THE FALSE DEATH BED VIGIL

"Sleeping Beauty"By Skitch at age 14

THEN:


    When I was eight years old my mother went to bed and didn't get up until I was 18... Yes, that's a lie but much less of one than you may be imagining.





    My mother had been abused as a child, in every way imaginable. She had been born to alcoholic parents, born early and frail. The doctor told my grandmother not to bother getting attached to her, feeding her, or even naming her. He told my grandmother that the child was so small and unhealthy that "it" was destined to die soon. My grandmother defied him enough to give my mother nourishment and a first name, never a middle. She named the tiny babe Annette and in many ways that frail daughter out lived every other member of her family. Though she went through many a proverbial wringer, she made a life for herself that was far superior to what she was born into and much happier and healthier than the lives her siblings built. My momma defied the odds; she survived and even became a fierce protector of her younger (though mostly bigger) sisters. She had a quick mind and ready hands. She had pale hair and skin but should have been a blazing red head. Sometimes her temper alone sustained her.

    She chose and married my father when she was only fifteen years old. Though, at that time, she thought she was sixteen. Life with him was largely a sweet relief from the abuse of her alcoholic parents, but it was a tough, and poor, and - in the winter - a cold life. She left a Kentucky city and a big family behind and moved deep into the townless dark woods of Virginia. The stars and moon were the only lights at night, save their precious oil lamp, and my dad worked long hours. He left before daylight and returned after dark. Many was the time that no one could have heard her scream if one of the fierce bears or panthers she now had for neighbors decided she looked less like a neighbor and more like a meal. The lifestyle petrified her. Every sound in the woods was unfamiliar to a city girl. Every movement might be a threat.

    Mom's favorite cousin, Nancy, had married my father's younger brother, Leslie, a month before my parents tied the knot, and the two new families lived for a while across the Pound river from each other. Leslie was my father's younger but bigger brother, as Dad too had never been healthy. Pop was short, painfully thin, and carried his head to one side due to a boil that had grown and ruptured on his neck when he had Smallpox as a young child. The skin had not grown back properly and Daddy's neck was crooked ever after. Though no one in our family could afford much in the way of nutrition and comforts, in comparison, my uncle and aunt bloomed with health.

    Both the new families were very poor, but my mother owned a broom and would toss it across the river on a daily basis for her cousin (and new sister-in-law) to use. About a year after they married, both families were blessed with a child, and the babies were females. My parents named their daughter Patricia Gail and my aunt and uncle named their daughter Wanda Lee. Wanda was red haired and vivacious. Pat was a bright eyed blonde with a ready smile. She quickly became the apple of both her parent's eyes.

    Patricia died of pneumonia when she was eleven months old. She died in my uncle Leslie's arms. My parents and my uncle were walking the ten miles to town to take the baby to the doctor. Neither family owned a car. When my dad or mom offered to carry Pat for a while my uncle told them, "No. No. She's very light! Besides she's finally sleeping so well." He knew the child was dead but did not have the strength to tell his brother and sister-in-law that their sweet golden child was gone, so he carried her the ten miles and laid the dead baby in the doctor's arms.

    The childhood abuse combined with the loss of her first child took a heavy toll on my mother. She tells me she probably would not have survived Pat's death at all if she had not been aware that she was already pregnant with her second child. My mother wanted to die with her baby but she would not kill the child inside her. My sister saved Mom's life, and thus my other sister's life and mine. This second daughter was born as dark as the first had been fair. Sandi had black hair and brown eyes. Her looks reflected the Cherokee blood we had in our ancestry. Sandi was indeed beautiful, but broken. One of her legs was significantly shorter than the other and would pivot around and around, as though there were no joint or even bones in her hip socket at all. My father passed out when the doctor demonstrated this fact. Mom and Dad were told that this baby would never walk. It took her longer than the average child, but Sandi defied the odds and did, indeed, learn to get around on her own two legs. Other than the short leg, Sandi was a fairly healthy child.

    The third child was also a girl, brown haired and green eyed. They named her Lila. She looked like a pale fragile fairy and was as beautiful as her name was. But the hard lifestyle and the frail genes were hard on her. Like her mother and father before her, Lila was "poorly". She was too thin. She had frequent sore throats, and fevers, and terrifying nosebleeds. Once her nose would not stop bleeding and my father, in high desperation, broke the ice that was crusting over the top of the river and shoved her head down into the frigid water. The drastic measure worked and the nosebleed finally stopped.

