One of my earliest memories is of taking my father’s temperature, giving him an injection and tapping his knee with one of those hammer-like tools. Since we didn’t keep lollipops in the house, I think I handed him a Scooter pie from the refrigerator at the conclusion of my “exam,” and told him he was all better now.
I was 4 and I remember it like it was yesterday.
I recall how great it felt to reach into my doctor’s bag and pull out something which I knew could help my dad feel better. Not that he was sick; he was just pretending. But still, I remember feeling kind of, I don’t know … competent. Useful. My mother was a nurse and used to do that sort of thing all the time. It wasn’t until I was a little older that I realized not everybody’s mom talked about medical things during dinner. She wasn’t much of a domestic type but boy, if you needed someone to clean a cut or bring a fever down, my mom was your person. She wasn’t big on physical affection. Not a very huggy person. Or a verbally expressive one, either, when it came to saying, “I love you.”
Not her thing.
She was born in Arkansas and spoke with a slight Southern drawl. Compared to the way those of us from New Jersey speak, she added an extra syllable to my name. Ca-ath-y, she’d say. I loved the way that sounded. She never met a stranger and was the kindest, least judgmental person I’ve known. At the same time, she was precise, emotionally unavailable and often said things like, “You do what’s best for the patient. You never coddle them.” So, coddled I wasn’t.
I think I wish I was.
I’ll spare you the details, too numerous to elucidate anywhere but in my therapist’s office but suffice it to say I had feelings about growing up as Grace’s daughter. One part proud – she was in the military and did a stint as then General Eisenhower’s private duty nurse when he had a tonsillectomy in the 1940s. His surgery took place over the Thanksgiving holiday. My mom had dinner with the General and Mrs. Eisenhower and was gifted a recipe for pumpkin chiffon pie written in Mrs. Eisenhower’s own hand. Someone in the family made the pie every single Thanksgiving since, including me who has since taken over the tradition.
And another part many other things.
In the second grade, for instance, when the other moms picked their kids up from school, greeting each with a big hug, my mon remained in the car. I told myself every day that those hugs were for the wimpy girls. “My mom is too important for hugs,” I told myself in my head. She had a lot on her mind, after all, and needed to get back to work. Who needs coddling? Not me.
Yes, me.
I needed coddling. Some, anyway. Just a little? And so, to put it succinctly, my yearning for my mom’s tenderness got wrapped in layers of “I don’t need anything.” “I’m fine.” The soft center of my tootsie-roll heart was concealed by a hardened, slick shell that read “Keep your distance.” It was easier that way. I didn’t have to go near the boo-boo.