The Woman Who Never Wore Slippers

She never wears slippers, not anymore anyway. Not since her time in the mental institution. The sound of feet in slippers shuffling along the cool tile outside the hospital room triggers her. "Shut that door!" she screams. I obey. 

I want to tell her, in fact I came to tell her. 

I toss my coffee cup in the trash and walk back to sit beside her and cross my arms. “So what did the doctor say?” I ask in a flat tone. 

Besides the frown lines that had been permanently etched into the corners of her mouth, she looked the exact same since I last saw her. Watchful stone gray eyes, frazzled ashy hair and a disregard for everyone’s feelings but her own.

“Grab that other pillow and put it behind my back would you, this bed is killing me.” I obey.

“I don’t think I’m going to make it,'' she says in a subdued voice. “It's not looking too good.”

I roll my eyes, hoping she doesn't see. “What did the doctor say?” I ask again, not bothering to hide the annoyance in my voice now. I could see tears welling in her eyes, it was the only time she ever cried, when they were for herself.

Her breathing picked up and there was an all too familiar look of panic on her face. “He said I may have to have the surgery after all, and there is a chance I may not even wake up.” 

“He said that?” I asked, hoping my voice didn't sound too bored.

“What?” She asked, not hearing me through her sobbing now.

“The doctor, he specifically said you were going to die if you had the surgery?”

As quickly as the waterworks came, they abruptly stopped, and her eyes that were full of fear were now full of rage.

“You think I’m lying? Why would I lie? I don't appreciate you coming in here and accusing me of being a liar! And don't think for one minute I didn't see you roll your eyes! You want me to die don't you Anne?” 

Yeah, I was definitely going to tell her.

I was tired. Mentally and emotionally exhausted. My mother, never officially labeled a hypochondriac, had been dying for the past twenty years. These occurrences would creep up from time to time, especially when I would reveal something big. The time my husband asked for her blessing in our marriage, she had a fainting spell and was rushed to the hospital for a supposed brain aneurysm she insisted was developing in her head, but the only thing they found were some loose screws and cut wires. She had been in and out of mental institutions through my early childhood, but the system was broken. Never fully being able to give her the help she needed and as a result I was left to pick up the pieces, alone. I thought it best to not answer her question.

She thrust a glass toward me, her tone changing to one of annoyance. “Fill this for me, the jug is over on the table by the window.” I obeyed.

I sat back down, with the intention to spit out what I finally wanted to say, but the words turned to mush in my head. The same words that poured with ease from pen to paper. My hands felt clammy and I was sure the queasy feeling in my stomach was not because of the hospital food I had eaten an hour ago. 

Why did I always do this? It was like she had some sort of power over me that always kept me from doing and saying what I wanted.

My mother glared at me, and for a moment, I thought I saw a look of something other than concern for herself, but then, “Have you gained weight? Your face looks puffier than the last time I saw you.” 

A knock came at the door and swung open. Not a moment too soon as my eyes had just darted toward the IV, and with a passing thought I wondered what would happen if it suddenly stopped working.

“Gran Gran!” Millie ran in and threw her arms around my mother. Immediately, her face softened, the hard lines from years of worry and paranoia melded beneath the surface. 

“There's my baby girl! Oh, let me look at you, you've gotten so big. What are you seven now?”

“Eight Gran Gran!” 

My husband stepped inside asking if we needed anything before disappearing for some coffee.

I watched my mother and daughter exchange stories, play games and laugh for about an hour. A feeling swept over me like a dark cloud and I wondered what this raw emotion was. Why was I feeling hurt by watching them together? Shouldn't I be happy my daughter brought a smile to my mother’s face and be glad of the loving exchange between the two? No, I didn't feel any of that. The emotion I was feeling was jealousy. Never in all my childhood had my mother treated me the way she treated Millie. Was there something wrong with me that my own mother seemed to despise me? 

No, I refused to believe that. Something my therapist said to me a long time ago came flooding back into my mind. “Your mother, she loves you, you know.”

I was around thirteen when my mother entered the institution for what would be the final time before closing up, leaving the mentally unstable (but not so unstable that they would harm themselves or someone else) to fend for themselves. Like I said, the system is broken.

