon her return to earth. Her friends, my brother and sister-in-law have surrounded her with all that she was familiar to help make the transition back. It didn’t take long and was the perfect medicine.

We laugh now at things we thought were traumatic and wondered how we lived through the things that really were. Alcoholism visited us constantly, like a wayward and errant cousin, showing up on the doorstep unannounced and unwelcome. Grandparents, aunts, uncles & cousins, they were all afflicted and she did not want to become a card carrying member of the club. She never touched a drop. She is adamant about not becoming a burden and does not want to live with any of her children.

“I want to die in my own bed” she said out of the blue one morning. She began to tell me things she wanted me to know, a confessional of sorts and I knew where she was headed.

"Your father talked about things like this when he knew he was dying" she said thoughtfully. "Perhaps I am dying soon." It didn’t seem to bother her.

"You're not going anywhere until I step on your snake" I told her, and we laughed while she poured me another cup of hot, Tetley tea.

That's the kind of childhood I had. Laughter was the key to survival, and she taught me to be strong the best way she knew how. By example.

This is the memory I want to keep of her, for I know I will probably not see her again. I am not as strong as she is and can’t bear to not see her sitting at her worktable, head bent forward and eyes focused on a ceramic piece to which she is putting finished touches. A strong light creates a halo around her now white haired head, thin and wispy as she looks up at me for a moment and smiles. She knows too, that we are saying goodbye and it is all right. She is happy and finally at peace. Somehow, all the craziness was worth it.