My Private Wobegon

stories from home

In her final years, I took on the responsibility of escorting my mother to her monthly shrink visits. It is the type of duty which naturally falls to the only daughter, the oldest child. Sons will fix the dishwasher or mow the lawn, but it is daughters who are expected to hang in there when the going gets wacky. Regrettably, I looked forward to these appointments with the same good cheer others save for root canal work, a tax audit maybe. Although still attractive and well-kept, Mom was the Howitzer of loose cannons. Possibly on some cosmic level, these painfully embarrassing afternoons were payback for all of the rotten things I said to her as a teenager.

The half dozen depressed and troubled souls always waiting in the outer office when we arrived sat silently and tried not to draw attention to themselves. There seemed to be an unspoken code of courtesy: avoid unnecessary eye contact, save the chit chat, MYOB please. Mom, true to form, sensed none of this. Her irrepressible nature, combined with an anxious hypermania and mild dementia, portended social disaster. Factor in a voice permanently stuck in broadcast mode and it was inevitable. Silent prayers were part of my preappointment routine.

Even before I had her signed in one day, Mom announced, "Maxine's soup gave me the runs again!" A woman dressed in a high dollar business suit peered over her San Francisco Chronicle with raised eyebrows. I steered Mom, still elaborating on her lunchtime intestinal woes, to a vacant seat and flashed the business suit a pleading look of apology. There was some uncomfortable squirming in the ranks, but except for one man feigning sleep, the rest of the sullen faced crew retreated behind their battered Newsweeks.

My usual tactic of trying to focus the conversation on safe topics, a desperately delusional idea to begin with, was not effective subterfuge. Mom was distracted by patients trickling out of the back offices and discovered that one looked “just like Nola on Guiding Light." She wondered out loud, much to "Nola’s" amusement, if others had noticed the same thing, and added that I could be almost as attractive if I cared enough to "fix my face"’ once in awhile. The business suit was not prepared and bit her lip.

In that small space, it was impossible not to eavesdrop on patients rescheduling appointments or hassling over insurance at the window. When one startled lady made the mistake of requesting a 5 p.m. session, Mom leaned forward, despite the death grip I had on her wrist, and interjected sound advice about getting dinner on the table on time, "Put a roast in the oven before you leave, or just say 'to hell with it' and pick up a bag of hamburgers on the way home." A few moments later, a free spirit sporting green go-go boots and a crushed velvet skirt breezed through to silent stares. Mom blurted out, "Someone should go tell that poor woman that green shoes went out thirty years ago!" I detected a snort from the receptionist. The business suit and her Chron were now shaking violently. If you had asked me right then, I would have offered that my vision of Hell did not include fire and brimstone, but instead was furnished with industrial gray, modular seating units, chrome lamps, and bad watercolors, Mom forever talking at my side.

Mercifully, the doctor appeared right on time. I gathered our belongings and pointed Mom towards the doorway. Just when I was certain the worst was over, Mom delivered her knock out punch, loudly reassuring me, "I'm not nervous anymore, because now I know he doesn't want to touch me 'down there.'" Wince, cringe; her timing was impeccable.

The billing clerk was wiping away tears when we passed the reception window. "Your mother is delightful," she offered in consolation. I had to chuckle, and glancing back into the waiting room I couldn’t help noticing that even the man with his eyes closed was smiling.

Julie and her husband Jeff, both products of good Lutheran homes with midwestern roots, are proud of their two grown sons. Humor and sarcasm are the glue which bind the family together. You can reach Julie at jjensens@pacbell.net