“I know it's hard for you to understand now, especially when she has an episode and she's screaming at you or saying hurtful things, but I want you to remember something.”

I sat sobbing in her office. The dark circles under my eyes would remain a permanent feature, a mark from the pain I would carry even through my adulthood. 

I remember hanging onto her every word hoping to receive some sort of profound wisdom that would help me break the barrier of understanding between myself and my mentally unstable mother.

“I want you to remember, you are all she has. She has no one else to put blame on, no one else to channel those negative emotions toward. No one to listen to her pain and what is going on inside that head of hers.”

“Isn't that what you are for?” I remember replying back with a sneer. Because I didn't want to be that person she took all her aggressions or pain or whatever else out on. I just wanted to be her daughter, and to have a mother to tell secrets to and laugh with as my mother sat doing with my own daughter right now.

The therapist smiled at me and said, “Yes, I do what I can but I can’t always be there. When no one else is around, in the quiet stillness of the night, that is when her thoughts are the loudest, and sometimes it is difficult to stifle what has been screaming inside of you for so long. That's when she will seek you out.”

It was true, my mother could not keep a friend long enough to save her life. It is wearisome trying to help someone who is unaware that they even need help; to my mother, her irrational behavior toward everyone else was completely acceptable in her mind, and the problems were always with everyone but herself.

My therapist continued. “Let me be clear, I am not saying the things your mother may say or do are acceptable in any way; I am saying where the mind lacks understanding, may the heart replace it with empathy.”

And there it was, that one word was the reason I stayed, the reason I never left her and moved out until my twenties, the reason I never went off to college like all my friends did. The reason I let her walk all over me? No that one was on me. I came here today with every intention of telling her what an awful mother she was, and still planned to do so before I left. Seeing her with Millie made me realize one thing, she had love to give, just not to me because the barrier that had been built between us long ago was now built from both sides. 

A knock at the door brought me out of the past. 

The doctor walked in carrying a clipboard. “Mrs. Greene, can I speak with you for a moment?”

I walked out into the hall and closed the door behind me.

“Mrs. Greene, we ran some tests on your mother and we believe at this time she has acute liver disease, now we can try to do a transplant but at her age and with the stage in which the disease has progressed there may be little to no chance of survival.”

I saw the doctor's mouth move, and nodded my head at all the right places, but my brain was not computing what he was telling me. When I was five, my mother sat on the porch while I rode my bike up and down the sidewalk. “Be careful,” she’d yell, “there is a raised slab by the tree.” I went faster ignoring her, when the slab caught my tire and sent me flying. Within moments my mother snatched me up, carried me in, bandaged my knees and kissed each one. “You’re all right now Anne, Mommy’s got you.” Over time that memory faded, along with a few others like it. I had forgotten that it wasn't all bad, but I chose to cling to the awful ones because it was easier than trying to forgive.

“Mrs. Greene, did you hear what I said?”

I cleared my throat, “Sorry, yes doctor, I will be in town for a few days so I'll come back to check on her.” He gave me an apologetic nod and I went back into the room. 

Millie and my mother had not noticed my disappearance, they were having a wonderful time flicking paper balls into the trash can.

My mother had been dying for over twenty years, and in many different ways too. I did not really know how to feel at this exact moment. Had I grown numb toward the mother who cried wolf for so long? 

“Come on Millie, get your coat.”

“Aww mommy do we have to?”

“Yes, Gran Gran needs her rest.”

My mother threw daggers at me with her eyes. I knew she was not too happy that I was taking her grandchild away, but the doctor said they wanted to start the surgery right away. At that moment my mother looked more frail to me than she ever had. I came today with a heart full of bitterness and hate, but now had only pity and once again empathy.

“Shew, open the window would you? It's sweltering in here.” My mothers last words to me. 

Her barrier was still up, but I decided it was time to lower mine. I walked over to her bedside and kissed her forehead.

“I love you mom, I'll send a nurse in to open your window.”

The tears would come later, when my thoughts would whisper quiet memories of the woman who never wore slippers.