    My parents figured it was all they could do to keep these two children alive and they didn't plan to risk another. I was a "surprise" that came along over a decade later. Sandi was twelve and Lila was ten when I was born. Mom stayed busy with the home and my sisters became my "little mothers". I looked, I am told, almost exactly like Patricia, only with curly hair. I was a firm reminder of that first precious child and of the loss of her. Each time they looked at me they knew how fragile life could be, how quickly it could be snuffed out and gone. And I too was sickly. I battled croup and bronchitis. I copied Lila's gushing nosebleeds, fevers, and sore throats. I had a fever spike so high that I went into convulsions in my mother's arms. Like my father, I was adverse to eating meat and tended to choose breads and vegetables. Very early, it was discovered that I was dangerously anemic. The doctors told my parents they must figure out how to get some protein into me or I would die. Mom and Dad took some of the precious-little money the family had and bought Vienna wienies and Treat meat and hid it back for me. My hungry sisters and my cousins from Aunt Nancy and Uncle Leslie, who ofttimes lived in the same home with us, watched while I was fed what seemed like Heavenly manna to them. It is surprising they don't all hate me to this very day. Some of my cousins still resent the preferential treatment, but I don't think my sister ever did. I think they felt and shared the fear my parents had, believing that I might die and leave them all.

    When I was eight years old my mother went into early menopause and went to bed. She bled so much that she felt weak as a kitten. I suspect that all the pain of the past settled on her now that she could not stay busy to keep her mind occupied. She became so depressed that she went to the doctor and they prescribed "nerve pills". These drugs made mom so sleepy she could barely hold up her head. She was soon in bed all but five to eight hours of the day. She would get up for two or three hours in the late morning. Then she'd take a long nap before getting up for about three to five hours in the evening. Most of my childhood was spent whispering, tiptoeing, worrying. I pretended my mother was Sleeping Beauty. She was beautiful and she was sleeping, so it made perfect sense to me. Now I know that she was healing. She was like a butterfly; she was turning into someone even stronger and more beautiful than the lady that went to bed when I was eight years old.


    But at the time it was hard for both of us. Mother often told me that she was dying. She probably would not be here "Next Christmas" or "Come springtime." I think she believed it and, for years, so did I. I lived in fear of losing her, in fear of being motherless. But, Christmas after Christmas and springtime after springtime, she kept right on living. After I gave up on her predictions being the gospel truth, I worried what if she was a lucky guesser? What if she were right THIS time? I was an adult before I figured out that my mother was a lot of wonderful things, but she was a horrible psychic, and she was stronger than she knew. Just like most of us, she hadn't the faintest idea when she would die.

    My mother developed a strange case of agoraphobia during these years. I say strange because she left the home, but only for religious reasons or to stay near my daddy. He was more her refuge than the house was. She didn't like to leave the bed, let alone her home, but she forced herself to for certain reasons. She would venture outside to see her flowers now and then, often with my father by her side, but she seemed more nervous out of doors so those trips were brief and infrequent. She went to church every time they held a service and she and Daddy could get there, such was her desire to serve God. And once a month, she went to town with the family to pay bills and buy groceries. Dad always drove; no one else in the family could drive in those days and my mother never did learn. On those monthly trips to town, Sandi and I would hit the library for all it was worth while our parents paid bills and bought groceries. We took home as many books as we could carry. Sandi would call and renew them in two weeks and we would bring them all back when the next monthly trip came. Momma forced herself to her doctor's appointments in order to keep the relief of the pills coming in. But even with those in her system, she said that she only rested easily when we were all home. We, especially my father, were her home and Mother needed her home around her. Sandi didn't bother with college or a job. Dad worked odd self-employment type jobs on our own property or on very short shifts. He had been confirmed disabled due to stomach ulcers anyway and so was not able to punch a clock. Mom would latch onto Sandi as her lifeline while Dad hauled an occasional load of coal or lumber.

    One day, I was eight years old and sitting by her bed asking her to read to me or to allow me to read to her. I was still unused to her being in bed so much. She was begging off because she was so tired and wanted to sleep. She told me to go play outside, adding, "Go play in the leaves. It's a beautiful fall day."

    "How do you play in the leaves?" I asked her.

    "You mean to tell me you've never played in fall leaves?"

    I shook my head.

    Mother pulled herself from the bed and took my hand. We went outside and she taught me to make a pile of dried leaves, no sticks! Then she watched, and smiled, and even laughed a little as I jumped into the pile until their was no pile because the leaves were again scattered hither and yon. I asked her to help me gather them back up but she said she could not. She went back to bed. Dutifully, I piled them up and jumped, and jumped, until they were scattered again. Then I sat down and tried to fight off the melancholia. I wondered why anyone would play in leaves all alone. It wasn't much fun by yourself. I didn't play that game again until my sons were born, but I will never forget that Momma dragged herself up from the bed and out of the house to teach me. I know that was not easy for her.

    Sending me to school was also not easy for her. Most children are told how much fun school will be; I was told I would go to school because, "If we don't send you, the welfare people will come out here to take you away from us and put you in a foster home." My mother became extra nervous about school when I was about ten years old. She told me that there were devil worshipers kidnapping blonde young girls and sacrificing them to Satan. I was petrified of strangers for years.

    I was not allowed to participate in anything that would keep me away from home any more than school did. Events and extra circular activities that could be done at school were fine, but nothing more. I had friends at church that bragged about Bible Camp. I learned all the verses that they had to learn to earn their way, but I could not go with them. I had friends at school that talked about all the fun they had at 4H camp and at band camp. They told me about vacations to see the ocean or the Great Smoky Mountains. I was even invited along a time or two, but nothing like that was ever a safe idea in my mother's eyes. It wasn't just the money. The money I understood, but even when that was not an issue I was disallowed. I wasn't allowed to go to swimming pools until I was 16 and started going there on "dates". I only went to the movies with Sandi and we had to see rated "G" films. Eventually, the smothering galled me.

