Laura Schiller was my supermom, even when her body wouldn't let her be. In the spirit of Halloween, may you all find the phonebooth that transforms you, into your most super you.
Clark Kent is a wimp
and so am I. He is clumsy and awkward and basically a nerd. We have those characteristics in common as well. Yet, when Clark Kent goes into a phonebooth and tears off his everyday clothes, he becomes Superman, who is quite the opposite of Clark Kent. All of a sudden, he is faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, and able to leap over tall buildings in a single bound!
In addition, he can bend steel with his bare hands, has x-ray vision, and is damn good-looking! His transformation from Wimpy to Wonderful takes just a matter of seconds. Such a dramatic and rapid change would seem to be possible only in comic book pages or in movies having large budgets for special effects. But I am living proof that such transformations are possible without cartoons or cash.
When I need to be strong or powerful or pretty, I simply enter my phonebooth, which is in the form of an easy chair and a computer. Someone puts a switch in my hand and in an instant, I change from mild-mannered wimp to Superwife, Supermom, Supreme!
There is nothing I can’t do with the power of my imagination and the marvelous machine on the table in front of me. I can climb the treacherous and icy slopes of Mount Everest. I can explore the depths of the sea to observe the behavior of the whales I admire so much.
But more important to me, I am able to enjoy the complex conversations with my husband and can join with him to guide and discipline our growing children. I can physically hold and comfort my daughter and son or tell them stories or play with them. I can have another child as I probably would have had if I hadn’t gotten ill.
Skeptics will tell me all these things aren’t real, that they’re all in my mind. They certainly are in my mind but also on this paper in black and white! What’s more, you just have to look at me while I’m sitting in my phonebooth to see how my writing transforms me from Wimpy to Wonderful in a matter of seconds!
I sit taller, have roses in my cheeks, and a gleam of inspiration in my eyes. Since such a small movement is required to activate the switch, I feel no weakness in my limbs as I create a different world on my computer’s screen. My phonebooth gives me confidence in my ability to be an important and worthwhile person, which I rarely feel when I’m away from it.
For as long as I am there, I’m as strong and invincible as Superman!
In case you were wondering, I have something else in common with Superman. I, too, haven’t found a way to handle the Kryptonite.
Some people are naturally good caretakers. I am not one of those people. My husband Paul … now he’s someone you’d pick to be in your lifeboat after a shipwreck. Caring for others comes naturally to Paul. When we were dating, right before he proposed to me as a matter-of-fact, he was my sole caretaker during a nasty bout of pneumonia. He took me to all my doctor appointments, made me homemade chicken noodle soup and literally, was at my beckon call. In all times of sickness, sadness or otherwise down and out periods in my life, Paul has always gone above and beyond in caring for me.
Now I, on the other hand, cannot readily confess that I have reciprocated the same attentiveness to Paul. Mothering, thank GOD, is something that comes a bit more naturally! It’s caring for big people that I find unnatural … and sometimes unsettling. I can’t really pinpoint my discomfort other than to say, that the thought of caring for an adult creates an overall sense of uneasiness within me. Am I doing this right? What if I screw up? Or, worst of all, the admission of:I wish I were doing something else. Part of these lamentations stem from the caretaking responsibilities I had as a child for my Mom, which although were not many compared to some, were enough to leave an impressionable distaste in my memory.
When I reunited with pen and paper (or fingers to keyboard), one of the first stories I wrote, was a story about feeding my mom brownies when she was in the height of ALS. Titled “Brownie,” the story was what I would call an honest piece of writing—but also an angry appraisal of caregiving. I now identify that I was angry for being angry at being angry about feeding my mom brownies, when really, I’d rather be doing whatever it was I thought I’d rather be doing at the time.It has taken me many years to forgive myself for all those brownies. But I have.
I was reminded of “Brownie” when Paul was in the hospital after a motorcycle accident. The night before he was scheduled for elbow surgery, he asked if I would feed him some chocolate ice cream. Willingly I obliged; and as I put each spoon full to his mouth, a familiar feeling crept over me. It was a feeling reminiscent of a time when I brought a spoon full of chocolate goodness to the lips of my Mom-- but the feeling wasn’t anger this time. It was fear. I remembered feeling utterly vulnerable as a kid, sitting there in a room, just Mom and I-- a brownie and a spoon. “You can do this”—the thought that willed my sometimes hesitant arm to lift the spoon.
There I was again, but this time, sitting in a hospital room, just me and Paul-- a chocolate ice cream container and a spoon. And again, I thought, “You can do this!” adding without realizing, “this is not the same situation.”Without much further contemplation, I fed him the rest of the ice cream. The next day, (post surgery) Paul wanted coffee. Again, I obliged and held a cup with a straw to his mouth. I quickly realized that my mind had wandered somewhere into “brownies past” again. The result: hot coffee dribbled out of the straw, down Paul’s chin. “You can do this!” … but somewhere between the ice cream, brownies and a few 24 hours in the hospital, I could feel my resolve begin to dissipate.
Paul home from the hospital three days later, I continued to site myself on poor caregiving incidents. I caught myself sighing at one of Paul’s simple requests. I openly threw a tantrum after hours of enduring our three girls having tantrums of their own. Worst of all, I started to feel angry for being angry that I’d rather be doing whatever it was I’d rather be doing at the time. “You can do this!” had completely degenerated into, “You suck at this!”
Perhaps my biggest flaw was that before the hospital release papers were even signed, I had already set my expectations to a degree fit for complete and utter failure. I was going to surpass June Cleaver in all her mothering, caregiving, house cleaning and cooking abilities. Right—because I am so like June Cleaver, who I might add, is just as fictitious (and not nearly as cool) as Superwoman. I suppose it’s kind of like expecting a child or teenager to be happy about feeding her adult mother brownies, with the absence of fear, frustration or embarrassment.