    I tried to be understanding, but I was fiercely independent and could not help wanting things that freedom could bring. When I was twelve, I began to rebel. I would beg for the after school and overnight activities that my friends enjoyed. I wanted to be part of the marching band but she pulled a trump card. "We don't have any money for some expensive musical instrument!" I talked her into letting me "try out" for color guard, which only required a flag on a stick and you didn't have to buy it. I made the color guard team and went to practice for almost a month. I picked it up quickly and really enjoyed it, but one day I came home from practice and Mom said, "You tell them tomorrow that you're quitting. You're not going to any more practices. You can't go away to band camp this summer anyway. It's not fair to let them think you will."

    I begged my way into gymnastics because their was no camp, and no fees, and no expensive equipment to purchase. I made those after school training sessions for a little over a month, long enough to fall in love with gymnastics, long enough to wow my trainers. I was told that I had some of the strongest shoulders they had ever seen, and that I was learning quickly and with a natural ability. Of all my cut-short activities, gymnastics is the biggest regret. Mother said we didn't have the gas to keep picking me up twice a week after school. I would need to drop gymnastics and ride the bus home every day. I begged to stay in the class. I pointed out that we lived approximately two miles from school. I pleaded to be allowed to ask my friend Nancy if I could start riding home with her. After all, they drove right past our house on their way to their own home and Nancy was in gymnastics too. Mother said, "No. Now hush about it! I want you home with me!"

    I begged for softball or baseball but that one died before I even made it to try outs. Sports are dangerous! In high school I tried again. I eventually cajoled my way into the chess club, into being a band assistant (I couldn't be on the field but I could still be part of the band) and into a couple of cheerleading sessions. All of these were allowed and then vetoed so quickly it nearly made my head swim. I stopped asking after that. I wanted to participate in a great program that helped prepare underprivileged kids for college. It was called "Upward Bound". Sandi had gone to Washington DC and had gone to see the ocean with Upward Bound. She'd been taught some skills and made some great friends. I didn't bother asking if I could participate. I already knew the answer.

    One sweet night, I did stay away from home. I was fifteen years old at the time. My sister Lila had been MARRIED at fifteen! I had a friend named Cindy that lived just a block or so up the road from my house. She talked my mother into allowing me to stay the night with her. (I didn't bother asking anymore, but Cindy was less defeated.) I was so surprised when my mother agreed! Cindy and I stayed up really late drinking Coca Cola's, and eating popcorn, and brownies hot out of her oven. I was not allowed to cook at my house, but Cindy did a lot of cooking and baking at her home. Any time I tried to cook, my mother would make me stop. She said I was too clumsy, that I would burn myself or slice off a finger. In school I took Home Economics and Food Service, so I would know how to feed myself once I was not living at home. I won three ribbons and a trophy in Food Service. I didn't burn myself once, and I kept all my fingers.

    That night at Cindy's we talked about books, and boys, and our families. We giggled, and did our nails, and finally fell asleep at about three o'clock a.m. At dawn my parents were outside blowing the truck horn. I stumbled out of bed and threw on my clothes. I hurried out to find out what was wrong, concerned that someone in the family was very ill or hurt. Mom greeted me with, "Get in the truck; you're going home!" I begged to be allowed to go back inside and get my purse and my overnight bag and she conceded that much. When I crawled in the truck beside her a couple of minutes later, I was crying. The tears had started when Cindy had frantically asked me what was wrong. She too had imagined that someone was hurt or sick. I told her I just had to go and I had to go now! I felt humiliated and trapped. If Mom noticed my tears I never knew it. She only said, "I didn't sleep a wink all night. Never again, little girl! Never again! "

    A year or so after I married and left home, my mother threw the pills down. She's still not the most emotionally stable person in the world because she worries way too much and she would never learn to drive. But she's awake more hours than she's asleep, she's got a much more positive attitude, and she actually functions much better than she did when I was a kid.

    Sandi and Lila were allowed so many more freedoms than I was, and I've wondered about that most of my life. Maybe it was simply the menopause and the idleness that brought my mother so low. Perhaps her mental state worsened as she grew older. Maybe the pills left her paranoid, or I looked too much like the daughter she had lost, or too much like she the little girl she had been. Possibly my very presence brought back memories of horrific abuse, memories that crippled her. I've asked her why she was so overly protective and she get's defensive. She was "protective" because I was precious. She was not "overly protective." I've never pinned her down and asked her flat out, "Why me and NOT Sandi and Lila?" But I will. Thank God I still can! I have no doubt that my mother loves my sisters as much as she does me. But for whatever reason, I was the one that was coddled. I held a ten year death bed vigil for someone that is living still. I spent much of my childhood whispering, tiptoeing, worrying. One day I may understand why.