I don’t believe in blaming my behavior or shortcomings on situations that have occurred in my past. I do however; believe in using events from my past as information to help me grow in my present. It has not served me well to cast aside the memories of brownie feedings, or to discount my feelings tied to them. If I can accept my feelings and limitations tied to caregiving, I can replace “You can do this” with “I am doing this … the best I know how.” I don’t have to be June Cleaver and I don’t have to love doing something I don’t love to do. I only have to remember that just because I have forgiven myself for an event in the past, doesn't make me immune to feelings surrounding the incident. I have been given the tools to effectively field my feelings ... I just have to remember to apply them.
Lord knows I have a l-o-n-g way to go in taking care of big people. Poor Paul--the guy probably missed a few meals and baths here and there during my motorcycle accident caregiving days… but we made it through. I made it through.
Tonight, I remembered a time in my Mom’s life when she was able to eat spaghetti. As I wrapped long noodle strings around my fork at dinner this evening, I saw her. Of course only in my mind, but quite clearly, I saw her. She would twirl her own noodles in a red cyclone of meat and sauce, but unlike me, would use a spoon as a prop. The spoon was not only purposeful for noodle twisting; it was a great drip-prevention utensil. I could see Mom artfully lifting her united fork and spoon midway between bowl and mouth. Only then, would she release the spoon to take an effortless bite. My attempts to shadow this process were always done so in vain. Those who know me will not be shocked at my lack of form and dexterity in spaghetti twirling. I won’t even “go there” when it comes to the execution of my sloppy, spaghetti bites. Even tonight I can spot a few flecks of sauce on my t-shirt.
My memories of a healthy Mom are few. Those that are vividly imprinted in my mind (like the “spoon and spaghetti” incident) are even fewer. More often than not, the vivid memories are the ones I’d rather forget. I remember distinctly, visions of my mom slumped over the toilet seat, arms limp at her side, trying desperately to mumble something in the way of instruction to me, her mouth and voice mottled by muscular atrophy. I remember distinctly feeling helpless, embarrassed and terrified. I lucidly remember feeding brownies to my Mom at the kitchen table, drool seeping from the corners of her mouth. Just as lucidly, I remember looking away, pretending not to see. Or, I receive a blinding flash to the moments when my Mom was so frustrated at being trapped in a useless body, that what little strength she had, was used to propel her head onto the table for repeated, long intervals. The flash of me standing behind her as she banged her head over and over, willing her to stop, but unable to make myself move, is perhaps more blinding . My memories of a sick Mom are many.
I used to cower from unpleasant memories such as these. Recently however, I’ve changed my tactic. In the last year or so, some wise person shared an interesting meditation philosophy with me. The individual in question began by sharing of a frustration he had experienced while trying to meditate. He found that he was unable to quiet his mind because he was plagued by a constant stream of his own thoughts. His first instinct was to try to shove the thoughts out of his head. To his dismay, the more he fought the thoughts, the more frustrated he became. He was later taught by someone, to imagine his thoughts as individual box cars connected to a train. Instead of dispelling his thoughts, he was encouraged to let each one travel through his mind one at a time-- as its own box car. Eventually, he was able to reach his desired level of meditation by allowing his thoughts to pass through freely.
Now, when a sad or ikcy memory involving my mom’s illness makes its way to the forefront of my thoughts, I don’t try to shove it out. I give “it” a moment, and let it pass on. I find these less desirable memories pass quickly now. The memories that are few, from a time when my Mom was well … now these are a different story. These I let float around my brain for as long as I can. I encourage the pre-illness memories of my Mom to flow out into all the recesses of my consciousness. The ones that aren’t as clear, I try to focus—like I’m adjusting the lens on a camera. When I have the perfect shot, I hold onto it for awhile—spoon and spaghetti .
Sometimes, if I’m really lucky, I focus my lens with such precision, that another good memory shortly follows. Tonight for example, when I pictured Mom with her long blond hair, curling spaghetti with fork and spoon, I remembered her classic practice of drinking water out of a glass. I recalled the exaggerated parting of her lips, pursed but wide, so that her teeth were prominently exposed as she tilted the glass to her mouth. I remember as a child, watching this drinking method of hers with sheer fascination, wondering why on earth my beautiful Mom resembled a horse trying to drink from a water glass. I later learned that this “practice” was applied in an effort to evade lipstick transfer onto her water glass. I didn’t care about things like lipstick stains on a glass then … not at ages five and six. I was more interested in the mysterious, quirky ways of my mother. And just like my desire to emulate her fork and spoon spaghetti ritual, I remember taking the water glass from her hand. Once again, in vain but earnest attempt, I exaggeratedly pursed my lips, teeth exposed and tilted the glass. The end result of this process for me, typically yielded a bonk of the glass on my nose and water spills on my shirt.
The best part of my failure to copy-cat my Mom’s rituals, whether involving spoon and spaghetti or parted lips and water glass, was the echo of her laughter to accompany it; the crisp, hearty laugh of someone full of life and health; the laugh that only could belong to my Mom.
Today, I let the box cars in my mind run free. Sometimes it feels like more cars are filled with coal, than precious cargo, but every now and again … I get a really great one.When that shiny red box car comes round the bend, I grab for my lens and get ready to focus. A time or two, I’ve even caught myself laughing at a memory; the crisp, hearty laugh of someone full of life and health; a laugh that sounds a little like my Mom’s, but a laugh that could only belong to me.
Laura Schiller was my supermom, even when her body 
